Chapter Five
Will didn’t lie. When I make my way to the back of the train, I find trays scattered about the compartment, littered with crumbs. Annie is there, too, giggling with Elsie and Albert as if they’ve been friends since long before today—something I would never have believed based on the stories I was told about the Nightweavers. Stories that would have better described Underlings, it would seem.
I clench my fists, a hundred questions poised like arrows on the tip of my tongue. But as I start toward Mother and Father, I see Charlie seated between them, his shoulder like new. He laughs at something Lewis says, and Margaret swats them both on the back of the head, though she grins from ear to ear. It’s strange to see them all like this—full bellies, smiling faces. When Charlie spots me, he beams, creating a space between himself and Father and beckoning for me to sit. I oblige him, reasoning that my questions can wait a little while longer. But the time for answers never comes, because it isn’t too long before the shrieking of a whistle pierces my eardrums and the train creaks to a halt.
As we depart the train, resentment leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. We’re stepping into a world without Owen—a world I want nothing to do with. And yet… I can’t help thinking, as Mother and Father clasp hands, as they breathe in the humid, earthen air, they seem happy . If what Will says is true, we could be safe here. No more running. Already, the wear of long, hard years at sea has begun to fade from their faces. Lewis beams at a shop front bedecked with rolls of fabric. Albert and Elsie chase Annie in circles around Charlie. Even Margaret takes in the bustling village with awe.
Again, Owen’s absence bears down on me with inexplicable force.
Will’s deep voice comes from behind. “I’m afraid there isn’t room for everyone.” I turn to find him already staring at me. He gestures at the motor carriage sputtering along the road toward us, its wheels churning up dirt.
“An automobile !” Elsie squeals, jumping up and down. I remember when Father gave her the book on land transports last year. She hasn’t stopped talking about them since.
Will smirks, directing his attention over my shoulder, where a black horse nearly rivals the motor carriage in size. “I thought we could follow along,” he says, eyes glinting with amusement as I survey the horse with distaste. “Do you mind?”
I glance at my family, already piling into the coach, and again at the horse. I swallow hard.
He laughs, patting the horse’s side. “Caligo won’t bite.”
I wrinkle my nose. “It’s not him I’m worried about.”
Will climbs into the saddle and extends a hand to me. The coach pulls away, packed to the brim with my family. They didn’t even wait for me , I realize with a pang in my chest.
I take Will’s hand, expecting something to pass between us at the connection, but I feel nothing but his calloused palm in mine. He has hands like a pirate. The thought is swiftly abandoned as he pulls me onto the saddle behind him. I wrap my arms reluctantly around his waist, keeping as much distance between us as the saddle allows. And he’s warm. I was told Nightweavers were cold and lifeless—bloodless beasts; soulless, unfeeling creatures with glowing red eyes and razor-sharp teeth. I was told they were nothing like humans— monsters , I called them.
But Will…
My stomach turns to water as the horse lurches into a trot. But instead of following the carriage, Will tugs on the reins, steering us down another brick-paved street.
“Where are you taking me?” I demand to know, hoping he doesn’t hear the panic in my voice. “You said—”
“If you’re going to consider staying here,” he says, a hint of playfulness in his tone, “then I thought you ought to see Ink Haven for yourself.”
Ink Haven. I call to mind Owen’s beloved maps. See here , he said, pointing at the jagged shores of the Tamed Lands, then dragging his finger along the soft slope of hills and clusters of dense forest to the deep valley at the heart of the Eerie. Here, between the towering cliffs and among the sodden green fields, lay Ink Haven: the last major township between Jade, the capital city of the Eerie, and Fell, the neighboring nation to the east. Ink Haven , Owen would whisper reverently, where the streets ran black with human blood .
I pictured it then as a place of nightmares—a dark, shadowy region, where Nightweavers perched on gnarled branches, human limbs dangling from their jaws. No pirate has ever made it this far inland and lived to see the ocean once more. No place for our kind , Owen would say. A valley of bones.
