Four

AS I LEAVE THE LIBRARY, I’M NOT LOOKING WHERE I walk and nearly bump into a man.

“Oh, I’m so—” I stop, the apology trapped on my tongue. Professor Miller looks back at me, eyes opened as round as his glasses. My first instinct is to run, to flee, to do anything to get away from the awkwardness of this moment.

But then something mean and stubborn inside of me rears its ugly head and instead I stand there, not breaking eye contact, my back and shoulders straight with defiance. I dare him to speak to me.

He ducks his head and hurries away, misjudging the space and smashing his shoulder into one of the bookshelves.

“I hope that hurt,” I whisper, not sure whether I won or lost.

Sighing, I push out of the building. The day is heavy with clouds, even the green of the grass and shrubs losing their sharper edge of color, and I rub at my sleeves wishing I had brought a shawl.

Finding an open bench is no issue. I crack open a book written by the very man I just passed. Usually the chapters are tedious, but today something catches my eye. This section focuses on the royal families of the Iverian continent, Albion’s across-the-channel neighbor and constantly rotating source of enemies and allies.

Hallin. I’d never heard the term before Finn and his crazy questions (and my shameful answers, the honesty of which I still cannot account for). But Hallin is the name of the family from which all the Iverian continental countries draw their royals.

Skimming with a new urgency, I find the other name: Cromberg. The royal family from which all Alben gentry descends.

I try to connect it, but it leaves me even more confused than that entire encounter did. Why would Finn ask me which royal line I practiced? How does one practice a royal line? And why would anyone think I had associations with either?

Perhaps Finn is in some sort of trouble. Perhaps he’s a spy, or a traitor, or . . . a prince in disguise. Yes. Because that makes as much sense as anything. I laugh quietly, imagining all of our encounters with this filter. The poor prince in hiding. The exotic, too-good-for-her-circumstances woman who breaks through his barriers. I ought to be making my money by writing the penny romances sold to bored housekeepers.

A caw makes me slam the book shut with a startled exclamation. “You!” I glare at the large black bird on the bench next to me. It’s foolish to think it’s the same foul creature, but I cannot help it. This bird is missing a claw from its left foot. I take note, if only to prove to myself that I am not seeing the same bird everywhere I go.

It reminds me of the feather Finn found in my hair. But the feather is gone, and so is Finn—checked out of the hotel. Hopefully forever, and good riddance. I shouldn’t spare him any more thoughts.

The image of his collarbones beneath the open robe rises unbidden in my mind, and I curse at myself in Melenese. Penny romance indeed.

The bird caws again and I shoo at it with my hands. “I am very cross with you. Please leave at once.” It ignores my attempts at banishment, so I turn my head to face directly forward, nose in the air. Part of me wants to run inside, but I refuse to be cowed by a bird. This is my bench today.

It lets out another caw, this time softer. I hadn’t realized birds had the capacity for volume control. Out of the corner of my eye, I see it bob up and down like it wants my attention—silly thought, birds are not cats, it is not trying to communicate—and then, with another caw, it flies away.

More relieved than I care to admit, I look at the empty spot where it had been, only to find a long, green satin ribbon.

This city has a veritable plague of large black birds. I cannot understand how I never noticed until now. I see them everywhere I go. But none get close enough for me to determine whether or not they are my ribbon-fascinated stalker.

Which is why being awoken by one of the brutes tapping on my tiny window sets my heart racing and my teeth on edge. I flop back down onto my cot, hand cool against my fevered brow. There was a dream, with . . .

Finn. I can still feel the curve of his collarbone where I traced it with my finger. He was apologizing, and I was in his arms, the angles of his sharp shoulders wrapped toward me.

Another tap against my windowpane. I jump out of bed and scream, pushing the window out on its hinge and dislodging the bird in a flurry of black feathers. “And don’t come back!” I shout.

I lean my head out, closing my eyes against the soft mist drizzle the sky has been weeping for a fortnight. If it would only rain, that would accomplish a cleansing of the city, but this drizzle simply coats everything in a layer of slick damp over the usual grime and dirt.

Poor bird. I spend nearly all my time indoors and still I’m going mad with the weather. It was probably trying to find an alcove to get dry. I grab a tin of biscuits from my nightstand and set them out along the ledge as a peace offering.

