2

“OH GRIS!” My mother grabs me in her arms and pulls me so tightly against her that it feels like my spine will crack. Finally, I manage to work one hand free and I raise it to wipe her clinging hair out of my face. My mother never wears her hair loose.

“He’s lying,” I say. “Isn’t he?” I push at her stiff arms until she lets me go. Her face is blotched, the powder in damp patches on her skin, gathering in the fine wrinkles by her eyes and mouth.

Her fear vanishes, and she presses her lips into a thin angry line. “You’re never to leave the estate, you know that.”

I’m House Pelim’s little bird, the only daughter. After Father died, Mother kept me closed up, fearful that somehow I would go down like him—victim of a prole illness caught off a river-Hob or a hacking low-Lammer. “I wanted some fresh air.” I cough the words out, then rub my neck gingerly, trying to massage away the pain.

She’s regained her composure, and she scrapes one thin hand through her silvered hair. “Never,” she says again. “We’ve talked about this.”

No. You’ve talked about it. I just had to sit and listen. The only person I can talk to is Ilven. We grew up together, shared the same flight space. And now, if my brother is to be believed, she’s gone.

I pull away from my mother and race up to my room.

The turret room is probably my mother’s sole concession to my state as perpetual prisoner. Technically, I should be in the family wing and not in this drafty little tower. But I like it up here, and as I’m the only daughter, my mother has allowed me this indulgence. Or maybe she just understood that I needed what little artificial freedom I could get to keep me sane. So I have this room that overlooks the chalk cliffs and fills and echoes with the sound of the sea mews squabbling over fish. The white gulls look like scraps of paper buffeted about the cliffs.

The rain has swollen the wooden frame, but a few hard shoves soon have the window open and salt-spray air and drizzle sweep in. The sea mews are louder, circling in great wheeling flocks, and below me is the rumbling crash of the surf.

“Felicita.” My mother is standing outside my closed door. She’s keeping an even tone.

I ignore her and pull up a footstool so that I can lean right out the window and stare down at the dizzying waves. They flash white around the humpback brown rocks, seething.

“Felicita!” she snaps. “We need to talk.”

Across the bay, I can just see the gaslights dotted along the Claw, blinking faint as night-worms. And there, like a stain on the horizon, a little ink blot, is Lambs’ Island. Maybe next time I run, I’ll get farther than the promenade. I’ll steal a boat and make it all the way to the island and hide there with the Mekekana ghosts.

“Felicita.”

If she says my name one more time I’m going to scream. They’ll hear it all the way out in Old Town. It’s not true, my brother just knows what lies will hurt me the most, that’s all it is.

“You must forgive your brother,” she says. “He was worried about you, and when he’s worried he doesn’t think.” I can hear her breathing, a trembling, liquid sound. I think she’s crying. “He shouldn’t have told you the way he did.”

It’s not true. I clench my fists and force myself to stare out the window, to block out my mother’s voice, but there’s no need. She’s fallen silent, waiting.

Ilven is almost my age, but blond and delicate in the way of House Malker. Glass fragile and dangerous. She’s one of the few playmates I was ever allowed. I’ve known her my whole life. I crawl down from the window ledge and thrust one hand into my pocket and take hold of Ilven’s gift before I open the door.

My mother twists her hands. “I’m sorry,” she says. And I realize suddenly that she truly is.

My syrupy anger cools, and inside I feel breakable.

“How?” I say. My tongue is thick and heavy; I’m trying to talk with a mouth that isn’t really mine.

“Oh, Felicita.” She wrings her hands, over and over. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“Tell me what happened.” I let go of the necklace.

“She jumped.”

That’s all Mother needs to say. Our estate and House Malker’s are built on the high cliffs along Pelim’s Tooth. The Tooth, like its mirror the Claw, is a pincer of land that juts around the mouth of the Casabi river, making a protected bay.

But the cliff isn’t called the Tooth all the time. In fact, most people call it Pelim’s Leap.

Not to our faces, of course.

They don’t like to remind us that our House has brought the Red Death to Pelimburg’s shores before, that we have a history of suicides and ill luck.

