Nightweaver #1

Chapter Six

A green baize door is all that stands between my quarters and Will’s—or so says the maid Sybil. She can’t be more than three years older than Albert—fourteen, maybe—but as she lights the lamp in the quarters off the upstairs hallway that Margaret and I are to share, I note the stiffness in her back when she straightens.

“Used to be more of us,” she mumbles, staring wistfully down the long hall. Her forehead creases, and she sighs. “Suppose I should consider myself lucky.” She brightens a bit, adding, “It’ll be nice to have more people around again.”

Before I can think to ask about Percy’s comment concerning Bludgrave’s staff—about the draft—the furtive shuffle of Sybil’s footsteps fades down the hall.

Margaret flings herself onto one of the two narrow cots, snuggling the pillow close to her chest. “A pillow , Aster!” she squeals. “And beds! Can you believe it?”

Margaret? Squealing with excitement? “I can’t.”

“I’ve always dreamed of this, you know.” Her voice drops to a whisper, and in the dim flicker of candlelight, I’m shocked to find her eyes are wet with tears. “My own bed…”

She closes her eyes, and for a moment, I stand perfectly still, watching the rise and fall of her chest. Margaret—warrior of the seas, terror of the tides—drifting off to sleep with Nightweavers only a few steps away.

“Owen would want you to be happy,” Margaret murmurs, almost too quietly for me to hear.

My mouth works as I search for the words I can’t seem to find. “I know,” I whisper finally, but Margaret’s only reply is a gruff snore.

I take in the room, trying my best to glimpse what Margaret sees in this place. A narrow cot and thick blankets in lieu of a hammock and rags, an empty trunk, a rickety table with a basin for washing up. Life at sea was short on amenities. We cared little about staying clean, focusing instead on keeping sharp, being prepared for anything. But I’m not prepared for this. There may be comforts I’d never dream of, but I’d trade the roof over my head for a view of the stars—for my freedom.

I seek my reflection in the looking glass atop the table. Aboard the Lightbringer , my dark brown hair was tangled and matted, my clothes were tattered and stank of bilge water, and my skin was coated with all matter of mud and blood. Still, I looked strong. Healthy. Happy. Now, with my hair pulled into a tight braid, my plain black uniform pressed and clean, I look frail, my skin lifeless and dull, and the circles around my eyes are darker than they have ever been. I think, with a stab in my chest, that Owen wouldn’t even recognize me.

Careful not to wake Margaret, I slip out into the empty hall. We took our supper downstairs, where Mr. and Mrs. Hackney gave a brief overview of our duties, but I could hardly hear them over the buzzing in my head. We had barely arrived and already I was planning my escape. While the others scarfed down stew and rolls, I memorized the layout of the servants’ routes. Down the stairs, left, right, left again, and out the side door onto the west lawn. Stepping out under cover of nightfall is a small liberty, but I feel like a trapped animal breaking out of a cramped cage. I breathe in the fresh air, savoring the musk of fallen rain.

“Going somewhere?”

Jack leans against the exterior wall, his cap pulled low to cover his eyes.

In the distance, tucked between the folds of lush green hills, the lights of Ink Haven twinkle like fireflies. Where can I go? It’s half a day’s journey by train back to the coast, and then what? As Will said, I risk capture—or worse. Only this time, I would be separated from my family.

Behind me, Bludgrave shelters everyone I hold dear. At sea, it was only a matter of time before we were captured by an enemy clan—before another one of us was taken by the Deathwail . We had only one another, and I knew that eventually that wouldn’t be enough. At least here, we can all be together. We have lived a life of hardship , Mother whispered in my ear as she hugged me good night. It is time our family knew peace.

My heart sinks, and I turn my head so that Jack can’t see the tears that spill onto my cheeks. Owen is at peace now. So why can’t I let him go?

Before I know it, I’m running.

“Aster!” Jack calls after me, but I don’t turn around.

I sprint across the lawn, the soft earth giving way beneath me. I kick off the stiff, uncomfortable flats, and my bare feet sink into the mud. Was it only this morning that we were marched from the Nightweaver ship? Only today that Captain Shade extended his hand to me, offering me my freedom? It already feels like a lifetime has passed. And longer still since I sat in the galley with Owen, watching him shuffle a deck of cards with ease; an eternity since I heard him laughing, since I saw his kind eyes, his cheeky grin.

We’re so close , he said just a few weeks before the Nightweavers’ attack, jabbing a finger at the map stretched out before us. He circled an uncharted region of the Dire. If we can just convince Mother and Father to go deeper, into the heart of the Dire… I can feel it. The Red Island is in our reach.

