Chapter 19 Yael
19
Yael
“So this is where you spent your scholarly years?” Margot asks, gazing up at Hair of the Dog. The iconic tavern was built to look like a ship beached on a cobblestone street bordering the Ivory Court, complete with a crow’s nest where a continual flame burns without ever scorching the wood, casting its fantastical glow into the night air.
“As far as I can remember,” Yael answers.
She turns toward them, lifting a brow.
Yael spreads their hands. “What can I say? Half the point of Auximia was what happened at night after classes ended, and we often washed up here. It was far enough from the Copper Court that most of our parents wouldn’t deign to come here, and close enough to the student chambers to crawl home after. You know, I always hoped I’d run into you out on the town. I would have remembered you the next morning.”
“Your flattery overwhelms my senses,” Margot deadpans, rolling her eyes.
Yael grinds their tongue between their teeth. Though there’s truth buried in there like a seed in soil, it does sound like shameless flattery, even to their own ears. They should have said, If only I’d found you sooner, I wouldn’t have spent all that time feeling lost. But the words wouldn’t come.
Anyway, who is Yael to speak those words to Margot? Who will Yael ever be to Margot Greenwillow? A friend? A lover?
Or just another Clauneck?
It was easier to pretend otherwise in Bloomfield, all-but-naked with their bare feet planted in greenhouse mulch, than it is while wearing this exquisite, olive-colored silk suit. A trunk full of clothing from the wardrobe Yael left behind was waiting for them at the inn when they rose this morning, sent over by their mother with a note that read: If you’re going to exploit our family name and fortune, then you had better dress appropriately to reflect both. The jacket’s a bit tight in the biceps and shoulders now, but not as much as they might have guessed it would be, or hoped. Aside from that, the fit is near perfect.
It’s Ashaway, Yael decides. This city makes it disconcertingly easy to slip back into their old costumes.
“Shall we?” Margot knocks them loose from their spiral before they can really get going.
Thank goodness for that. They’ve promised her a pleasant night out in the capital, not an identity crisis. “We shall.”
They offer Margot their arm—a habit now—and approach the door with its porthole window. Charmed to admit anyone with a pocketful of denaris, it swings open before Yael, just like old times. The tavern’s interior seems unchanged as well. Built to resemble a sprawling and luxuriously appointed captain’s quarters, its walls are pinned all over with nautical tapestries, maps, and illustrations of sea monsters curled among the waves—though as far as Yael knows, there aren’t any leviathans off the shores of Harrow. Certainly not in any mapped waters. They vanished generations ago, along with their dragon brethren. Patrons sit in overstuffed leather armchairs and rest their drinks on small side tables draped with jewel-toned velvets and silks. In the large stone hearth, a fire flickers in pale rainbow shades, like an opal enchanted to burn. Margot stops in the doorway to watch it, mesmerized.
“Well, gods be damned!” a familiar voice bellows. Alviss Oreborn—the last person Yael expected to find hanging around the Ivory Court—levers himself out of an armchair, hoisting his signature tankard to hail them from across the tavern. He splashes a bit of ale on his steel-studded tunic, which has the look of plate armor despite its fine fabric and shortened sleeves. “Yael Clauneck, a handsome sight for these old eyes!”
Yael sighs.
“Isn’t that the mine owner?” Margot asks. “I remember my parents going in with him on adventuring expeditions, sending parties out together, since they weren’t competing for the findings.”
“That’s him.”
“He gave them a fully kitted warhorse for my birthday. My eighth birthday.”
“Oh, Mulligan!” Yael exclaims.
“You remember Mulligan?”
“Of course; your parents regifted him to mine. He was a mean thing.”
“Truly a villain of a horse,” Margot agrees.
“Well, Oreborn has always been…colorful. And that’s his son.”
Denby is wedged into the chair beside his father, looking broad and bored as ever, each of his biceps like a cask of wine. Even when he’s seated, the top of his plaited blond head is nearly level with his father’s.
“I should probably go over,” Yael concedes. “I might owe the Oreborns a steed, which I’m not giving back. But if you want to wait for me by the bar—”
“No,” Margot says, plastering on a smile that looks only a little strained at the corners. “Sweet Wind has carried me around too, remember? Where you ride, I ride.”
If Yael could peer through a porthole in their own chest to see their heart, they’re sure it’d be glowing opalescent as the hearth fire.
Oreborn grins as they approach. “Wonderful to see you well, Yael,” he roars, wrapping thick, freckled arms around them and pulling them close. “Such a nasty spill you took off one of my own horses. I was sick with guilt, just sick,” the man declares, loud even for Oreborn.
Yael doesn’t hesitate before playing their part. “The fault was none of yours and all of mine. Never ride a mechanical steed after finishing off a Copperhead or four at brunch.” They laugh just as loudly, shoring up the lie to anyone listening in; inevitably, someone will be.