I bite down, grinding my teeth, trying to stop the shaking from spreading through my limbs. None of the superstitions are true, but even now there will be talk through the Houses that Ilven has caused House Malker to lose face, that her death brings ill luck to our shores. If there are bad catches in the bay, if the whaling ships are lost in storms, or if another merciless red tide sweeps down the coastline, Hob and low-Lammer alike will whisper Ilven’s name, and they will know at which House’s door to lay their blame.

So Ilven took the Leap. My hands tremble and I bury them in the soft folds of my dress. “Are you certain?”

My mother nods. “They found her … body.”

I hate to think what she means by body. It’s a long drop to the bottom, to the rocks and the crushing waves. In my mind, Ilven’s delicate face turns to a slab of hammered meat. I try to swallow down my nausea.

There will be whys—people gossiping and speculating as to what Meke-damned trial drove her to it. Whatever thoughts spurred her on, Ilven’s not going to spill them now. And any ill luck that comes to Pelimburg now will be blamed on Ilven’s dive, on the alchemy of falling girls and broken-glass sea. If her death wakes something in the deep, then she will bring more shame down on her House with that one act than she could have accomplished in a lifetime of disobedience. They will hate her for it. I wonder if Lady Malker has already struck her daughter’s name from the family tree.

“I think I want to sleep,” I say. And I do, really, I do. The last thing I want is to be awake and to think about how Ilven escaped from the life she didn’t want. And why she never spoke to me, told me, warned me. Perhaps I could have changed her mind. It occurs to me that she never meant to meet me under the trees—that she knew me well enough to predict that I would wait only so long before I left—because then she could take the Leap without any chance of me witnessing her from my tower. My heart goes small, and every limb feels too heavy to lift.

Perhaps my mother even understands a little about how I feel. She leaves, and a few minutes later Firell brings me honeybush tea.

“Firell,” I say, and she curtseys in greeting.

She sets the ornate copper tray down and begins fiddling with the pots and bowls. The thin liquid trill of tea poured into porcelain is soothing, and the faint sweet scent of the honeybush lingers in the air.

“Can I bring you anything else, miss?”

I shake my head. It’s too heavy for my neck. I’m going to snap, break in two. If I could cry, perhaps my head would be lighter. I am a rain cloud, heavy before the storm.

She curtseys again, ready to leave, but I stop her before she can go.

“Here,” I say, and fumble in my pocket for the little necklace that is weighing me down. She takes the gift, her eyes wide, nervous.

“Miss?”

“For you,” I say. And it might as well be. Firell has served me as a lady’s maid since she could carry a tray. I look at her again and really see her: her face olive complected, her dark hair drawn back into a neat pad low on her neck. Her starched uniform, marred by faint stains at the armpits, the burn on her arm, faded now, where she once caught at a falling teapot so that it wouldn’t scald me. I realize now that I know nothing about Firell—she could be a magicless unwanted baby from a High House, or some serving girl’s bastard. The latter’s more likely; along with the tan skin, she has the short stature that points at Hob parentage. The High Houses try to keep their bloodlines pure, clinging to their magic. Ilven used to say that soon we high-Lammers would be nothing more than inbred monstrosities, lording it over one another as we play king of the midden.

It could be a true future that Ilven saw—she’s a Saint after all.

Was. Was a Saint.

“It’s a gift,” I say to Firell.

She takes the package with fluttering fingers and tucks it deep in her apron pocket without unwrapping it. “Thank you, miss. Thank you.”

When she’s gone, I feel empty. After a while, I take my teacup and blow, making tiny ripples across the reddish water.

There’s a distinct bitter aftertaste of Lady’s Gown in the tea, and I welcome it. Anything to sleep without dreaming.

*   *   *

I AM STILL GROGGY from a week spent in mourning, and my thoughts chase one another in ever-tightening spirals. This is not a good way to face my mother’s neat and quiet revenge. The early sunlight hurts my puffy eyes and I squint, wishing the ache away. The low tea table is a bridge between us, or perhaps a wall. Carefully, I arrange the teapot, the little white cup, and the sugar bowl before me like an army. Defense? Or attack?

My mother sits crisply, folding and unfolding the letter she holds. Her weapon. It bears my brother’s jagged script. How like him, to talk to us in a way that gives us no chance to argue or interrupt. My mother still deludes herself that the letters are written out of more than a desire to spend as little time in our company as possible. She likes to think he is still hers.

