Chapter Seven
Father looks as if he’d been a servant at Bludgrave long before today. He moves about the kitchen like a dancer waltzing across a ballroom floor, just as I saw him do with Mother on starlit nights aboard the Lightbringer . He whirls, chopping this, tasting that, savoring the spices with such relish that, a few times, I catch myself watching him rather than tending to my duties.
I thought he was happy aboard the Lightbringer , but now I’m starting to wonder if he wasn’t always somewhat out of place in our tiny galley. As he rushes about in his white coat and blue-checkered pants, I have trouble picturing him lounging on the bowsprit of our ship, playing the fiddle, as if that image of him had come from a long-forgotten dream.
And still, once in a while, he forgets where he is, opening his mouth to bark an order at Owen before realizing he isn’t there. In this way, I think Father may be the only one who truly understands my grief. Mother, Charlie, the others—they miss him, but not like Father and me. Owen was an extension of our work. Cooking without him feels like trying to cut through bone with a dull knife.
“Martin found the poor thing at Hildegarde’s Folly,” I overhear Dorothy, one of the young maids, whispering to Sybil as they wash dishes together. Dorothy has been careful to avoid me all day, as it seems even the humans who live on land have been warned of the brutality of pirates—though I’ve no reason to harm her, aside from her constant fearful glances in my direction. A few times I’ve thought about strangling her with that black velvet ribbon she uses to tie up her dark silken hair, if only to show her just how easy it would be to do what she fears I will.
“They think it was a Gore that gutted little Dearest.” I don’t miss the skepticism in Dorothy’s tone, and it confirms my own theory as to why the staff have kept their distance since the groundskeeper discovered Annie’s disemboweled atroxis this morning.
They think it was me.
Fine , I think, twirling a paring knife. Let them fear me. I don’t need friends here; I have my family. Besides, this isn’t permanent. I’ll stay long enough to figure out how to track the Sylk that killed Owen, and then I’ll be on my way.
“A Gore?” Sybil croaks, dropping the plate she was drying. It shatters near my feet, and her eyes lock on mine. Just last night, she showed no signs of apprehension toward me, but as she bends to sweep up the broken pieces, her hands shake.
I set the paring knife down and kneel beside her, collecting bits of the plate and depositing them in her dustpan. “What’s a Gore?” I ask, softening my voice as best as I can, though it appears my mere proximity is enough to spook her.
“An Underling,” Sybil whispers, biting her lip as if the word itself might summon the creature. She stands, bows her head in thanks, and scurries to the trash bin.
I rise. “What’s the difference?” I ask Dorothy, who paused midwash to gawk at the exchange. “Sylks, Gores…”
Her eyes follow my hand as I reach for the paring knife. She gulps. “Sylks are shadows. They possess. Gores are”—she hesitates—“monsters. They consume.…” She averts her gaze, busies herself with the dishes once more. She doesn’t say the words, but I understand the implication nonetheless. I already knew the Underlings eat humans. I just didn’t realize there were so many kinds.
I make a mental note: Gores and Sylks are different types of Underlings. Sylks possess people; Gores eat them . I’ll need to know all I can about the Underlings if I’m to find the Sylk, and even more if I’m to kill it.
“What is this nonsense?” Mrs. Hackney strides through the doorway with Mother close behind, both dressed in matching long black gowns and white half aprons. “I will not tolerate talk of Gores in this household,” she says sharply, casting a warning glance at Dorothy. “If there were an Underling on the property, Lord Bludgrave would know about it. What happened to Lady Annie’s atroxis was unfortunate, but it seems most likely to be the work of a lone wolf wandering too close to the house—nothing more.”
I seek Mother’s eyes and find she’s already watching me, a reserved smile on her lips. There’s something pained about her expression, as if she were looking at me but seeing someone else. I dip my head, confident she’ll catch the subtle indication of meaning. I’m not going anywhere , I assure her.
I lower my eyes past the half-peeled potato in my grasp, to my wrist, where Owen’s bracelet forms a lump beneath my sleeve. Not yet.
“Who knew Father could cook like this?” Charlie lifts the lid off a silver platter, gaping at the dish of scalloped potatoes.
