Chapter Fifteen
Admiral Killian Bancroft of the king’s Eighth Fleet is known by Bludgrave’s staff as the Lion of the Eerie. But when he arrives late on a Tuesday morning in June, Elsie thinks Will’s uncle takes after a tabby cat, both in looks and in manner.
“He’s rather sly,” she says, adjusting the wheels on the wooden model car she and Annie have labored over for the better part of a week. They sit on the kitchen floor, oblivious to the work taking place around them: Sybil panicking over the pot of boiled potatoes I left in her charge, Father chopping chives with rhythmic speed, Dorothy scrubbing leftover bread pudding from a copper plate.
Annie dips her brush into a can of red paint, busily applying a second coat to the coach. “Mother says he’s awfully brilliant.” She sighs wistfully. “He used to visit all the time, but he’s been away at war since I was a little girl.”
Elsie rolls her eyes, smoothing her plain black uniform. “You’re still a little girl.”
Annie puts her hands on her hips, dripping red paint down the front of her frilly yellow dress. “And what are you?”
“A pirate,” Elsie says primly, not bothering to look up from her work.
I smile inwardly as I knead a heap of dough with absent-minded care. I glance at the sprig of blue salvia I discovered in my apron this morning, now sunbathing in a milk-bottle vase, along with the other secret messages Will is diligent to leave for me whenever he gets the chance. And this one , Will told me just last night, in the colorful glow of the conservatory, means I’m thinking of you .
Why hasn’t he kissed me when he’s had the chance? Why did I want him to?
I scold myself for wondering what his lips would feel like pressed to mine—for worrying about what he may think of me, especially because he hasn’t tried to kiss me since that night the wolves interrupted us. Especially when there’s more important things to worry about.
It seems like a year has passed since we discovered Dearest’s collar, though it’s only been a month. One month, and it feels as though everyone has all but forgotten that Mr. and Mrs. Hackney were brutally murdered, and the message carved into their disembodied heads. But Will and I haven’t forgotten. Every night, when the rest of the household has gone to sleep, we take Caligo up to the conservatory, where we agonize over scraps of clues and strategize about ways to entrap the Shifter. But there isn’t much to go on, and with every passing day, I find myself drawing closer to Will and further away from the task at hand.
Most of the time, we lie beneath the old oak and look up at the stars. I’ve introduced him to the constellations; I tell him their stories, the legends of my people, of my ancestors. Some nights, as we drift to sleep under the vast blanket of the heavens, I feel as if no one in this world knows me the way that Will does. But then the sun rises and we part ways, our friendship fading into memory as we become no more than strangers to each other—a young lord of a high and noble house and a kitchen maid in his employ.
“Aster?” Margaret calls to me from the doorway. “Can I talk to you? Outside,” she hurries to add. Without waiting for a reply, she scurries past Elsie, out the door to the west lawn. I don’t miss the look she gives Annie over her shoulder. Margaret is rarely frightened, but the brief flash of terror in her eyes sends me darting out the door after her.
“What is it?” I whisper, scanning the landscape, ensuring we’re alone. Under a cloudless sky, summer transforms the grounds into a lush haven of vibrant green trees and colorful blossoms, thriving despite the stifling heat.
“I found something,” she says, taking a bundle of cloth from under the folds of her gown. She unravels it and reveals a kitchen knife, its blade crusted with dried blood and tufts of coarse black hair. Atroxis hair , I think grimly.
But if this is the knife that killed Dearest…
“Where did you—”
“It was under Annie’s bed.” Margaret’s face pales, her eyes wide. “I don’t know what to do. If I tell anyone, they might think I’m lying. They might think—”
“I’ll take care of it.” I take the knife from her, cover it with the cloth. “No one else needs to know.”
“But…” Margaret tucks her shaking hands under her arms as if she were shivering, even though the summer sun beats down on us with blazing heat. “You don’t think Annie could do something like this, do you? I’m with her every day. Surely, she’d show signs of… aggression… or…” She fixes her eyes on the door as if she expects Annie to appear there any moment with sharp teeth and claws, poised to strike.