This can’t be Ink Haven.…
The setting sun bathes the hills in amber light. Narrow falls trickle down into the township, streams of water flowing throughout, whispering to my heart in the language of the sea. Colorful lanterns reflect in the canal’s surface, glimmering like jewels, and the air is heavy with the aroma of freshly baked bread and damp earth. Charming storefronts line the street, and shopkeepers light candles in their windows as Nightweavers dally with their baskets, clothed in opulent rainbows of satin, their faces bright and rosy.
“The young lord has returned!” a plump woman calls to her friends—humans, I realize, noting her plain black attire. A plump human! Owen wouldn’t believe it. The woman wears a servant’s uniform like my own, but she and her companions are well fed, not fed on . They walk among the Nightweavers without fear for their own flesh. Underlings eat humans , I remind myself, not Nightweavers .
At the woman’s cry, every head turns to find Will and me. Some wave, shouting greetings. The humans appear especially fond of Will. And too familiar , I think, recognizing the shared looks of disapproval passed between the Nightweavers among them. Will isn’t blind to this. In fact, it seems he welcomes it, indulging the woman who first spotted him with a charming grin.
“Good evening, Mrs. Carroll,” he calls to her by name. “You’re looking well.”
“Very kind, m’lord.” The woman waves him off bashfully. “Very kind.”
From this vantage point, I recognize the Nightweaver exiting a carriage to my left— Percy , the man from the hearing in the town square. He glowers at Will, smoothing his yellow waistcoat.
“Ah, yes, the little lord returns,” Percy sneers, addressing anyone within earshot. “And with a human girl for a traveling companion.” He turns his attention on Will, cuts his eyes at me. “I heard the bulk of Bludgrave’s staff was drafted by the League. But I see you spared no time in finding more human filth to meet your… needs .”
Will pulls on the reins to halt abruptly in the center of the street, a few feet from Percy. He climbs down, adjusts his cloak.
“My needs are met without having to spend a single coin,” Will says calmly. “Unlike your own.”
A few Nightweaver women giggle, and Percy’s lip curls. He tugs on the arm of a human girl as she steps down from the carriage, her wrists bound in fetters. “This is my right,” he snarls, spitting at Will’s feet. “Just because you and your old man have abandoned the ancient ways, doesn’t mean—”
Will opens his palm, contracts his fingers. Percy’s knees buckle, and he crumples to the ground. His body lifts him onto his feet once more, his bones suspended at unnatural angles. Percy grits his teeth, laboring for breath, unable to form words.
“Speaking of my father.” Will’s deep voice commands silence from the gathering crowd. “Lord Bludgrave has asked me to deliver a message to the Hounds of Ink Haven.” He pauses deliberately and twitches a finger, pitching Percy onto his knees in front of him. He twists his wrist slightly, and Percy’s neck snaps back, forcing him to look up at Will. Will bends, whispers something in Percy’s ear. When he straightens, I catch a glimpse of Percy—his jaw clamped shut, his face red. Will flicks his hand, apparently setting Percy’s bones to rights, and Percy tumbles backward, his top hat flying.
As Will pulls himself onto the horse, Percy scrambles to his feet, dusting off his rumpled waistcoat. He grabs the girl by her arm and storms through the doors of the coaching inn, cursing loudly at the coachman as he wrestles with Percy’s luggage. Will gives Caligo a gentle kick, and the crowd disperses, their heads down. The Nightweavers gossip in hushed voices—I catch the word bonewielder more than once—but a few humans linger, watching Will with pure adoration.
Who is this Nightweaver, loved by humans and feared by his own kind?
A moment later, we round the corner. The street is relatively empty but for a few humans scurrying about in their plain black uniforms.
“What did you say?” I ask quietly, easing closer to him.
He glances over his shoulder, smirking slightly, but the expression doesn’t reach his eyes. “His band of criminals have terrorized Ink Haven long enough. The next dog that nips at the heels of House Castor will die as such.”
My teeth work at my bottom lip. “He thinks you’re soft because of how you treat us.” I struggle to keep the venom out of my voice at the thought of Percy dragging that human girl along behind him. If it weren’t for Will, that might have been Elsie.