“Smells heavenly,” Lewis agrees, inhaling deeply.
“A chef is only as good as his tools.” Father whistles, garnishing the roast beef before motioning at Lewis to take the tray. “And your sister helped.”
I shrug, a slight grin tugging at my lips. “Not much.”
Charlie snorts. “Obviously.” He elbows me playfully, almost losing his grip on the platter teetering on his palm.
“Otherwise, the Castors would be dining on pickles and eggs,” Lewis chimes in, fidgeting with his uniform one last time before taking the tray from Father.
All the while, Mr. Hackney corrects their posture, critiquing their form. He fusses over Charlie’s rumpled collar but praises Lewis’s finely pressed waistcoat. Meanwhile, he scolds Lewis for his indolent stance—“Hold your head high, boy. Shoulders back!”—but commends Charlie on his deft maneuvering as the crowded kitchen bustles with activity.
I try my best to stay out of everyone’s way, observing the other servants as they scramble to collect their trays and follow commands. For a moment, noting the shrewd way Mr. and Mrs. Hackney govern the staff, doling out pride and correction with equal fervor, I’m reminded of Mother and Father aboard the Lightbringer . They’re like a family , I think. A crew.
I’d learned from Jack that most of what’s left of the staff are either too young, like Sybil, or too old to be drafted. Though over the age of fifteen, Jack, as the sole survivor of his bloodline, was exempted from service. Dorothy—sixteen and quick on her feet—provides for her sick mother back home, and Martin, the groundskeeper, is missing an arm. From what I’ve seen, all three would have been formidable members of the Lightbringer ’s crew, but while the League is keen on drafting human fodder into their ranks—and would more than likely conscript them in spite of their circumstances—Lord Bludgrave secured “special provisions” that spared the three from military service.
“You, girl,” Mrs. Hackney snaps, beckoning me with a stern look. Beside her stands Margaret, looking poised and contrite—not at all like the rough, calloused sailor I share blood with.
I didn’t even notice Margaret enter the room, since she changed out of her new cotton dress and into a plain black-and-white uniform like my own. Her formerly wild brown hair is neat and coiffured, and her cheeks and lips are pink with rouge. I cover my mouth to hide a laugh, and her brows shoot up, threatening me into silence. But where I didn’t notice her until now, Jack, who lingers near the side door, can’t help staring. Margaret’s face flushes bright red, and this time, I outright chuckle.
This earns me another stern look from Mrs. Hackney, but even the old woman stifles a smile as she hands me a pair of white gloves. “You’ll be serving dessert tonight. Follow Dorothy’s lead, and remember you are to be seen, not heard. And whenever appropriate, you are not to be seen at all. Understood?”
“Yes, Mrs. Hackney,” Margaret and I say in unison.
I take in Dorothy’s instructions with an addled mind. It was only yesterday that I rode through town with Will, and yet I feel as if it had been a week. As I follow Margaret through the servants’ hall, my heart pounds in my chest. Will he even look at me? Will it be more humiliating if he does? Would I rather he ignore me altogether?
All day, through every task, my thoughts have wandered to Will. So many times I’ve wanted to barge through that green baize door and demand an explanation: Why did he take Owen’s bracelet, and why did he wait until last night to leave it on my pillow? Why not leave mine as well? And more than once, the thought has crossed my mind: He was in my room . How infuriating that he should have the right to enter my quarters, when his are forbidden to me. But rage isn’t supposed to set my stomach aflutter. Get it together, Aster.
Before I can collect myself, we enter the dining room.
“Close your mouth,” Dorothy hisses discreetly, and my jaw snaps shut.
I do as Dorothy instructs and avoid looking directly at the family. Instead, my eyes wander to the crisp, snow-white linen adorning the table, littered with a militia of silverware and delicate tableware laced in gold. Mrs. Hackney called on us before the crack of dawn, taking pains to show us from room to room, ensuring we knew our way around the house via hidden passageways, but the dining room looks nothing like it had this morning. The candelabras cast flickering shadows on the heavy velvet curtains, and Mr. Hackney stands at attention near the sideboard, a decanter of wine in his hands. Around the table, the conversation is subdued, and out of the corner of my eye, I glimpse Lady Isabelle dressed in her finery, a tiara perched atop her elaborate updo.
