Chapter Nineteen
I glance around the table at my family, gathered for a late supper after the rest of the staff have eaten and gone to bed. Aboard the Lightbringer , we took all our meals together, but lately it’s rare that even a few of us get the chance to share our supper. I wish I could tell them about the Order, about the Sylk, about the Shifter the Guild of Shadows has sent to haunt me. But I know they wouldn’t understand. I’m supposed to be letting go—not holding tight.
Elsie prods at her porridge, a frown tugging at her lips. “I miss my books.”
“Lord Bludgrave has a whole library full of them.” Margaret sighs wistfully. “It’s wonderful.”
Albert snorts. “Good for Lord Bludgrave.”
Lewis musses Albert’s hair. “Someone’s in a mood.”
“I’m sick of all these pointless chores,” Albert grumbles through a mouthful of porridge. “And why shouldn’t we get to eat all the delicious food Father makes for the Castors?”
“Albert,” Mother warns, her demeanor calm and collected, as if eating porridge in a drafty hallway is an elegant affair.
“What?” Albert’s spoon clatters as he drops it into the empty bowl. “It’s not fair. None of it. Why can’t we be pirates again?”
“Albert!” Margaret gasps, her voice hushed. “You know better!”
“Does he?” I shrug, dragging my spoon through the mush in mindless circles. “Not all of us were so eager to leave our old lives behind.”
“Do you think I wanted any of this?” Margaret fixes me with a glare cold enough to chill my bones. “I loved our life before. Maybe more than you ever did.”
Charlie shovels porridge into his mouth, eyes flitting between Margaret and me.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand, my fist tightening around the handle of the spoon.
“We wouldn’t have come anywhere near that Nightweaver ship if Owen didn’t insist that we journey deeper into the Dire! If you hadn’t gone along with his… his… delusions of finding the Red Island!”
“Margaret.” Mother’s voice is sharper than it was toward Albert. But Albert didn’t mention our brother. Margaret did.
“And for what?” Margaret’s face turns a bright shade of scarlet. “Because the two of you believed in a fairy tale! The Red Island isn’t real. It never was. It’s a fantasy, Aster. It always has been.” She shoves away from the table and storms up the stairs.
I glare at my porridge, my heart racing. How could she blame Owen for what happened to us? Owen petitioned Mother and Father to explore the uncharted regions of the Dire, but they insisted it was too dangerous. We were near the borders of the Dire when we were attacked. If anything, we would have been safer if Mother heeded Owen’s request. He would still be alive.
Tiny bubbles form on the surface of my porridge, as if it were coming to a boil.
“I don’t mind the chores,” Charlie says, a thinly veiled attempt to change the subject. “Gives me something to think about other than—” He breaks off at the sharp look from Mother, his broad shoulders drooping.
“Something other than Owen?” Anger swells in my chest, and the spoon in my fist snaps in two. “It’s okay to say his name, you know.” I cut my eyes at Mother, who stares at my porridge, her expression nettled. “We’re not pirates anymore, right? Father made sure of that when he signed our names on the King’s Marque.” I push away from the table. “Owen was our brother. And I don’t intend on forgetting him.”
I don’t look back, not even when Lewis calls out to me, his voice as broken as I feel. I storm into the kitchen, where Father and Henry stand over the stove, heads down, pretending they weren’t listening to my outburst.
As I shoulder through the door onto the moonlit lawn, Henry follows at my heels. It’s been one month since we joined the Order, and despite my every attempt to avoid him, he’s always hanging about the kitchen with Father. He seems different somehow. He hasn’t shown any aggression toward my family—he even went out of his way to help Margaret carry sacks of flour out of the pantry the other day, which earned him a gruff “Thanks” from my sister and a few suspicious looks from Lewis and Charlie.
I can’t help wondering if Lady Isabelle hasn’t asked him to keep an eye on me, but another part of me thinks he’s lonely without Will. I can’t deny that he’s more tolerable when his face is dusted with flour, his apron splattered with grease. And as hard as it is to see Father cooking with someone other than Owen—other than me—it seems to be good for them both.
“I know where you’re going,” Henry says, catching up to me. His forehead glistens with sweat from the kitchen, and he’s snacking on a handful of walnuts, each casual bite only infuriating me further.
“So what?” I snap, my blood boiling.
“Uncle Killian’s training you, isn’t he?”
“I’m a part of the Order, aren’t I?”
Henry skirts in front of me, blocking my path. “Well? Learn anything useful?”
“Sure,” I say, pushing past him. More than Will ever taught me. In the few weeks I’ve been meeting Killian at the conservatory, I’ve learned more about Underlings than I did the entire month Will and I spent together. Sylks smell like smoke. Shifters hate perfume. Gores can’t walk backward.