“Ah, that’s kind of you to say. Your parents were equally gracious. Paid me well for the horse that was harmed in the fall.” From beneath monstrously bushy brows, his crystalline-blue eyes meet Yael’s, twinkling with shared, secret meaning. “There’s no debt between us two. None but the drinks I owe you now that you’re back home.” Pulling away, Oreborn winks theatrically and turns to Margot. “And this beautiful lass is…” His grin slips. “The Greenwillow girl, isn’t it? I’d know you by the hair, just like your mother’s. Haven’t thought of you since—”
“Since word reached Ashaway of Rastanaya’s triumphant showing on Margot’s family estate, starring Margot’s own botanical creations and arrangements?” Yael interrupts, threading their arm around her waist. “You really should see her work, Oreborn. It’s soon to be found in every estate and household of importance in the capital, I’m sure of it. Margot’s the brightest star rising on Harrow’s horizon, and she has been a dear friend to me during my recovery, with her incredible talent for remedies.”
Margot tenses against them; perhaps they’re laying the praise on a bit thick for her tastes?
After only a moment, Oreborn nods, eyes sparkling like gems. “Aye, that’s exactly it. That’s where I heard your name last. Well then, maybe we’ll send around for flower arrangements. Denby’s got an engagement party coming up this autumn, and that’s what the gentlefolk do, ey? To think, Yael, you two will soon be cousins!”
“I…excuse me?” For the first time, they stumble to catch the man’s meaning.
“Well, near enough to cousins, once Denby and Araphi tie the knot. Lucky you’ve recovered in time for the wedding.”
Yael looks to Denby, who scowls up at them from the chair, his only contribution.
It can’t be…
“Congratulations to you both,” Margot says, leaning in to save Yael.
“Yes…yes. Apologies, it’s the fall…from the horse. Sometimes I…forget.” They pat their head, a weak pretense.
Oreborn claps them on the shoulder, and the blow stings as always. “A drink will help with that. Fetch yourselves an ale and tell the barkeep to put them on my coin.”
Yael bows lightly and leads Margot away to the bar counter, built of polished wood planks enchanted to smell faintly—but never unpleasantly—of brine and sea vegetation, as though they’d been fished from a sunken ship the day before. Yael easily summons the barkeep with a raised finger and orders two overpriced ales on Oreborn’s tab. The man insisted, after all.
“Me and Denby Oreborn, soon to be family,” they mutter as the barkeep moves away. “Curious, Araphi never did mention the name of her fiancé at the fashion show.”
Margot shrugs. “Maybe she didn’t have the chance. If she’s marrying him, she must be happy about it.”
Yael’s lovely, flighty cousin, happy to hitch her carriage to that sour storm cloud? “Impossible.”
“Not everyone wants what you want, Yael,” she snaps back at them.
They’ve said something wrong, clearly, and must repair it. “Untrue,” they say smoothly, leaning against the counter and tilting their head to face her. “Everyone in this tavern right now wants you, unless they’re too drunk to see farther than the nose on their face.”
With a sigh, Margot yields. “You’re very charming, but—”
“How charming, Daisy?”
“ Very. And I do appreciate your attempts to talk all of Ashaway into forgetting my family’s scandal, though I’m not sure that’s within even your powers of persuasion.”
“Oh, I assure you it is. I’ve heard I’m very charming.”
“But Yael…doesn’t it bother you, going along with your parents’ lie? Every person we’ve passed in the street who recognized you, it was like…like you were both performing in a play and had already memorized your lines.”
“I suppose we had. It’s just, well, it’s easier than telling the truth, isn’t it? Seeing as we’re only in Ashaway for a few days. Why complicate our lives?”
Margot looks at Yael with inscrutable eyes for long enough that they start to squirm. Then, reaching over to brush their cheek, she says, “Of course. I guess I’d just forgotten what this city is really like, that’s all.”
They lean into her touch the same way they’ve seen that monstrous cat Harvey do, suppressing the urge to purr.
As soon as the barkeep returns, she drops her hand and turns from them. “Let’s have our drinks and head out, all right? It’s been a long day, and I’m suddenly dead on my feet.”
Yael’s just about to ask whether she’d like a ride back to their room at the Glowing Coin, or a ride after they’ve reached it, but they bite their cheek to stop themself. They’ve got to stop behaving like the same decadent disaster they were when they left home. No wonder Margot froze with panic in the carriage after Yael’s accidental confession. Yael had hoped it was only a reaction to their parents’ proximity as they rode toward Ashaway. But maybe Margot sensed Yael’s old self drawing nearer and nearer as well, approaching as surely as the black basalt walls.
This isn’t a pleasant thought.
With every swallow of ale, Yael tells themself that it’ll be fine. The problem will resolve itself the moment they leave the city to return to Bloomfield after the masquerade. And if Yael has to play the role of the rakish Clauneck heir until then, so what? Especially if they’re putting Margot’s name on everyone’s lips while they’re at it.
It’s the least Yael can do for her when she’s already doing so much for them.