It seems we’re pretending that nothing happened. My brother is with his wife and her expanding belly. It will not be long now before her lying-in, and we shall see even less of him than usual. I hope. He will stay in his town house in New Town, near enough to the docks that he can keep his eye over our wealth. His wealth.

As for Ilven, there is only the kind of silence that comes heavily weighted with the whispers of servants. They stop talking when they hear me coming. They do not look at my face.

My hand darts up to brush the high collar of my dress. Glass beads and thick embroidery press against the bruises they are meant to hide.

My mother fires the first volley. “Your brother has had some interest from House Canroth.” She sets the letter down between us, then draws her cup closer to her but doesn’t drink.

“Interest about what?”

“It’s time you looked to a suitable match—”

“With House Canroth?” Anger makes my skin tight. “They’re—they’re not even a Great House.” As if that matters; all the eligible bachelors from the Great Houses are practically decrepit. Even the next highest ranked, like the Skellig twins, are still in swaddling clothes. I try to dredge up what little knowledge I have of Canroth, but my mind is blank. Something about glass, I think. Ah, that’s it, they make fine crystal, so they’re mostly War-Singers. At the very least I suppose I should be glad Owen is not trying to tie me to a House overrun with Readers and Saints, all lost in auras and Visions. I do not want to spend the rest of my life trying not to feel too much, in case some Reader turns my innermost desires against me. And if I think my life is measured and controlled now, how much worse would it be in a House ruled by Saints, constantly tracking futures and possibilities, their lives ruled by scriv-visions and the auguries of decks of cards? Perhaps Ilven not only foresaw her own death but also knew to an instant how long I would wait in the grove of trees before I left her to her chosen path.

I try to calm myself by sipping my tea, but it is too hot, and I burn the back of my throat, my tongue. Good. I focus on the pain, the tip of my tongue touching the shreds of burned skin on my palate. An image of a reedy little man drifts up through my memories. We met at my mother’s last garden party—he’s a nothing, a pale little nothing in his thirties. I don’t even remember his name.

My knees bump the table as I stand, and tea spills over its polished surface. “I will not marry a Canroth,” I tell her.

“You sit down,” my mother hisses. “See, this is exactly the sort of nonsense that drove Ilven to—” She stops, just on the knife edge of tact. “Your brother will make the arrangements with Canroth Piers.”

Piers. His face coalesces in my mind. His drab mustache is the only detail that made any impact on me. My innards knot and twist like live snakes. I understand why Ilven jumped. Even that damned bat on the promenade, even he—a hated vampire in a city that barely tolerates their existence—has more choice than I.

And there’s nothing I can do. Owen is a decade older than me, and with Father dead, I answer to him, to his whims and decisions. The Pelim line ends with Owen, and were he to die, I suppose I would then be in the charge of Mother’s family in MallenIve. A ghastly thought in itself.

The letter on the table flutters in a sudden gust that brings with it the distant reek of seaweed. I grab the letter, sweep it up to my chest.

“Where are you going with that?” my mother asks as I stomp up to the large bay window that overlooks the short expanse of front lawn before the garden drops off to the sea.

There’s no point in answering her, she’ll know soon enough. I throw the right window wider, then fling the letter out. The thin leaves dance across the lawn before another sea-gust takes them, sending them flickering through the air. The sea mews crowd about the papers, calling to each other in excitement, wings flapping as they fight. Another gust sends the papers over the cliff, fluttering in looping spirals. A last sheet twirls on the lawn in a giddy solo, then tips over and is gone.

Like Ilven, it’s taken Pelim’s Leap.

“I’m so glad you’ve managed to get that out of your system. Now, if we could go back to our tea. You know better than to go against your brother’s wishes.”

I don’t turn around. The wind pulls my hair loose and auburn curls slap at my face. “I hate you,” I say.

A sigh comes from behind me. “Hate me all you want,” she says. “It won’t change matters.” Her footsteps fade away, a measured click across the polished black slate. The sound is suddenly dampened, and I know that she’s in the carpeted passageway.

“I hate you,” I say again, softly, to the sea, to the cliff, to the fat-bellied clouds. To my brother’s cruelty. To Pelim’s Leap.