And we’ll be safe , I put in.

Owen nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on the scar at my throat. On the Red Island, we’ll never go hungry. We’ll live like kings and queens. You’ll see—you’ll not want for anything. No clan will be our enemy. We’ll stand together to protect the paradise set aside for us.

The Red Island, a pirate sanctuary, where we wouldn’t have to kill to survive—wouldn’t have to murder our fellow humans for bread to eat. It all seems so far away now. Owen’s dream— our dream—is no longer in reach. I crumple to the ground, choking down sobs.

Jack is at my side a moment later, panting for breath. “Aster, I—” He breaks off, wheezing for air. “You’re pretty fast, you know that?”

I look up at him, his hands on his knees, his chest heaving. He slides the strap of a raggedy brown knapsack off his shoulder. “Will asked me to give you this,” he says, offering it to me.

I wipe my face with the back of my hand and take the knapsack. Inside is a map, a canteen, a block of hard cheese, two loaves of bread, a compass, a wicked-looking pocketknife, a box of matches, and a pouch of gold coins.

“Thought you’d try to run,” Jack explains, lifting his cap to scratch his head.

I slowly stand, pulling the drawstring tight. I secure the knapsack over my shoulder, fixing my gaze on the looming tree line in the distance, cradled in the mouth of the valley. I could take my chances in the wild. I could try to make my way to the coast, commandeer a small vessel and set sail. I could find the Red Island by myself.

Stop being selfish. I can almost hear Owen’s voice in my mind, chiding me. Our family needs you. Elsie and Albert need you.

No , I argue. They need you .

I need you.…

A few feet away, Jack collects my shoes, now caked with mud. “You won’t make it very far with bare feet.” He lets out a low, dramatic sigh. “Follow me.” He takes off past me, toward the stables, where a single lantern gutters in the window. “There might be an extra pair of boots lying around.”

I follow him, but I hang back at the door, wrinkling my nose. The Lightbringer had its own familiar stench, but it was nothing like this.

Jack laughs, waving me inside. “You’ll get used to it,” he says. And then, as if remembering why we came here, he adds, “I mean, you would, if…”

I roll my eyes, taking a few reluctant steps to appease my own curiosity. Stalls line either side of the brick path, littered with hay. I spot Caligo immediately, his black coat dappled by the moonlight streaming in through the skylight. In the stall beside him, a white mare appears to glow silver from within, and at the crown of her head, a twisted horn tapers off to a sharp point.

“Is that…?” I try to remember what Elsie called the creature from her little book of Myths. She was obsessed with the creatures—malevolent or not, she knew them each by name. I preferred the stories Mother and Father told us about the Stars—the brave humans who earned their place in the celestial sea above through daring feats and altruistic deeds. Now I wish I paid closer attention to what Elsie had to say.

Jack busies himself with cleaning my flats, dunking them in a bucket of water and scrubbing the mud with a hard-bristled brush. He jerks his chin at the white mare. “A unicorn,” he says. “I thought you seafaring folk dealt with your own fair share of Myths?”

“Different kinds,” I murmur, entranced by the unicorn’s beauty. At sea, Myths were to be feared—great serpents that could splinter a ship into pieces, or mammoth fish capable of swallowing a vessel whole. I never saw one for myself, but Owen once claimed he spotted a type of overgrown sea-horse—a hippocampus , he called it—one of the few benevolent Myths that shared our vast ocean. That means I’ll have good luck for the rest of my days , he said. I can’t help wondering if he actually saw a hippocampus or if he simply was wrong about the luck it would bring him.

“If you change your mind,” Jack says, handing me my steeped flats, “I could teach you to ride. Most of the time, Thea here only lets Annie take her out.” He cuts his eyes at the unicorn and lowers his voice, adding in mock reverence, “‘ Unicorns can only be ridden by those pure of heart ’—and all that.”

He turns, rummages through a nearby trunk. A moment later, he retrieves a scuffed pair of knee-high leather boots.

“These should fit.” He extends them to me, but I stare down at the flats dripping water onto my bare feet.

“Is it difficult?” I ask, surveying the wall of various saddles and equipment. “Riding a horse.”

He shrugs, patting Caligo’s muzzle. “Not nearly as difficult as sailing a ship, I’d think.”

I stare at Caligo, looking deep into his dark eyes. I glance at the boots. Owen wouldn’t run away , I scold myself. He’d learn to ride. He’d work with Father in the kitchen. He’d make the best of all this. He’d find the Underling who tore our family apart and send it back to the pits of the Burning Lands where it belongs.