To my surprise, the bird comes back immediately, claws grabbing onto the narrow stone ledge just outside my reach. A missing claw. Maybe the odd creature has imprinted on me? Though it is far from a new hatchling. It turns its head outward toward the rain, but one yellow eye remains fixed on me reproachfully. “Yes, fine. I apologize. Get dry and stay warm with a snack.”

Shaking my head, I close the window and sit back on my cot. The school is on holiday, which means as much studying, only done in this tomb instead of the library. I have become intimately acquainted with every inch of my tiny room. At one point I charted the precise rate at which the plaster splits, and extended the formula to predict when the next crack will appear and how many finger-lengths it will span.

I am going mad.

I wish Kelen had told me where he lived. I could use an outing, some excuse to leave the hotel. And I’d dearly love to talk about Melei and our childhoods there.

I hate that I have to wait for him to visit in order to see him. I don’t like being locked in my own thoughts. He’d be such a nice distraction.

There is a soft knock at my door, and I call, “Come in!” with a great deal of relief and urgency.

Ma’ati enters, closing the door behind her with a whisper of sound. She is the perfect maid—even when you are in the same room together it’s difficult to notice her. Her face is sweet and plain and round, her hair always pinned beneath a white cap. We cannot tell whether her Alben or my Melenese is worse, and our conversations always vary between the two in a confusing jumble of not-quite-right words before we settle on Melenese.

“How are you?” she asks, her eyes taking in books strewn on every surface.

I wave my hand. “I wish this rain could wash away the gray, but it seems to be adding even more.”

“I miss color.” Her eyes drift to my window. “And fruit ripe off the tree.”

“And the warm brown skin of men who work an honest day.”

“Oh, I still see some of that.” She blushes and her hand goes to her mouth as though she can pluck the words out of the air and put them back beneath her tongue.

I smile. “When will you and Jacky Boy marry?” She’s younger than I am, only sixteen, but there is something in the way she carries herself, telling a sad history that made her far older. It makes my soul light to think that she has found someone as strong and gentle as my cousin.

“You cannot speak of it! I haven’t—we haven’t—I would never do anything improper.” The word improper is in Alben, of course. It has much more meaning here.

“Ma’ati, sweet, I know that! But it’s obvious you two are meant to be together.”

Her dark eyes twinkle with light. “Spirits willing, next spring. We think the managers will let us stay on rather than lose two good workers.”

“Oh, Ma’ati!” I draw her in for a hug and wonder if, had they not left the island, Ma’ati and Jacky Boy would have ever found each other. Perhaps this dreary country is good for something after all.

“Oh, but that is not the reason I am here!” Ma’ati pulls back, her eyes alight with even more excitement. “You’ve had a package. It came just now. They brought it to me by mistake. Come on!” She takes my hand in hers and we run past the other servant quarters’ doors and into her room.

I see now why she elected to leave it rather than move it herself—it’s nearly as tall as I am and half again as wide.

“I have no idea what this is.” The box is made of wood so thin it’s nearly translucent, and a red ribbon encircles it, with a cream envelope tucked into the bow. I pull it out—the paper is heavy and thick in my hands. Jessamin Olea is written in elegant strokes.

“Open it, open it! I have three rooms to finish before midmorning and I cannot handle the suspense!”

Smiling nervously, I break the seal—an unmarked circle of black wax—and slide out two cards. The first is an invitation to a gala ball celebrating the opening of a new royal conservatory; the date is tomorrow night. I pass it to Ma’ati, shrugging my shoulders. The second is handwritten in the same elegant script from the envelope.

Please attend as my guest. I must see you again, if only to apologize and explain myself. I cannot banish you from my thoughts and no longer want to. Until then, F.

I realize only when Ma’ati holds out her hand for the second note that I am covering my mouth, barely breathing. I had not thought to hear from him ever again.

A rebellious anger stirs in my breast and I set my mouth in a grim smile. I will not attend. He can wait all night. I’ll not do him the honor of playing to his whims, nor will I ever again give him opportunity to unsettle me like he did that night in his room.

“Open the package!” Ma’ati demands, still eyeing the note I have not yet passed to her. I tuck it into my dressing robe instead, and undo the ribbon. It takes both of us to pry the lid free, but when we do neither of us can find words for what we see.