I suppress a shudder.
“Among other things.” Will straightens, and I pull back, suddenly aware of how tightly I held him. He glances over his shoulder again, but not at me. His dark green eyes survey the crest of the mountains in the distance, the storm clouds gathering there. “I told you, Aster,” he says, his voice low. “My family is different.”
We arrive at the iron gate just as the motor carriage rumbles onto the long circular drive—the benefit of knowing a “particularly useful shortcut,” Will informed me as we galloped across the rolling landscape. Ahead, the stone fortress stands guard at the top of a hill, a sentinel watching over the valley below, where the dim glow of Ink Haven winks, a lone candle flickering in the cloud of fog.
In the coming twilight, the estate exudes warmth. Golden light casts a halo around the head of the statue atop the fountain at the center of the drive, and towering lampposts illuminate the vast gardens ornamenting the lawn.
Father once brought Mother a bouquet of roses from our usual port along the Cutthroat Coast, but by the time he returned, they were wilted. I thought the earth was harsh and unforgiving, a forgotten graveyard where life struggled to survive. I never imagined beauty like this. I only wish Owen were here to see it.
“Welcome to Bludgrave Manor,” Will sighs, and I recognize the relief in his voice with a twinge of jealousy. This is his home. But I will never go home again—not to the Lightbringer .
The carriage pulls around, emptying my family out at the foot of the steps as double doors open to receive them. Will dismounts with ease, holding out a hand for me to take. I consider refusing when Caligo lists forward, and in my panic, I grasp for Will’s fingers. He tugs me gently off the animal’s side and onto my feet.
“Whoa, Caligo!” A boy hurries down the steps, takes the reins from Will. He strokes Caligo’s muzzle before removing his patchwork cap and extending a hand to me, a boyish grin plastered across his face. His light brown hair sticks up in unruly tufts, but he doesn’t attempt to smooth it back. “Name’s Jack. Jack Aldrin.”
“Aster.” I give his hand a firm shake, following his eyes as he watches Margaret enter the house. I stifle a smirk. “That’s my sister Margaret. I can introduce you, if you’d like?” Pitching my voice, I call out, “Mar—”
“No!” Jack ducks behind Caligo just as Margaret glances back, sees Will and me studying the ground, and turns again.
Will’s easy laughter catches me by surprise. He claps Jack on the shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Jack.”
“You too, Castor,” Jack mutters. He shoots me a playful glare, fixing his cap atop his head. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss.”
I wink. “Likewise.”
Jack leaves Will and me standing at the foot of the steps and heads for the stables in the distance. Will starts for the door, but I hang back, glancing over my shoulder at the iron gate as two guards clad in red livery—Gylda and Hugh, Will called them—seal it shut.
“He’s human…,” I murmur, half to myself.
“Of course.” Will’s eyes glint with amusement. “What did you expect?”
I expected him to hate you , I think. To fear you.
As if sensing my train of thought, he adds, “His parents were both drafted into the League of Seven when we were six. He’s been with my family ever since.” He flicks a glance at Jack, swallowed up by the fog. “Can’t say I haven’t considered making a meal of him once or twice.…”
My throat tightens, but Will only chuckles.
“Joking,” he says, his eyes glittering. “Come now.” He extends an arm to me. “Everyone’s waiting to meet you.”
I take his arm and follow him to the top of the steps. As I cross over the threshold and into the house, relinquishing my tentative grip on Will’s arm, it starts to rain. And I wonder… is this rain a savior or is it a warning?
I tense as we’re swallowed up by the grand foyer. I’m met with a sweet, heady aroma, reminding me of the warm spices Father once brought back from the Cutthroat Coast. Plush scarlet carpet flows down the mahogany staircase and spills at our feet like a river of blood. The Castors’ crest—the same golden dragon I noticed embroidered on the guards’ uniforms as we came upon the estate—hangs mounted beneath the banister, encased in a gilded frame.
I shudder. This rain feels like a warning.