“If you teach me how to ride,” I say, slipping my feet into the squishy flats, “I’ll put in a good word for you—with Margaret, I mean.”

He blushes scarlet, dropping the boots. “So you’ll stay?”

I start for the door, the knapsack suddenly heavy on my shoulder. “It depends.” I hear the trunk open and close behind me, and a moment later Jack bounds to my side. “What can you tell me about the Castors?”

Jack leans against the doorpost, sweeping his arms out wide. “What do you want to know?”

“Where do I start?” I settle against the opposite post, letting the bag slide to the ground. “Humans love them; Nightweavers hate them—”

“They fear them.” Jack’s boyish smile turns grim. “The Castors are Eerie nobility—members of the king and queen’s royal, inner court. Nobility control the distribution of Manan .” His playful grin returns, and he puts the same mock reverence back into his tone. “‘They giveth, and they taketh away.’”

So the Castors control Manan , and Nightweavers like Percy depend on Manan for power. Power and control: The Castors have what every Nightweaver seeks. Yet they are not cruel. Not as I thought they’d be.

My gaze wanders to the stars, seeking comfort in the constellations I memorized as a child—Talia the Archer, Paul and His Ten Sparrows, Ugo the Dragon, Titus and the Twelve Keys. “What is Manan exactly?” I ask quietly, thinking back to what Will said on the train, about their dominion over it.

Jack follows my eyes, but there’s puzzlement in his gaze, as if the sky were a mystery, not a friend. “My mother once called it the stuff of souls.” He shrugs. “I’m not even sure where it comes from—no one is. It’s the royals’ best-kept secret.”

“ Gurash-vedil …,” I breathe, thinking back on all I heard of the mysterious substance—dust that was said to be the color of pure gold. My whole life, I only ever thought it was an invisible force the Nightweavers could control. I thought the glittering, golden dust was no more than a Myth—a way for humans to describe the unseen.

Jack nods, shoving his hands into his pockets. “The Nightweavers used to consume it like sugar—in their tea, in their food. Some of them snorted it. Deadly to us humans, though. Didn’t stop the occasional human from giving it a go.” He clears his throat. “Been a shortage as of late. Even the nobles are having trouble getting their hands on it.”

“Then it’s true?” I ask. “It’s what gives them their magic?”

“Not quite.” He purses his lips and glances at me curiously. “You do know why they’re called Nightweavers, don’t you?”

I shake my head, a tad embarrassed, but Jack isn’t the least bit condescending in his answer.

“The common word for night comes from the ancient word Manan .”

The unseen. I take up the bag, sling it over my shoulder. “They control the unseen.”

“They manipulate it,” he corrects me. “A small supply of Manan exists in all things. Nightweavers pull at the strings—the Manan —that make up the fabric of the universe.”

I start toward the house, keeping a leisurely pace, cherishing these last few minutes outside. “And the actual dust…”

“Works like a drug.” He follows alongside me, hands in his pockets. “It enhances their magic—focuses it. Makes them stronger.”

“More powerful.”

“Exactly.”

I glance at him sideways. “You’re smarter than you look.”

“And you’re not half as unpleasant as I thought you’d be.”

I thrust an elbow into his side. “Give it some time.”

“Then I guess you ought to stick around.” He nudges my shoulder, and before I know it, we’re both laughing. It feels as if I’ve known Jack my whole life, and we’ve only just met. Maybe this won’t be so bad , I think. Maybe I can be happy here, too.

It’s as if the very thought brings with it the weight of Owen’s absence, even heavier than before. And then I realize—Jack’s easy way, his teasing—he reminds me of Owen.

How can I be happy when Owen is dead?

Jack must notice the change in me, because he’s no longer laughing, either. “I heard about—” He breaks off, shakes his head, tries again. “I’m sorry—your brother—”

“Jack.” I cut him off gently, rubbing at the bare skin of my wrist. “We’re pirates. A long life isn’t part of the bargain.”

I think back to the battle, the memory like a fresh, bleeding wound. The vibration of the cannons still resonates in my teeth; the tang of gunpowder lingers in my nostrils.

“It was Will who called off the attack,” Jack says, drawing me out of my thoughts. “He wrote that with the captain dead, it was his responsibility to have your family executed, but he insisted on taking you all prisoner. Told the officers he wanted to reform you,” he adds with a playful lilt.

“I’d like to see him try,” I mutter. If only Will hit me a bit harder, I’d be with Owen. I would never know the pain of living without him.