I feel Will’s presence before I see him. Just two weeks ago, I plunged headfirst into battle without a second thought, armed to the teeth with knives and pistols, but standing here now, with only a dish of pudding in my hands, I can’t seem to calm the frenzied beating of my heart.
The young lord sits opposite his mother, a tuxedo clinging to his lithe figure. As I place the dish in front of him, he glances up at me, and I’m caught. Held captive by the candlelight dancing in his eyes. Ensnared by the sincerity that creases his forehead, transfixed by the tiny line that forms between his brows as his mouth parts to fit words he doesn’t say.
For a moment, I think he may apologize. And in that same instant, I think I may want him to—may even accept it.
Will closes his mouth, his expression nettled.
Heat floods my face, and I turn away. What is wrong with me? He doesn’t care about my feelings. He probably just wants me to move along, and instead, I stand there gaping at him like a proper idiot.
Why is it that every time I see him, it suddenly feels more difficult to hate him?
I steel myself and seek out Annie, bracing for another vision of blood or of wisps of shadow seeping from her flesh, but there’s nothing harrowing about her appearance. Thank the Stars. What was I prepared to do if I saw the Sylk hovering over her shoulder? Would I cut down a little girl—a girl of Elsie’s age—because she was unlucky enough to be possessed?
No. But would I let the Sylk get away?
Could I?
“How are you settling in, dear?” Lady Isabelle’s soothing voice halts me midstep as I attempt to flee the dining room with the final shred of my dignity intact. From what Dorothy told me, I didn’t expect an interaction with the lady of the house, and I’m sorely unprepared.
“Just fine,” I answer as meekly as I can manage, knitting my hands behind my back to keep from clenching my fists.
“And you?” Lady Isabelle addresses Margaret, who responds with an all-too-natural half curtsy.
“Very well, my lady.”
My lady … Was I supposed to say that?
“Ah, Philip,” Lord Bludgrave booms, taking a bundle of parchment from his coat pocket.
Father enters the dining room in his dirty apron, looking even more out of place in the velvet-swagged dining room than I feel. “You sent for me, my lord?”
“Do stay.” Lady Isabelle raises a delicate finger, hindering my leave-taking once more as I begin to make my way toward the servants’ passage. By the look on Mr. Hackney’s face, the whole ordeal is unexpected and not at all proper, but from what I’ve overheard from the other servants, the Castors are notorious for breaking all manner of social norms.
Lord Bludgrave proves thus as he stands up from the table, approaching Father with the bundle of parchment in hand. “I must say,” he starts, his charcoal eyes brimming with admiration, “I haven’t enjoyed a feast such as this in quite some time. Wherever did you learn to cook?”
Father glances at me, smiles graciously. “Always had a knack for it, I suppose.”
Lord Bludgrave, visibly intrigued, doesn’t look satisfied with the answer, but he doesn’t press. “A knack for it, indeed.” He beams as he extends the papers toward Father. “I do apologize for creating a fuss, but Lady Isabelle insisted I not wait a minute longer.”
Father unrolls the parchment, his brows knitted.
“I’m aware this is all very sudden,” Lord Bludgrave continues, “but there are certain items that must be addressed before you and your family can make Bludgrave your permanent residence. You are acquainted with the King’s Marque, are you not?”
Father nods slowly, cutting his eyes at me as if warning me to hold my tongue. The King’s Marque: the brand of the Eerie. Identification papers to be stamped and approved by a governing lord that detail a human’s right to work, live, and travel within the country. For a pirate, it’s more than a pardon—it’s a formal declaration that states the recipient’s abnegation of piracy and its irrevocable Creed. I knew that if we stayed here, we would have to sign the papers, but Will promised me time to think things over.
I glare at the back of Will’s head, digging my nails into my palms. To his left, Annie peers over the back of her chair, her big green eyes pleading as if I were the one holding the King’s Marque, not Father. Across from her, Henry examines his pudding with thinly veiled disgust, and beside him, Lady Isabelle watches Father, a sweet smile on her thin ruby-red lips.