A stab of grief pierces my chest as the double doors close behind us, separating me from the downpour. Our life before is over. Evenings spent with Father and Owen in the galley; watching the ocean lap at the horizon from the crow’s nest; practicing our swordsmanship in the heat of the day, with no thought but what story Mother might tell us that night as the waves rocked us all to sleep. In the grand foyer of Bludgrave Manor, surrounded by strangers, I attend my own private funeral.
Blud grave — my grave, should I never leave this place again. Somewhere at the bottom of the sea, my heart rests along with the Lightbringer . With Owen.
I rub my left wrist, feeling the phantom brush of braided leather. I promised Owen that I would not let them take me. But as Mother and Father are greeted by a kind-looking Nightweaver man and his wife, as Margaret and Charlie and Lewis exchange pleasantries with the servants in their black-and-white uniforms, as Elsie and Albert follow Annie from room to room, chasing after a fat, furry black creature about the size of an overfed tomcat, I think, maybe, just maybe, they could make a home of this place. I could slip away. They might not even notice. They might not even care.…
“You must be Aster,” the Nightweaver woman says in a singsong voice. “Lady Isabelle.” She gives a slight curtsy. “My husband, Lord Bludgrave.”
“Welcome, welcome,” the tall man booms. He looks so much like his son—like Will—only silver streaks his dark hair and the crinkles around his eyes give him the appearance of always smiling. Lord Bludgrave winks at Will and reaches into his breast pocket. He takes my hand in both of his, and when he withdraws, he leaves something nestled in my palm.
“Taffy?” I breathe, staring at the pink-striped wrapper. Father used to buy us a single piece each year for Reckoning Day; one piece, split among all seven children. My eyes seek Father, expecting him to appear downcast, but there’s a warmth in his face that I can’t quite understand. He dips his head, signaling for me to accept. “Thanks,” I mumble, stuffing the taffy into my apron pocket.
Over Lord Bludgrave’s shoulder, I see a boy who looks about my age—no older than seventeen—descending the opulent staircase. He careens onto the marble floor and flings himself at Will. They embrace, patting each other on the back.
“My little brother, Henry,” Will says, gesturing at the boy, who shares the same towering, lithe frame and curly black hair.
Despite the brothers’ similarities, Henry’s lip wrinkles in disgust at the sight of us. As he turns his face, I notice a jagged scar that carves a line from his temple and disappears beneath the collar of his shirt, shifting in the light of the electric chandelier.
“So it’s true,” he mutters, his charcoal-dark eyes fixed on me. “You’ve brought pirates into our midst.”
“Henry!” His mother swats at his arm.
“The Oberon family is in our care now.” Lord Bludgrave’s kindly face is stern, his charcoal eyes like flint. “You will treat them with the same respect you show to all those in our employ.” With that, he motions to one of the servants—an elderly man with deep-set eyes and sparse gray hair. “Mr. Hackney, I believe it’s much too late for a grand tour. See them off to their rooms and ensure they have a proper supper. Tomorrow is a new day, and I shall hope to find everyone settled in. Philip, is it?” he asks Father, who nods. “William told me his stewards overheard quite a few of your family’s conversations during your voyage. I apologize for the breach of privacy, but we’re in dire need of a chef, and William sent word ahead that you seem fit for the job.”
I recoil at the thought of anyone spying on my family in such a vulnerable position, but Father beams at the suggestion, his eyes wide. “Thank you, sir,” he says, sounding genuine.
“Right, of course.” Lord Bludgrave dips his head in my mother’s direction. “Mrs. Oberon—”
“Grace, my lord,” Mother offers.
At that, I fight down the title Captain as it threatens to burst from my mouth. How quickly she resigns herself to servitude! How humiliating this must be for her.…
But as I search for any sign of contempt in my mother’s dignified gaze, I find none. This is no longer survival, I realize. She has made her decision, and with it, an unspoken agreement passes through the family. “ This is a good life for us ,” I hear her say in the way her eyes flit over Margaret, Charlie, Lewis, and then me. Charlie shifts uneasily on the balls of his feet, and Margaret and Lewis share a wary look. I stare at the floor swaying beneath me, my mouth dry.
