Chapter Eight
With my eyes closed, the wind pulling strands of hair free from my braid, I can almost pretend I’m back aboard the Lightbringer . I keep one arm hooked around Will’s waist and one hand on the knapsack, my thoughts racing. Can I really leave here without saying goodbye to my family? What will Mother and Father think of me? I imagine Elsie and Albert hearing the news that I’ve gone: Albert’s wailing cry, Elsie’s stubborn tears. It’s better that I leave , I tell myself for the twentieth time. They probably won’t even miss me. After all, Father didn’t even include me in the decision to stay.
We pass Hildegarde’s Folly, the pale stone pillars of the strange, domed structure awash with moonlight, and enter a tunnel of apple trees in the northern orchard. At the other end of the long tunnel, in a clearing of dense wood, a conservatory stands alone, trimmed in white lattice and hidden from prying eyes.
Will dismounts Caligo and starts toward the conservatory without offering me a hand. I remain in the saddle, feeling more unsure of myself than when Owen first taught me how to climb the rigging aboard the Lightbringer .
“Oh?” He turns, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I just thought…?”
I roll my eyes, swinging my leg over the saddle as I saw him do, but my foot gets caught in the stirrup. My stomach plummets as I fall—right into Will’s arms.
He sets me gently on my feet, his dark green eyes locked on mine. “You can’t do everything on your own, Aster,” he breathes, withdrawing his hand from my back. He doesn’t pull away; his nose is only inches from mine. “Would it kill you to ask for help?”
The butterflies in my stomach drop dead, and I take a step back. “I don’t need your help,” I say, my nostrils flaring. “I know what you’re up to.”
“And what is that?” He cocks his head, takes a step toward me.
I stand my ground, slipping the knapsack off my shoulder. “This”—I throw the knapsack, and it lands in a pool of mud a few feet away—“the way you’ve treated my family.”
Will’s face falls, and he furrows his brows. “I can assure you, my intentions—”
“Intentions!” I huff. “I think you’ve made your intentions rather clear, Lord Castor . I refuse to incur any further debt to you or your family or any Nightweaver for that matter.” I slide Owen’s bracelet from my wrist and wave it at him. “What is it you want from us?”
The use of his proper title appears to strike him. The crease in his forehead deepens. “I’d heard of the trinkets before—I know what they mean to your people.” His voice is quiet, gentle. “If I hadn’t taken it, someone else might have.”
I clench my fist around the bracelet. “You were going to let me leave without it!”
“I knew you wouldn’t leave your family,” he argues, taking the picnic basket from Caligo’s saddle and starting for the conservatory. He halts at the door and turns to face me. His eyes search mine, his expression nettled. “At least, I thought you wouldn’t.”
I bite my lip and look away, sliding the bracelet over my knuckles. I don’t want to admit it, but he’s right. I can’t abandon my family, especially not after what happened with Henry tonight.
Will runs a hand through his black curls, his jaw clenched. “You owe me nothing, Aster,” he says softly. “Now, are you coming or not?”
Without waiting for my reply, he throws the door wide and disappears inside. I glance longingly at the knapsack, half-buried in the mud, and then at Caligo, into his deep black eyes—my freedom so close I can almost taste the salt-laden breeze. I shuffle toward the conservatory and slip inside, where the humid, earthen air stifles any lasting notion of escape.
From the outside, the shadowy silhouette of plants clustered in the window gave the conservatory the distinct appearance of having been abandoned. But as the door closes behind me, I feel as if I’ve stepped foot inside another world entirely. Bright, phosphorescent globes hover in midair, and all around, tiny bioluminescent figures dart to and fro among the colorful flowers. The winged shapes flit around Will’s head, their laughter like tinkling bells.
He holds out his hand, and a bright pink form perches on his finger. I marvel at her chestnut skin, her curly black hair—like a tiny human with long, dainty ears that taper to sharp points. Gauzy wings like those of a butterfly span behind her, twitching with laughter. Pink light emanates from within, as if her very heart is glowing, casting a rosy sheen on Will’s pale face.
“I’d like you to meet Liv,” Will says, a rare, bashful grin on his lips. “Liv, this is Aster.”
Liv rises delicately, flutters toward me. “Neeshta.” Her sweet, small voice sounds as if it were coming from the bottom of a well. Her tiny hand touches my cheek, and she presses her forehead to my nose, tickling my face. At the connection, a joyful laugh bubbles up in my chest, but I swallow it down.
“What did she say?” I ask Will as Liv darts away, joining the others atop a cluster of purple blossoms.
Will smirks. “Beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes reflecting the lights like two glowing green orbs. “Although… my Pixie is lacking. She could have very well called you strange.”
“ Pixies …,” I breathe. I recognize them from Elsie’s book of Myths. “But I thought—”
“They were extinct?” He inspects the petals of an orange blossom. The ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Not if I can help it.”