For whatever reason, the Shifter wanted Margaret to find the knife in Annie’s room, and for a moment, I’m paralyzed with terror at the thought of the Underling moving about the house, taunting me, but my fear quickly transforms to determination to put a stop to this game the Shifter is playing. It’s gone through great trouble to cast suspicion on Annie, though I still can’t figure out why. If Annie were possessed by a Sylk, I would know it. I would see it, just as I did aboard the ship.
Still, I can’t explain why Annie had blood on her hands that night Jack and I saw her near Hildegarde’s Folly, and why, if a Gore were the one to kill Dearest, it would have spared a little girl. From what Will told me, Gores don’t distinguish between their victims. If a Gore killed Dearest and Annie was there, she would be dead, too.
“Don’t worry,” I tell Margaret, stuffing the parcel into my apron. Tonight, when Will and I meet, I’ll see if he can make sense of the knife. But I can’t tell Margaret about my secret rendezvous with the young lord. If anyone knew Will and I were spending this much time together—if one of the other servants found out, if they told an officer in Ink Haven—there would be consequences.
I rub my throat, swallowing hard.
“Worry about what?” Henry rounds the house and saunters toward us, a bow in his hand and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder.
“Nothing,” Margaret mutters, keeping her back to him. She shoots me a pleading look, her brows raised.
Henry draws an arrow and arms his bow. He aims it leisurely at the sky, then at the back of Margaret’s head, his eyes glinting with mischief. “‘Nothing, my l —’”
“Careful, nephew,” a man in a crisp olive uniform says, slinking around the corner. His rich brown hair reminds me of his sister, Lady Isabelle, and his short beard is neatly groomed, the medals on his military jacket freshly polished. He shares Lady Isabelle’s small green eyes, though his are inquisitive and playful. “I should think it would take more than an arrow to take down a nanny.” He winks at me, a coy smile on his lips.
Sly, indeed , I think.
Henry lowers the bow and disengages the arrow. He twirls it in his fingers. “I wouldn’t waste an arrow on a pirate,” he grumbles, shuffling past. Under his breath, as if only for me to hear, he adds, “I wouldn’t need to.”
The admiral throws out a hand, contracts his fingers, and Henry snaps to a halt. So Will’s uncle is a bonewielder, too.
“Pirates, you say?” he asks Henry, but his eyes are fixed on me. Now I see where Will gets it—that searching look, that glittering amusement, that mysterious intelligence. “I’m afraid it would be a mistake to choose a pirate for target practice. I hear they’re nearly impossible to catch.”
Henry snorts as the admiral lets his hand fall, releasing him. He stumbles past me, his expression smug. “Not nearly as impossible as you’d think.”
If it wasn’t for his magic, I would have already cut that obnoxious grin from Henry’s face.
“I find that hard to believe,” the admiral says. He dips his head. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse us. It appears my nephew has forgotten who it was that taught him how to shoot a bow.”
As they take off across the lawn, Margaret straightens her shoulders, her confident air returning. “I think this admiral might be good for him,” she says.
As if to prove her point, the unfamiliar peal of Henry’s laughter rings as he and the admiral break out into a playful tussle. I remember what Will said about Henry’s experience aboard the Deathwail , and I can’t help smiling. It gives me hope to know, after all this time, that someone else survived that awful ship and lived to find their laughter again.
“Don’t tell her I told you,” Margaret adds, a tight-lipped smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth. “But Elsie thinks Henry’s ‘suave.’”
“Suave?” I burst into a fit of laughter, and the knife in my apron is forgotten as Margaret and I giggle like little children.
“What’s so funny?” Jack sticks his head out the door, Albert peeking from behind him, his faithful shadow. I suppress another giggle as I realize Albert matches the stable boy in his brown trousers, wrinkled cream-colored shirt, and tattered black suspenders—hand-me-downs from Jack himself, if I had to guess.
“Oh, wouldn’t you like to know!” Margaret smiles at Jack, her face rosy. And for the first time since the Lightbringer sank, I think, with my own private smile, that wherever my family is—wherever Margaret and I can share a laugh—is a happy place. And even though Bludgrave Manor doesn’t have sails and a stern, it could be home.
Maybe it already is.