“Grace, yes.” Lord Bludgrave clears his throat, motions at a frail-looking woman with a long, slender neck and a neat gray bun atop her head. “I’m afraid our beloved Mrs. Hackney has taken ill, and we’ll soon be in need of a new housekeeper. You’ll be well suited for the task.” He turns to Lewis. “Hands of a tailor, so says my son. And you”—he nods at Charlie—“built like an ox. I believe you’ll both make fine footmen.”
Lord Bludgrave takes another piece of taffy from his breast pocket, tosses it to Margaret. “A surgeon…,” he muses, stroking his chin. “We’ve no patients for you to tend, but my daughter does need a nanny. It’s not quite the caliber of work you’re used to, but there’s no shortage of blood in child’s play.”
Margaret takes Elsie by the arm as she darts past, yanking her to a standstill. “Surely, my lord.”
My lord … They say it with such ease.
Albert continues to chase the furry black creature, which skirts my leg and leaps into Annie’s outstretched arms. Now that she holds it still, I’m able to get a better look at its rotund body, its six stubby legs ending in claw-tipped paws like that of a canine. Coarse black hair sticks up in unruly tufts everywhere except on its fleshy bat-like ears, and eight insectoid eyes peek out from beneath the matted fur on its face. Its elongated snout resembles a boar’s, complete with four yellowing tusks, but the grotesque little thing purrs like a cat as Annie strokes its furry head, causing Margaret to grimace.
“What is it?” Albert pants, his hands on his knees.
“An atroxis,” Elsie answers primly, her chin held high.
“Very good.” Lady Isabelle smiles sweetly at Elsie, who beams at her praise. “Atroxi are one of the few Myths protected under the king’s law,” she explains to the rest of us as we continue to gape at the strange creature.
I shift uncomfortably, remembering the stories Owen used to tell me of the beings and creatures that roamed the earth before the Fall. Much like Nightweavers hunted us humans, they hunted Myths—men and women with the lower halves of goats who were known to hypnotize misbehaving children with their magical flutes, or the water sprites our ancestors once commissioned to deliver messages across the Western Sea.
“Queen Anteres even keeps an atroxis for a pet, you know,” Lady Isabelle says with a wink.
Albert wrinkles his nose. “But it’s so ugly.”
Annie gasps while the bell on the creature’s leather collar jingles, but Lord Bludgrave gives a hearty laugh. “You’re not the only one who thinks so,” he says, patting Albert on the back.
I almost hoped I was forgotten in the commotion, but now Lord Bludgrave squints at me, his lips pursed. “William wasn’t sure where to place you.”
Because I don’t belong here.
I clear my throat. “If I may…” I raise my voice, inject some gravitas into my words. “I’d prefer to work alongside my father. In the kitchen… sir ,” I add awkwardly.
Lord Bludgrave chuckles and pats Will’s shoulder. “You were right about this one—a formidable woman indeed.” He offers his son a private smile, and a rush of heat creeps into my cheeks. “Very well. Mr. Hackney, I’ll leave you to it.”
Mr. Hackney motions for us to follow him through a servants’ entrance hidden at the base of the stairwell. He keeps a brisk pace despite his age, and Mother leads our crew, her head held high. Behind me, a few servants bring up the rear, and through the cluster of bustling figures, I spot Will. When our eyes meet, I find no trace of amusement there—only sadness.
In that moment, his eyes tell me more about this new life—about this new world I’ve entered—than his words ever could. We may sleep beneath the same roof tonight, but when we wake, he will be Lord Castor and I, a kitchen maid. And though I dare not admit it, within the deepest confines of my heart, I share in his sadness.
I can’t stay here , I think as I’m led down a stuffy corridor. In the dim light, Albert takes my hand, walking alongside me.
“I miss Owen,” he says quietly.
I swallow around the lump in my throat. Tears sting my eyes. I can’t stay here. But I can’t leave my family, either. The others might understand my choice to flee, but Elsie and Albert… they’ve just lost Owen. They need time.
“Me too,” I whisper, squeezing Albert’s hand. “Me too.”