Lord Bludgrave gives Father a pen. “You don’t have to sign them just yet. But I certainly hope you will consider making Bludgrave your home.”
I implore Father to look at me, but without a moment to waste, Father signs the papers, folds them, and presents them to Lord Bludgrave. Only after Lord Bludgrave tucks them into his coat and takes his seat once more does Father glance at me, his kind eyes offering an unspoken apology. I want nothing more than to storm from the dining room and find Mother, but I know it would do me no good. This was a decision they made together, a decision they made without asking me what I wanted.
Quit acting like a child , I scold myself. This is for the good of the whole family. Even if it feels as if I’m watching the Lightbringer sink all over again. Even if it means turning my back on everything I’ve ever known.
My eyes meet Margaret’s on the other side of the table, just over Lady Isabelle’s shoulder. But I don’t see any of my grief mirrored in her expression. Only pity.
Am I truly the only one who sees this place for what it really is? A prison. And these people—the Castors—our jailers.
Lord Bludgrave shakes hands with Father, and Lady Isabelle dismisses Margaret and me as Charlie and Lewis enter the dining room to collect the empty trays. As Margaret rounds the table, Henry shifts in his seat, stretching his leg to block her path. She trips, catching herself on hands and knees, and in an instant, Father, Charlie, Lewis, and I start toward the table. But before Charlie can reach her, Lord Bludgrave is on his feet again, helping Margaret to stand.
If looks could kill, Henry would be dead.
“Apologize,” Lord Bludgrave demands.
Henry ignores him, lifting his glass of wine to drink. Just before it reaches his lips, it catches fire, but all he does is roll his eyes. He slams the glass down, sloshing wine onto the white linen tablecloth—much to the chagrin of Mr. Hackney, who seems eager to mend the stain. Lady Isabelle raises a hand, signaling for Mr. Hackney to wait. With only a look, Lord Bludgrave extinguishes the flames before they can singe the tablecloth further, but Mr. Hackney looks as if he was just slapped.
Henry casts a hostile glance toward Margaret. “Sorry,” he grumbles.
Lord Bludgrave bristles. “Go to your room,” he barks, any trace of warmth gone from his face. “I will deal with you later.”
Henry stands and shoulders past Margaret. Neither Charlie nor Lewis move, but their eyes follow Henry to the door, intent on him like two sharks watching a guppy. Father signed us over into their service only a minute ago, and already my family is being forced to adapt to this new way of life. At sea, Margaret wouldn’t have hesitated to slice Henry from chest to navel, and if she didn’t, Charlie or Lewis would have done it gladly.
And Owen… he would have had his own way of dealing with Henry.
“My sincerest apologies,” Lord Bludgrave says, his warmth returning, but it’s too late—I can’t unsee the ferocity that took its place. “I can assure you, my son’s deed will not go unpunished.”
Margaret dips her head, masterly maintaining her composure. “My fault entirely, my lord.”
As she shuffles from the dining room, our brothers and Father close behind, I feel as if I’ve lost more than Owen, more than the Lightbringer , more than my freedom. I’m losing them, too.
Margaret doesn’t stop once we reach the kitchen. I follow her outside, onto the west lawn, peeling the white gloves from my hands.
“Margaret—” I start, reaching out to touch her shoulder.
She shrugs me off, her arms crossed. “Leave me alone,” she mutters, storming away from the house.
“Sister, please,” I say, grabbing her by the arm. “I hate it here, too. We don’t have to stay. We can still find the Red Island!”
She whirls to face me, her eyes narrow. “Don’t you get it? This”—she gestures at the house—“is far better than anything we could ever have hoped for. The Red Island was just another story—something Mother and Father allowed you and Owen to work toward to keep up your spirits. This is real. How could you actually consider leaving your family behind?”
I’m the one getting left behind , I cry inwardly, but I don’t dare say the words aloud. Just then, I spot Jack headed our way, his face smudged with dirt.
“How’d it go?” he asks, brushing hay from his shirt. His grin fades as he nears us. “Let me guess—Henry?”
Margaret huffs, and I nod stiffly.
“I was thinking of going for a walk.” Jack tilts his head at the orchard. “Care to join me?”
“You two go.” Without giving either of them a chance to argue, I slip back inside the house.