I stroke Caligo’s muzzle, humming along to Jack’s melodic whistle. My hand dips into my apron pocket, feeling for the single lily Will gave me all those weeks ago. When my fingertips brush the brittle, dried petals, my heartbeat quickens with anticipation. I skim the cloth that covers the bloody knife I took from Margaret, and my mind buzzes, eager to share this latest bit of news with Will.
“He should have been here by now,” I murmur to Caligo, who grunts in response.
At that, Jack peeks around the corner, rake in hand. “It’s not his fault,” he says, wiping sweat from his forehead. “His uncle, Killian, probably caught him trying to sneak away.”
“You’d be correct.” Will’s husky voice is clipped.
I turn to find him leaning against the doorpost, silhouetted by the moonlight. He strides toward me, but his eyes, cold and distant, are fixed on Caligo. Something about the way he carries himself—his shoulders erect, his chin tilted high—gives him the appearance of someone twice his age. His face is hardened, his jaw set, and when he dares to glance at me, it only seems to trouble him further. Without words, he climbs onto Caligo’s back and offers me a hand.
My mouth goes dry as I wrap my arms around him and we start up the hill. For a month now, I’ve known only warm greetings from Will after long, cruel days of maintaining the ruse of indifference toward each other. But tonight, I can’t help wondering if I did something wrong. Was I too indifferent? I search my memory, replaying every formal exchange between Will and me throughout the week. And then a quiver of fear passes through me. Has he changed his mind about me? Does he think I’m responsible for everything that’s happened?
He doesn’t speak again until the conservatory door closes behind us and Liv and the other pixies rush to greet him, their laughter like sweet music. He waves them off, and Liv darts away, her wings drooping.
“Forgive me,” he says, running a hand through his mussed black curls. “I wasn’t sure I could face you.” He glares down at a plot of wilted roses, reaches out. At his touch, they perk up, their bright red hue returning, but his frown only deepens. “I’m still not sure.”
I take a step toward him, but he turns away from me and heads for the old oak. With his back still facing me, he lays a hand on the bark, his head bowed.
“Will…” I reach out, meaning to place a hand on his shoulder, but he spins on his heels and snatches my wrist.
“Please,” he says, his voice low, his green eyes soft and tearful. He looks over my face, slowly, as if he were memorizing every detail. “Don’t make this harder on me.”
I swallow around the lump in my throat. Great. One month was all it took, and he’s ready to throw me out. What will Mother and Father say? Will they come to my defense? Should I even expect them to risk jeopardizing the life they’re building for Elsie and Albert and the others?
“Make what harder on you?” I dare to whisper, glancing at his tight grip on my wrist, knowing full well he’s capable of crushing every bone in my arm—and my spine, for that matter.
He follows my eyes, loosens his grip. Slowly, gently, he peels back my sleeve to reveal the single band of braided leather. Then he takes from his chest pocket a second bracelet— my bracelet.
He lifts his gaze, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. “You never asked for it back.”
A knot forms in my stomach, and I look away. “You know why I didn’t.”
He releases my hand, and it falls to my side. His fist closes around the bracelet, and he furrows his brows. “I do,” he whispers.
Our eyes meet, threading a tentative cord between us—a string wound tight enough to snap. And then, at the same time, we both blurt out: “I have to tell you something.”
“You first,” he hurries to add.
“No, please.” Suddenly the bloody knife in my apron doesn’t seem as important as figuring out what has Will this out of sorts. “Tell me.”
This time, it’s he who looks away. A dark shadow passes over his face. “My uncle brings news from the prince. As a show of good faith, the prince plans to journey to Hellion, to monitor the fight at their border. He’s forming a squadron.” He fidgets with the bracelet, a muscle in his cheek feathering. “He’s asked me to join.”
I blink, my mouth working. “And?”
“And,” he says slowly, his voice quiet, “I’ve agreed to go.”
I take a small step back, my mind reeling. “When do you leave?”
He fixes his gaze on the bracelet, refusing to take his eyes off it, refusing to look at me. “Tomorrow.”
I turn, my feet carrying me to the door, out into the cool night air.
Tomorrow.