“But the king—”
“The king sought to exterminate pirates as well,” he says, bending slightly to sniff the plant. It glows at his touch. He glances at me, his forehead creased. “Yet here you are.”
I clench my fist, remembering the look on Father’s face as he signed the King’s Marque. An Oberon is never defeated , I think bitterly. But we are no longer the Oberon clan, notorious pirates of the Western Sea—respected by all who knew us, feared by those who crossed us. We are what the Nightweavers tell us we are: servants, footmen—a kitchen maid. Death is no longer the only defeat. It can’t be. Not when I would prefer death to this predictable, sanctioned life on land.
And still, a quiet voice whispers: Would you? Here, surrounded by such beauty, the sweet fragrance of the garden like an intoxicating brew, I find myself drifting farther from the sea than I ever thought possible.
“Is that why the Nightweavers attacked us?” I ask. Only after I’ve said it do I remember that Will isn’t human—at least, not like me.
His lip quirks, but he knits his brows—a conflicted expression. “The captain disobeyed a direct order from the prince of the Eerie by attacking your ship. We were not to engage with any pirates.”
“The prince ?” I squeak. Owen used to tell me stories about the prince of the Eerie. The sole heir of King Anteres, the prince is an evil, cruel monster who comes out only at night. He drinks the blood of humans, eats their hearts, impales their heads on the castle walls. Of all the Nightweavers, he is the most fearsome. Although I know now that everything I was told about the Nightweavers is a lie, the mention of the prince still raises the hair on my arms.
That familiar glint of amusement flickers in Will’s eyes. “Yes, the prince,” he says. “He asked me to oversee the voyage, and to serve as the princess of Hellion’s personal guard until his betrothed could be intercepted by the royal procession at port.”
So the princess of Hellion was aboard the Merryway —the very ship that attacked my family and me. And the royal carriage I saw—it must have been sent to retrieve her. That must be why Will wasn’t there when we were taken to the hearing in the town square. He wasn’t yet relieved of his duty.
I run my hand over the petals of a blue flower—blue, like my beloved ocean. “Why you?”
His expression shutters. “He trusts me.”
“Why?”
“We’re… friends,” he says slowly, crouching to examine the soil running parallel to the bricked path. He scoops up a handful of the black dirt and lets it sift through his fingers. “We’re both eighteen, born only a month apart. We were raised together at court.”
My mouth goes dry. Friends … with the prince of the Eerie?
“But he’s—”
“Evil?” Will’s lips twitch into a slight smirk. “Your people’s stories would have you believe the same of me.”
“Maybe you are,” I say, lifting my chin. “Perhaps you’re only pretending to be—” I think better of what I was about to say, my cheeks flushing.
“Pretending to be what?” His deep voice is like the distant roll of thunder. “Kind?”
I gnaw on my bottom lip. “I didn’t say you were kind.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” he says, his eyes darkening. “Besides, not everything you’ve heard of the prince is a lie. He is ruthless and cunning and deadly.”
“And he’s your friend.”
Not a question, but he answers anyway.
“He’s like a brother to me,” he says, more serious than I’ve seen him yet. “I would do anything for him.”
Anything. I swallow hard. If the prince is what Will says he is, then…
“Is that why people are so tense around you?” I ask. “That officer on the train was afraid you’d kill him if he didn’t do what you asked.”
Will clenches his jaw. “It is my family’s job as the ruling fief of this region to keep men like Percy and his gang of miscreants in line.” He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, rising to his full height. “I’m not proud of the things I’ve done. But the cruelty some have come to expect from me is a necessity, one that keeps the people of Ink Haven safe from filth like Percy.”
Despite the lingering chill of spring outside, my uniform sticks to my skin in the nearly unbearable humidity of the conservatory. “You want them to fear you.”
He dips his head. “The more people fear you, the less you need actually give them a reason to be afraid.”
My lip twitches. “You sound like my mother.”
He gives a low, dark chuckle, the sound full and rich. “Maybe it’s not me who people are tense around,” he says, his brow quirking. “You are a pirate, after all.”
A few hours ago, I would have beamed at his observation. Now my heart sinks. I’m not proud of the things I’ve done. I know that feeling all too well. The blood I’ve spilled could color the tides scarlet. But in the same way Will needs to inspire dread, fear was necessary to our survival at sea. So I became something to be feared. Someone who didn’t ask for help. Someone who needed no one. Someone who shoved their grief deep below the surface, where even the sun could not penetrate.
I used to wonder who I could have been, had I lived on land—who I could be now. But all that grief, all that bitterness, has become a looming wave crashing over me, pulling me under, down… down… down.…
Eager to change the subject, I ask, “How did Annie end up aboard the ship?”