It’s clear that Will never meant for me to find the Sylk. At least, not on my own. The time I spent with him was time wasted. I can’t believe I actually thought he may have seen me as anything more than a friend—that I began to desire more than that. And all the while, he was holding me back. He was keeping secrets from me—about the Order of Hildegarde, about their plans to take down the king, about everything.
And still, I can’t seem to answer the question that plays over and over in my mind when I try to sleep at night: What does he stand to gain?
“Is there a reason you’re following me?”
Henry shrugs, pops another walnut into his mouth. “Just returning the favor.” After a moment, he adds awkwardly, “And I, uh—I heard what you said. I wanted to make sure you were—”
“I’m fine, Henry.” I start up the hill, toward the orchard, where the trees appear to have caught fire, their leaves aflame with brilliant shades of ruby and amber, signaling the coming of autumn. “Since when do you care?”
His cheeks flush, and he shrugs. “I don’t.”
“Great. If that’s all—”
“It’s not,” he blurts, taking an envelope from his chest pocket. “Will wanted me to give you this. And before you accuse me of snooping, it’s enchanted so that only you can read it.”
I hesitate. The envelope smells of gunpowder. My fingers tremble slightly as I remove the bundle of parchment within, open the letter.…
Pressed between the pages of the letter is a dried sprig of blue salvia.
And this one means I’m thinking of you.
My heartbeat quickens. Somehow, the knowledge that he took the time to write me a letter makes my stomach squirm with guilt. I’ve spent so much time feeling angry at Will for leaving—and worse, leaving without telling me the truth about the Order—that if I were to read what he has to say now, while there’s still a chance he might not make it home, I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.
I scowl, shoving the letter at Henry’s chest without reading a word of it, but I hold on to the flower. “I thought you hated us,” I murmur, my fingertips brushing the brittle petals.
“Yeah, well, that was before I realized you were just the thing I needed to keep Trudy Birtwistle at bay.” Slowly, he tucks the letter back into his pocket. “Speaking of, the Reckoning Day Ball is one month from today. It’s quite the celebration. We stay up all night to usher in the dawn. Mother spares no expense.”
“Of course she doesn’t,” I mutter. It must be nice, I think, for the Nightweavers to celebrate their victory on Reckoning Day in fancy ballrooms while we would have sat solemn in the dank hull of a ship, remembering the humans who gave their lives to defend us six hundred years ago.
He clears his throat. “Anyway, I need someone to ward off Trudy. Keep her from asking me to dance. With a little help, you might actually pass for something more than human.” He winces at the dig, apparently thinking better of it, but he doesn’t correct himself. “What do you say? Care to stir up some mischief?”
Me? Attend a ball with him ? Whatever has changed with him over the past few weeks, I’m beginning to think it has something to do with the fact that he’s obviously not thinking clearly.
“No.” I drop the sprig of blue salvia. It gives a satisfying crunch beneath my shoe.
“Come on,” Henry whines. “You’re really going to pass up the chance to be the only human at a party of Nightweavers?”
“Yes.”
He huffs, coming to a halt. “Will’s going to be there.”
My feet falter a few paces, but I shake myself and keep going, determined not to lose focus on the night before me.
Henry jogs to my side and runs backward, a wicked grin on his thin lips. “ And he’s bringing the prince.”
My heartbeat quickens. “So?”
“ Sooo ,” he coos. “The Order wants us both there to keep an eye on him.”
“Why?”
He lowers his voice. “There’ve been rumors. That troublemaking pirate, Captain Shade, is supposed to make an appearance here on Reckoning Day.”
My heart stutters, nearly stopping altogether. “Here?”
He nods, and I get the feeling he knows nothing of his brother’s informant. “My father’s sources tell us he’s going to make an attempt on the prince’s life. You can still say no, of course, but considering it’s our job to keep the prince safe…”
Right. Those were our marching orders at our last meeting—the prince needs to stay alive, at least until he’s wed to the princess of Hellion. But after hearing about his family’s despicable nature—the way they harvest humans—I’d rather drive a blade through his heart.
“I suppose I should thank you,” Henry adds, scratching his head. “Because of you, my parents finally let me join the Order.”
“Why wouldn’t they let you join before?”
“Apparently, I have an attitude problem.”
“You don’t say?”
He chews lazily, looking out over the grounds like a king seated comfortably on his throne. “There’s a dressmaker in Ink Haven. Jack will take you.”
I groan and start past him again, through the apple tree tunnel. “Fine,” I mutter. “Just don’t expect me to dance.”
“It’s a date,” Henry calls, and though the thought of spending a night with him sets my skin crawling, I can’t quell the mixture of fear and excitement rising up within me.
The prince is going to be at Bludgrave. Even if the Order won’t let me drive a knife through the prince’s heart, this might be my only chance to study him up close. He isn’t a shadow—he’s flesh and bone. He has weaknesses just like anyone else. And I’m going to learn them all, so that when the time comes, I can be the one to put him down.