“Aster, wait,” Will pants, chasing me toward the apple tree tunnel, but I’m too far ahead. He whistles for Caligo, and just as I break out of the tunnel and onto the sloping hill, the thunder of pounding hooves vibrates in the soles of my shoes. Caligo maneuvers in front of me, blocking my path.
“I don’t have a choice.” Will’s voice is rough, and it falters with a desperation that sounds unfamiliar from the lips of a wealthy young Nightweaver. “The prince is counting on me. He trusts me. I thought you of all people would understand that.”
The weight of the bloody knife in my apron threatens to bring me to my knees. What am I going to do? We’re no closer to finding Owen’s killer than we were a month ago, and now this new discovery of the knife could be exactly what we’ve been looking for—proof that a Gore didn’t kill Dearest. That a Shifter is trying to frame Annie, all while sending me a message.
Did you miss me? it wrote inside Dearest’s collar. Why would the Guild of Shadows go through all this trouble—why kill Annie’s atroxis—just to have Margaret find the knife? It’s almost as if the Sylk wants me to find it, as if the Shifter is leading me right to it—to the Guild. But why kill Mr. and Mrs. Hackney, and why make it seem as if a Gore did it? Just to toy with me?
“Are you all right?” Will stands in front of me. I didn’t even realize he dismounted from Caligo, with my thoughts racing and the world around me merely a blur.
“I can’t do this without you,” I admit, my voice breaking. “I don’t know the first thing about hunting Sylks.”
His forehead creases. “My uncle, Killian, has made a career of it,” he says, stroking his chin. “I’ve asked him to assist you while I’m away.”
My mouth gapes. “You told him about us?”
“ Us? ” he murmurs, blinking innocently.
I clench my fists, wishing now more than ever that I still had my dagger at my disposal. “You know what I mean.”
He studies the ground, his expression pained. “When he heard what happened, about your name on Mrs. Hackney’s forehead, he assumed a Sylk was involved. He asked if he could be of any assistance.”
I cross my arms. “What if I don’t want his help?”
“If he could find the Sylk that killed your brother, would you want his help then?”
I grit my teeth. Find the Sylk that killed Owen—that was supposed to be the only reason Will and I started working together in the first place.
Supposed to be…
“I’m worried about Annie,” Will admits, his voice soft. “Would you look out for her while I’m away? Keep her out of trouble, I mean.”
“You mean keep her from stowing away on another ship bound for Hellion?”
Something akin to a smirk graces his face, but his eyes are sad and dull. “If you can.”
For a moment, neither of us speaks, as if the silence could last forever and we wouldn’t have to part. But nothing lasts forever. I know this all too well.
“So this is goodbye, then?”
He presses his lips together, dips his head. “For now.” He takes my bracelet from his pocket once more, extends it to me.
I shake my head. “Keep it,” I say, hoping I sound more callous than I feel. I start past him, toward the house in the distance, wanting nothing more than to pull myself onto Caligo’s saddle and ride as far away from him as possible.
“Aster?” he calls after me. “What did you have to tell me?”
My pace slows, and my hand dips into my apron, feeling for the cloth that covers the knife. Instead, my fingers brush the dried petals of the white lily, and my heart sinks.
“Jack is going to teach me how to ride,” I call back, using the truth to mask a lie. I glance over my shoulder at him standing in Caligo’s shadow, a dark figure alone in a silver sea of rolling grass. “We start tomorrow.”
I can’t tell him about the knife now. It would only distract him during the hard months ahead. Besides, there’s nothing he can do. Tomorrow, he’ll be gone. But I’ll still be here. Owen will still be dead. And even if his uncle agreed to help, I can’t trust Killian. I’m not even sure I can trust Will, after he shared our secret without my knowledge. With or without Will, my purpose remains the same.
I’m going to catch the Sylk, and I’m going to do it alone.
A heavy fog covers the estate—a thick, rolling mist that sweeps over the gardens, concealing everything it touches. I look down on the front drive from the upstairs landing in the west atrium, watching Charlie as he loads a single leather duffel bag into the idle coach parked there, wishing I could simply walk out into the fog and disappear.
“I almost didn’t hear you,” I say, not taking my eyes off the window. The staircase didn’t creak, the carpet wasn’t scuffed, but I stopped relying on sound to detect someone’s presence a long time ago.