He runs a hand over his face. “Sneaky girl,” he sighs. “Stowed away. By the time I realized it, we were halfway to Hellion. I considered ordering the captain to turn around, but…” He glances at me, looking pensive. “My loyalty to the prince is not the only reason I agreed to go on that voyage. We were given orders not to engage with pirates, but with one exception.” He hesitates. “You’ve heard of the Deathwail ?”
My stomach roils. Without thinking, I reach for my throat, remembering the noose that held me captive when I was sixteen. I still hear the screams that came from the cells on either side of me—I still see the mutilated bodies when I close my eyes to sleep at night. For reasons I’ve never been able to understand, no one would touch me.
The other prisoners weren’t so lucky.
“They took Henry when he was nine.” Will’s voice is raw, barely a whisper. My own hatred is mirrored in his gaze. “They tortured him for twelve days before they agreed to let us pay his ransom. It took another week to find where they dumped him off the coast.” He scowls, his jaw clenched tight. “He was never the same after that.”
Never the same. In the weeks after I was rescued from the Deathwail , I noticed the way my siblings looked at me—as if the girl Captain Shade cut down from that rope was not Aster Oberon, their sister, but rather a shell of the girl they once knew. Once, Lewis startled me, and I nearly cut his throat. My dagger grazed the skin below his jaw before I realized what I did. Later, I overheard Margaret whisper to Charlie, “ She’s just… not the same .” But how could I be? Those two months became part of me in ways I cannot amend. I left the Deathwail , but it has never left me.
And just like that, my ill will toward Henry gives way to pity. How can I hate him when I understand him in a way his own brother never will?
“We’re not all that way…,” I murmur.
Will casts me a sidelong glance. “I could say the same.”
My cheeks burn. Will and I have more in common than I would have thought. We both seek to avenge a brother—one lost, one broken.
“Did you find it?” I ask quietly. “The Deathwail .”
A muscle in Will’s temple feathers as his eyes glaze with memory. He looks up, basking in the moonlight. “No.”
I watch as Liv and the other pixies swoop past Will’s head, toward the back of the conservatory, where a sturdy oak tree grows amid the flowers and plants. How could I have guessed that a boy who spends his time with pixies and flowers would be driven by a dark, ravenous hunger for revenge?
“Does your family know about this place?”
He follows my eyes, a slight grin spreading across his face. “My father rescued Liv and her friends during a mission near the southern border. He asked me to take care of them.”
“Why you?”
His grin widens, giving way to dimples in either cheek. “Pixies draw their magic from flowers, and I—” He holds out his hand and contracts his fingers, watching with glittering eyes as red roses sprout from the soil into full, blossoming plants. “Well, I grow the flowers.”
“And what about the prince?” I cross my arms, eyes narrowed, trying—and failing—to hide my amazement. “Does he know just how different you and your family are?”
Will’s brows pinch, his grin fading. “You must understand,” he says, leading me toward the sprawling oak tree. “There are certain… expectations we must uphold in order to do what must be done. If we are to dismantle a system that benefits Nightweavers and seeks to eradicate all else, wouldn’t you think it rather advantageous to work within that system?”
My eyes widen at his admission. How had I not considered this before? If Will and his family are not as loyal to the king as I previously expected them to be, what other secrets have I yet to uncover?
I plop down on a low-hanging branch and let my fingers trail along the grooves in the bark, remembering how fondly Albert used to dream of trees. Before, I thought his dreams were foolish, indulgent. The earth did not belong to us—it belonged to them , the Nightweavers. But before we were driven out to sea, my ancestors tended gardens; they planted trees such as this one.
I was so focused on everything I hate about this place that I blinded myself to what is right in front of me. Maybe Albert’s fondest dream is my worst nightmare, but is it really so foolish to believe that we can make our home on land? After all, what better revenge than to take back what the Nightweavers stole so long ago?
Will sits beside me, the picnic basket wedged between us. He takes a deep breath, and I follow suit, savoring the damp, floral air. My pride would have me deny that while I still yearn for the fresh, salty breeze, there were no flowers—no smell as sweet as this—aboard the Lightbringer .
“Underlings hate flowers,” Will murmurs, reaching into the picnic basket. He withdraws two golden-brown hand pies. “Sugar, too,” he adds with a wicked grin, offering me the dessert.
I turn it over in my hands, letting it warm my palms.
For all the literature that Elsie collected, there were two books Father acquired that he gave to me rather than her. One, a cookbook titled Tastes of the Eerie by Cornelius Drake, was filled with pictures of food I only ever dreamed of tasting. We could do only so much at sea, but on land, chefs like Drake did it all: tea cakes, brown-bread ice cream— hand pies . I wondered then why Nightweavers would care for such cuisine. I couldn’t picture a Nightweaver eating anything other than human flesh, much less green-pea soup or marbled blancmange. Now, after only two nights here, I can’t imagine Lord Bludgrave favoring a human heart over a simple salad.