But I would never know Will, either. The Underling led me to him—but why? Will protected us, kept us together. He brought us into his home. He put his family’s reputation on the line to give us a fresh start.

Mercy is never free —that same nagging refrain burrows deep into my heart. And again I wonder, what does he stand to gain?

“Annie?” Jack’s eyes narrow. He takes an abrupt left and heads toward a glistening, moonlit pond, where the little girl shuffles along the bank. “Annie?” he calls urgently. “Are you all right?”

Annie makes her way toward the house, having emerged from a folly on the other side of the pond. It must be a trick of the light, because at first, a network of cracks in the stone columns appears to be oozing blood. But when I look again, the domed structure is whole and bloodless, bathing in a pool of silver radiance.

Annie doesn’t react to Jack’s call. Her eyes are dull and glazed, her orderly gait uninterrupted. We intercept her at the edge of the lawn, among the rosebushes, but she walks right past us as if we weren’t even there. Only when Jack grabs her by the arm and gives her a shake does she seem to stir from her trance.

“Annie?” Jack’s voice is hoarse as he holds up her hands, wet with blood.

“I was looking for Dearest…,” she mumbles, almost as if she were half asleep. Then suddenly, coming awake, she lets out a piercing cry. “Dearest! Oh, Dearest!” She collapses into Jack’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably.

His throat bobs, and he glances up at me. “The atroxis,” he mouths.

“Where is Dearest now?” I ask, my voice trembling.

Annie wails, burying her face in Jack’s shoulder. “I don’t know!” she cries. “I don’t know!”

A few lights flicker in the upstairs windows. Jack hoists Annie onto his hip.

“I’ll get her inside,” he says, looking harried. “Maybe you should try to get some sleep.”

We part ways at the west entrance, but as I make my way up the stairs, down the long hall, I can’t shake the image of the columns dripping blood, nor Annie’s crimson hands. Could I have been wrong? Had the Sylk possessed Annie after all?

I pause at the green baize door, my heart hammering in my chest. Annie’s crying will surely wake the entire house—if it hasn’t already. Is Will just on the other side of this door, wondering if Jack delivered the knapsack to me? Does he think I’m long gone? With all the commotion, he’ll be so worried for Annie I doubt he’ll even stop to consider my absence.

I slink into my room, expecting Margaret to be awake, but the lamp has burned out, and she’s still snoring just as loudly as she was when I left. She could sleep through anything. But I doubt I’ll get much sleep—if any.

I shove the knapsack underneath my cot, where I could grab it at a moment’s notice. I can still leave this place , I tell myself. I can still run away.

As I pull back the blankets and sink onto the cot, I’m certain I must be seeing things—a trick of my mind, like the bloody folly I imagined minutes before. But when I reach out to touch the small, dark shape resting atop my pillow, my fingers brush braided leather, the material slightly frayed.

Owen’s trinket.

Blinking back tears, I slide Owen’s bracelet onto my left wrist and hold it close to my beating heart.

In the pitch blackness, I picture Owen—his kind eyes, his warm smile. Even here, in this strange, foreign place, he is with me. I’ll carry his trinket as a constant reminder: I will find the Underling who took him from me, and when I do, I will show no mercy.

When my head hits the pillow, my muscles sigh with relief. Exhaustion weighs heavy on my eyelids, but I stare up at the ceiling, my mind racing. Will took Owen’s bracelet that night aboard the ship; I’m sure of it, now. But why wait until tonight to return it to me? And why not return mine along with it? I ask myself again and again, but I already know the answer.

He wanted me to stay. He hoped I would.

But why ? I don’t care that he’s shown my family mercy. I’ll never trust him. I’ll never forgive him or his kind for what they’ve done to humans. If carving his heart from his chest earned me my freedom, I wouldn’t hesitate to drive a blade through his ribs.

Wouldn’t I?

As I listen to Margaret’s snoring, Owen’s bracelet secure on my wrist, I think that despite the disturbing encounter with Annie, despite the green baize door that stands between us… I might not hate Will as much as I thought I would—as much as I should hate him.

And maybe I hate myself a little for that, too.

A gust of cool air hits my face, drawing me out of my thoughts. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I struggle to make out a square grate in the ceiling, about the size of a large book. Through the slits in the brass, I think I see a pair of glowing red eyes peering down at me. Fear seizes me, and for a moment, all I can do is stare back into eyes that promise death as surely as a sinking ship. But I blink and the eyes vanish, leaving me gazing into the starless depths of darkness, wondering if I’ve lost more than just my home, my brother, my life before. Wondering…

Have I lost my mind, too?