“Of course you didn’t.” Margaret moves beside me, nudging me playfully with her elbow. “How do you think you learned to walk like a mouse?”
My sister peers down at the driveway below, where the Castors have gathered, saying their goodbyes to Will. She intently watches Jack, seated behind the wheel of the coach. “Although,” she murmurs, “you’re not as sneaky as you think.” She casts me a knowing glance, her brows raised. “At night, when you’re not in your bed… it isn’t hard to guess where you’ve gone. I see the way he looks at you.” She follows my eyes and finds Will, bedecked in a green military uniform, embracing his uncle. She smiles sadly as Will kneels to scratch his uncle’s bloodhound between the ears. “The way you look at him.”
My cheeks burn. “It doesn’t matter, now,” I say. “He might not come back.”
Margaret caresses my arm, her touch as tender and comforting as Father’s. “And what if he does?”
I watch as Will embraces Henry, who holds him tighter than I would have expected. When Will pulls away, he looks up at the house, searching every window, his face drawn. I turn sharply, hiding behind the curtain, and Margaret does the same. Finally, he relents, waves one last time at his family, and steps into the coach.
As Charlie moves to close the door behind him, Annie lurches from her mother’s arms, and I brace myself. Beside me, Margaret tenses, but when Annie clings to Will’s pant leg, inconsolable, the two of us breathe a sigh of relief. I don’t know why I expected her to plunge a bloody knife into his ribs—not when it’s safely tucked away in the trunk at the foot of my bed—but… I don’t know what to think anymore. And until I can prove Annie isn’t being influenced by the Guild of Shadows in some way, I can’t let down my guard.
Lord Bludgrave takes Annie in his arms, and Will looks up again. This time, he spots me standing in the window, pinning me to the spot. He opens his mouth, but then the door is shut, obscuring him from sight.
As the coach drives away, toward the iron gate at the far end of the drive, my hatred for the prince of the Eerie festers. It takes on a new form, becoming a vile, all-consuming desire to drive a blade through his heart, to make him bleed for taking Will from me. And as much as I hate the prince, I hate Will all the more for leaving.
“I won’t hold my breath,” I say, turning my back on the window, on Will.
I hurry past Margaret, into the hall, down the stairs, to the kitchen. Father is there, laboring over breakfast. He gave me the morning; I suppose Margaret isn’t the only one who knew I wanted to see off Will, even if just from afar. He dips his head in greeting, his face full of compassion. Sometimes, when I look at him, I see Owen—his kind eyes, so much like Father’s—and I feel my heart breaking all over again.
I hasten through the door, onto the lawn. It was foolish of me to put my faith in Will; foolish of me to stray so far from what I know to be true. The earth is no place for me. Only the sea can cool my rage. Only the water can heal my wounds.
I promised Owen I would not let them take me. I’ve told myself I stay here out of loyalty to my family, to find the Sylk and avenge my brother’s death. But now that Will is gone, I know that isn’t true. I have not only broken my promise to Owen—the Nightweavers took me from the sea; they made me their servant—but I have forgotten who I am.
No longer.
I am Aster Oberon, pirate of the Western Sea. I need no one’s help, and I bow to no king. I will have my revenge. And when I’ve killed the Sylk that took Owen from me, I will set my sights on the Nightweavers who seek to eradicate my people. It’s the only way to ensure a future for Albert and Elsie: to create a world where they are free, a world in which they don’t have to live in fear of those that consider us slaves.
Better to die fighting than to live on my knees.
A part of me always knew it would be impossible to adjust to a life of servitude. I could never let go of who I am. I can never forget, and I will never forgive. I can see clearly now that Will is gone. I have nothing left to lose.
A Sylk killed Owen. But if the Nightweavers never attacked our ship, Owen would still be alive. It was the prince’s captain who ambushed the Lightbringer . It was the prince’s guard who shot Charlie in the town square. It is the prince’s mother and father who hunt and enslave my kind. I can only imagine the evil the prince himself must commit. The blood he’s shed. He is the cause of all this. He took everything from me— everything .
He will die by my hand.
First, I will kill an Underling. Then, I will kill the prince.