“Yes, would you like him?”
“Indeed, I would.”
I wrapped my arms across myself, making a show of shivering, and felt at the object in my hands. It was wooden, light, sharp and narrow. A shard of wood.
Movement tugged my eyes to the side of the ship. The glimpse was momentary, but I saw Harpy standing by the ship’s rail, her clutch of fans dangling from her belt, and her face… She wore my mother’s face, exactly as my childhood memories recalled. I was struck by how alike we looked, my mother then, and I now.
The Mereish captain saw the ghisting too. She whirled, then spun back to me in sudden, blatant panic.
“Ghiseau!” she shouted. The Mereish word for ghisting?
No time for thought, fear or second-guessing. I lunged.
She pulled the trigger.
I twisted around the gun. I felt the rush of heat as the spark met the pan and powder ignited. Smoke burst into my eyes.
I knocked her pistol arm aside with the quick, sharp blow Grant had taught me and drove around her. My free hand found her hair, the other put the stake to her throat, and then there was silence.
“Surrender and you’ll live,” I said, pressing the tip of the stake into the thrumming vein at her throat. My eyes burned with smoke but my heart slammed at my own audacity—I feared it, and I relished it. “Make one more move and you’ll die.”
She chose to live.
USTI—The most powerful nation on the Winter Sea, the Usti control the entirety of the Usti Island Chain, the Northern Continent and Tithe. They are a governing force in neutral waters, remaining impartial to all Aeadine–Mereish conflict and ensuring the continuation of trade and growth in the Winter Sea in times of peace and war. Originating from various lands, this people group is both hardy and spiritual, revering the gods of their assorted ancestors and numerous Saints. See also USTI ISLAND CHAIN, USTI NEUTRALITY.
—FROM THE WORDBOOK ALPHABETICA: A NEW
WORDBOOK OF THE AEADINES
The Girl from the Wold
The Girl from the Wold cannot run any longer. Her legs are weak and her chest burns. She stumbles into a tree and looks back, harrowed eyes scanning the forest.
Sunshine in autumn leaves. The smell of earth. She cannot hear screaming from the carriage anymore, but she can hear the footsteps. Steady. Approaching.
The highwayman reappears, pistol hanging at his thigh from a casual hand. He’s unhurried, but she can see in his eyes that he’s losing patience. His eyes meet hers and he snarls. He starts to run.
She chokes on a scream and forces herself back into movement, trying to buy a few more seconds of denial, of freedom, before she faces what’s next.
The ground gives way. The breath slams out of her lungs. She can’t see, but when the world stops whirling, she lies at the bottom of a ravine.
The highwayman lies a few paces away, his pistol just beyond the reach of his fingers. She crawls away, terrified to look at him and terrified to take her eyes from him.
But he does not move. His neck is broken, its angle too sharp and his eyes too blank.
The girl watches him for a long time. Slowly, her gasping breaths start to steady, though her lungs still burn. Sweat and tears dry on her cheeks.
She crawls forward. She picks up his pistol, pulls herself to her feet, and climbs out of the ravine.
*
TWENTY-THREE
Hesten Port
MARY
The port of Hesten clung to a series of small islands within the extensive Usti Chain, which Grant showed me on Demery’s charts as we drew near. Hesten’s islands were linked by ancient walls, gates and locks, and capped by a crown of heavy towers, domes and chimneys. Church bells clanged in a glorious cacophony from a hundred spires and steeples. Smoke and steam from tens of thousands of homes, shops and factories blurred the grey sky, while the northern horizon brimmed with the infamous Stormwall.
A shiver crept over my shoulders. The Stormwall might have been mountains from this distance, an indistinct grey-white divide, but I knew what it was: the eternal tempest that we would soon venture into. If all went as planned, my mother would be the one singing us through, but the sight still made my nerves tingle, and I hardened my resolve to master my magic as quickly as possible.
Demery called from the quarterdeck rail, “We’ll head to the Knocks and see if there’s wet dock for us. Everyone is to be on their best behavior. I don’t care if you’re in the Knocks or the Shasha—keep your noses clean. Anyone in prison or a gutter when this ship sails, stays there. And there’ll be time ashore for all, so spread the word and see Widderow for your purses.” He then noticed me. “Ms. Firth! Go make yourself presentable. You look like a fishwife.”
I shot him an arch look up the stairs, but quietly thrilled with anticipation. I couldn’t wait to have solid land under my feet, shops and good food at my fingertips, and space from the pirates.
So, I prepared. In the privacy of my cabin I stripped and bathed with warm water from a bucket, then donned as many layers of wool as I could while still looking refined. Athe had dumped a chest full of women’s clothes in my cabin not long ago, and though more than half of it was outdated or badly fit, I made do. I could order my own clothes while we were in port.
First came stockings, shift and stays, then hip pads and pockets. Next were two petticoats, the outer heavily quilted, and an overgown of dark mustard wool that buttoned in two lines up the chest. I wrapped a white shawl across the ensemble and fastened it behind my back, then set to pinning my hair about a small form and under a simple, sheer lace cap.
By the time I brushed rouge onto my cheeks and settled Rosser’s freshly hemmed cloak around my shoulders, the shouts and thuds of the ship had settled. New sounds seeped in—deep, lofty church bells ringing the hour, backed by the suppressed roar of a living, bustling city. It both delighted and daunted me.
I heard voices in the main cabin. Feeling something between proud and awkward at my appearance, I shook out the cloak and stepped out into the warmth of the larger room.
“Much better,” Demery informed me. He sat next to the woodstove, running through a sheaf of papers while Grant stood behind him.
Grant wore a jade frock coat, embroidered with cream and yellow that nearly matched my gown. Beneath that his buckskin breeches were perfectly fitted and his boots were up to the thigh—a style so absurd aboard ship that even I raised an eyebrow. Lace frothed from his collar and cuffs and a saber hung at his hip, hilt dark bronze and pommel inlaid with obsidian.
“Where did that come from?” I asked, focusing on the sword. It was a welcome distraction, given I’d just realized how attractive Charles Grant was. His appeal was prettier than, say, Samuel Rosser’s, but the thought of being on his arm wasn’t unpleasant. In fact, my heart gave an uncomfortable kick.
Grant took me in too, and raised his brows in appreciation. The short beard and scars he’d gained since we met did nothing but complete his roguish look.
My belly filled with warmth and wariness. I’d do myself no good thinking of Grant in this way, let alone comparing him to Mr. Rosser. Whatever attractiveness each of them possessed had to remain a factual, private observation.
I was here for my mother and the security of my own future. Not men who were, at best, untrustworthy.
“That? A loan,” Demery said without looking at the weapon in question. He held out a sheathed knife to me, attention still on the ledger. “Here’s one for you. Carry it openly unless you’re in polite company. No need to feign demureness in Usti—it’ll only endanger you while you’re ashore. I’ve already sent a letter declaring our arrival and intention to one Lady Phira, so you’ll be expected within the hour.”