I bite into the flaky crust, and the flavor of warm apple filling floods my taste buds. I shoot a glance at Will, chewing tentatively. “My father didn’t make these.”
Will smiles. “No,” he says around a mouthful, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Henry did.”
I fight the urge to spit apple filling at his feet. “When? Father and I have been in the kitchen all day.”
His smile widens. “Mrs. Carroll owns a bakery in town. She lets Henry hang about.”
I shake my head, marveling at the buttery, perfectly pricked crust. “But he’s nobility.…”
Will quirks his brow and takes another bite, chewing thoughtfully. “And you’re a pirate,” he says finally. “Strong-willed, defiant, independent—to a fault, I might add.” He winks, taking another bite. “But you’re also selfless and clever and kind.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he silences me with an imploring look.
“I’m a Nightweaver,” he goes on. “A bonewielder, at that. But the same affinity that gives me power over someone’s bones also gives me the ability to heal their flesh.” He glances down at my wrists, where his touch mended my wounds, then at me—at my eyes, ever searching.
He shifts his gaze over my shoulder, reaches out. I want to kick myself for flinching, because when he withdraws his hand, a silken pink blossom nestles in his palm.
“To grow flowers,” he says softly, presenting it to me.
I inspect it, raising it to my nose. The blossom smells faintly of peppermint.
“A sorrowsnap,” he murmurs. “Smells good enough to eat, but one bite and it fills you with such sadness many have been known to take their own life. Oftentimes, one would send a bouquet of sorrowsnap to their former lover as a message: ‘You, too, were sweet, but to go on loving you would be the death of me.’”
“Harsh,” I mumble, setting the blossom on the trunk beside me.
He smirks, and I feel the heat of his gaze on me once more. “Perhaps,” he says, his voice low. “But the truth remains: Dangerous, deadly things are often the most beautiful.”
Our eyes meet, and my breath catches as his all-too-intense stare drifts lower, landing on my lips. My cheeks flush, warm and uncomfortable, and I note the way his muscles tense—note his sharp intake of breath.
Beautiful. The word hangs in the air between us, a fragile, volatile thing.
After what feels like too long, I look away, stuffing another bite of apple pie into my mouth. Will gazes out at the garden once more, where Liv and the others dance and sing in their tiny, chiming voices like a chorus of tinkling bells.
“Like anyone, Henry has the capability to cause pain. To be cruel and selfish. But the same affinity that allowed him to hijack the nerves in your body also enables him to heat an oven to just the right temperature to make one delicious apple pie. His magic can bring about destruction, but out of the four affinities, it is also the only one known for creating light.” He pauses, thoughtful for a moment. “Give him a chance. I think if you put your differences aside, the two of you might actually be friends.”
Friends? With a Nightweaver? The thought crosses my mind, followed by an uncomfortable realization. I might consider Will a friend, under different circumstances; if he were not a lord, and I were not a human servant in his household. But then, who am I to care about rules? The Castors themselves show a blatant disregard for social order, treating their servants with respect and dignity. I should be able to do as I please, to befriend whomever I like—including Will.
Friends , I remind myself. Nothing more.
Swiftly, heedlessly, I find myself forgetting. It was a Nightweaver who attacked our ship. It is a Nightweaver’s fault that Owen is dead. In staying here, will I forget him completely? Will it be as if our life before never happened? As time goes by, will I no longer think of myself as a pirate, but rather, a kitchen maid?
No. If I’m to stay here, I mustn’t lose sight of the task at hand. That Underling will pay for what happened to Owen. But Will’s right—I can’t do everything on my own.
“I need your help,” I blurt out, standing to face him.
He looks up at me, his expression earnest. “You want to find the Sylk that killed your brother.”
My mouth works as he stands and dusts his clothes, taking the picnic basket in one hand.
“I thought you’d never ask,” he says, starting down the aisle. “I have to admit, after what happened to Dearest—”
“I know.” I follow along, a burst of newfound energy nearly causing me to skip. I thought my life here would consist strictly of peeling potatoes and chopping onions. But if I can scheme, then perhaps I can maintain some semblance of my life at sea.
“It’s not Annie.” The words tumble out before I even realize I’ve made up my mind.
He halts, cuts his eyes at me. “You’re sure?”
I nod. “At dinner, I thought I’d sense its presence. I don’t know why, but I just… feel it. It’s not her.”
He relaxes his shoulders, but before he can take another step, he tenses again, dropping the picnic basket. Every light in the conservatory goes dark, and Liv and her friends flee for the oak tree, the sound of tinkling bells swallowed up by the silence. Outside, Caligo trumpets in distress.
That’s when I hear it.
A gut-wrenching scream rips the air, far away and yet all around us. But it isn’t the scream that chills my blood, raising the hair on my neck.
It’s the laughter.