In the kitchen, Father stands near the stove, pinching the bridge of his nose, his face drawn. He looks up at me, his features softening.
“Aster, please,” he says, his voice quiet. “You have to understand. Think of Elsie—don’t you want her to be safe?”
“Safe?” My eyes widen. “Surrounded by Nightweavers?”
“The Castors will protect us—”
“We can protect ourselves!”
He frowns. “Your mother and I agreed this was the best course of action. I’ve already talked to your brothers and sisters—they’re willing to give this a try.”
My chest tightens. “But you didn’t ask me?”
Something akin to shame flickers in his gaze. “I knew if I spoke to you earlier, you would have—”
“I would have what ?” I say around the emotion clogging my throat. “I would have told you how much I hate it here? How badly I want to leave? I’m sorry if my misery would have made it harder for you to say yes to Lord Bludgrave.”
He places a hand on my shoulder as if to pull me into an embrace. “Aster—”
I shrug out of his grasp, stepping out of his reach, not wanting to hear whatever he says next. I flee from the kitchen, up the stairs, down the hall, even as I hear Father call my name again.
It’s too late. Just like that, Father and Mother have sealed our fate. And yet, by the looks on Charlie’s and Lewis’s faces when I passed them breaking bread with Martin and the chauffeur downstairs, they seem to have been celebrating. As if our being captured, sold off, and inducted into service were a victory. As if our life before was an insufferable trial and not the glorious adventure I knew it to be.
The instant I step foot into my room, a hand clutches my throat, slamming my back against the door. Just as quickly, I twist, bringing my elbow down hard, and break free, but the force of it throws me farther into the room.
Henry stands between me and the door, his lip curled.
I think of the knapsack hidden under my bed—the pocketknife. But the weight of my apron jogs my memory. I plunge my hand into the apron, grabbing hold of the butter knife I stashed away aboard the train.
Henry chuckles mirthlessly. “When will you humans understand?” With a twitch of his fingers, a fiery sensation seizes my hand, and I drop the knife. The pain spreads from my hands into my arms, then down into my legs, bringing me to my knees. I cry out, but the sensation needles its way into my brain, forcing my mouth shut.
Henry crouches in front of me, close enough to strangle if I weren’t paralyzed by the fire raging within. He cocks his head, and his voice is low, dripping with malice. “I could end you with a single look.”
Then do it , I think. My life is over. There’s nothing left for me—on land, at sea. I can’t stay here, but I can’t leave. This is my only way out—death my only escape. Do it. Please. Let me be with Owen.
“Truthfully, I wasn’t expecting you.” He rises, smoothing his brocade vest. The jagged scar that cuts from his temple down his neck makes his face look as though it is split in two. “No matter.” He twitches a finger, and a sharp pain rents my skull. “You and I will have some fun while we wait.”
A spasm racks my body, setting every nerve ablaze. Black spots edge my vision. This is it. This is how I die. I’m ready for it. I give in to the pain, welcoming it.
I’m here, Aster. I know I must be dying, because I hear Owen’s voice as if he were standing above me. And then, louder, as if he were whispering in my ear, I’m here .
I’ll be with you soon , I promise, closing my eyes.
And then, just like that, the pain is gone. When I open my eyes again, Henry is on the floor in front of me, his body rigid.
Will towers in the doorway, a hand outstretched. “Father wishes to see you,” he says, his voice gruff. He contracts his fingers, and Henry’s joints crack, pitching him onto his feet. “I wouldn’t keep him waiting.”
Will relaxes his hand and shoves it into his pocket, but a muscle in his jaw tightens. His eyes follow Henry’s every movement with rapturous attention.
Henry shakes himself. “She’s a pirate ,” he hisses. “She deserves worse than she got.” With one last hate-filled glance at me, he shoulders past Will. A moment later, the green baize door slams.
Will starts toward me but must think better of it. There is no amusement in his eyes but rather a deep intelligence I didn’t notice before—intense and calculating, searching me in the way I saw him study a landscape. And a reluctance, as if he were looking for something he hoped he wouldn’t find.
“Did he hurt you?”
My hands rove my skin, remembering the fiery sensation. “What was that?”
Will frowns. “Henry takes after my father. They have an affinity for heat—light, electricity. We call them firebreathers.” He bends slightly, but I scramble backward, using my bed frame to pull myself onto my feet.
Firebreathers. That explains what happened with Henry’s wineglass at dinner—and why he said he could end me with a single look. Months ago, Elsie told me she was studying anatomy from one of the books Charlie stole off a merchant ship. She said “scientists” in Jade discovered electricity in our brains decades ago. With his deadly magic, Henry could have flipped the switch in the blink of an eye. So why didn’t he?
Will chews at his bottom lip, takes a step back, and surveys the room. His eyes linger on the pillow atop my bed, and then on my wrist—on Owen’s bracelet. “Aster, at dinner—”
I don’t give him a chance to finish. I kneel, snatch the knapsack from beneath my bed, and hurry past him, into the hall. I set a deliberate pace, but he follows close behind, chasing me down the stairs, into the kitchen, and out onto the west lawn. Dorothy, Sybil, and Martin watch us go, frozen in shock. Let them see , I think bitterly. It doesn’t matter what they think of me. Come tomorrow, I’ll be long gone.
I refuse to stay here, pandering to the whims of Nightweavers. I am Aster Oberon, and despite what the King’s Marque states, I am a pirate, through and through. I always will be.
When I reach the stables, I whirl, facing Will head-on. “You said you wouldn’t stop me. You gave me your word.”
Will doesn’t look at me but at the iron gate in the distance, guarded by two figures in red livery. “I said my guards wouldn’t stop you. I , on the other hand…”
That settles it. It’s been too long since I stabbed someone.
I turn and enter the stables, my sights set on the wall of rakes and shears. Just as I reach for the sharpest tool I can find, Will tackles me, his hand covering my mouth. We land in a pile of hay inside Caligo’s open stall. I struggle to break free, but Will holds a finger to his lips, the weight of his body pinning me beneath him.
“… tripped me.” I hear Margaret’s voice approaching and fall still. “You should have seen Aster—I thought she might filet him with a butter knife.”
“I’d pay to see that.” Jack laughs, halting at the door to the stables. “I’ve known Henry my whole life, and it seems like he was on his best behavior tonight.” Then, in a softer voice, he adds, “You can’t blame her for wanting to go.”
“I know, I just—” Margaret sighs. “I never wanted any of this, either. But here we are. And, as strange as it is, I’m happy. I just wish she could be happy, too.”
Will’s eyes flit to mine. He peels back his hand, but he doesn’t move and risk alerting them to our hiding place, and neither do I.
I hate the way his warm breath on my cheek sends a shiver down my spine—hate the way my gaze drops to his lips, parting slightly on a breath. There was a time when I thought being this close to a Nightweaver would have meant certain death—for one of us, at least. But now, my traitorous muscles relax beneath him, all thoughts of hatred as fleeting as forgotten words on the tip of my tongue.
“Do you really think she’ll leave?” Jack asks.
“If I know my sister, she’s probably already gone.”
There’s a long silence, and I avoid Will’s gaze.
Margaret sighs. “I should get back to the house.”
“Oh—oh, right. Of—of course,” Jack stammers. “Good night, Miss Margaret.”
There’s a sound as if she’s kissed him on the cheek. “Good night, Jack,” Margaret calls, the squish of her footsteps fading.
A minute passes. Jack clears his throat. Over Will’s shoulder, he leans against the stall door, shaking his head.
“You’re early,” Jack says, folding his arms.
Will rolls off me, and we both sit in the hay, neither one of us speaking. He watches me out of the corner of his eye, but I stare at my flats, encrusted with fresh mud, as Jack disappears around the corner. He returns a moment later, a picnic basket in tow.
Will sighs softly, gets to his feet, and takes the basket from Jack. “I want to show you something,” he says, fastening the picnic basket to Caligo’s saddle. He pulls himself onto the horse’s back and holds out his hand to me. “When we return, you can take Caligo if you still want to leave.”
I glance at Jack, who gives me a hopeful look. I purse my lips, eyes narrowed at Will. “And you won’t stop me?”
Will dips his head, looking wicked. “You have my word.”