Nightweaver #1

Chapter Twenty-Three

“The judgment…” Jack runs a hand through his hair, his mouth pressed tight. In the dim light of the pantry, he examines the playing card, flecked with dried blood. “It seems Reckoning Day holds a different meaning to those of you who’ve spent your lives at sea.”

A few days ago, in the hours after we had returned from Ink Haven, Killian said as much.

“We were taught that it was a day of remembrance,” I say. “It serves as a reminder of the blood that was shed six hundred years ago, before we were forced to flee.”

Jack nods. “It’s the same for the Nightweavers,” he says, his voice low. “Besides the fleeing part,” he adds awkwardly, rubbing the nape of his neck. “But… the judgment…”

“That part belongs to us,” I say, my chest tightening. “There are some who believe that Reckoning Day is a promise. That one day, the True King will cast his judgment on the Nightweavers who purged us from the lands of the Known World, and we will return from the sea to claim what is rightfully ours.”

Jack raises his brows. “Radical.”

I roll my eyes. “You belong to a secret organization fighting to take down the king and queen of the Eerie. I don’t think you—”

The door to the pantry swings open. I snatch the playing card from Jack and shove it into my apron before Margaret can see. She fixes a suspicious look on both of us, her hands on her hips. Behind her, the kitchen bustles with activity as Father shouts orders over the din of clanging pots.

“This was the best you could do?” Margaret arches a brow, glancing at Jack. “Surely, you could have found a clever place to hide.”

Jack raises his hands in mock surrender as he sidesteps her out of the pantry. “I’ve never claimed to be clever.”

Margaret’s lips twitch, the beginnings of a smile. “I wasn’t talking to you.”

I groan, holding out my arms as if I were about to be chained and led away to slaughter. “Do your worst.”

Margaret snorts. “You two need to stop spending so much time together,” she says, taking me by the wrist and dragging me out of the pantry. “One overly dramatic troublemaker is enough to deal with.”

“I wouldn’t call myself overly dramatic,” Jack mumbles.

Margaret kisses him on the cheek, and Jack’s face flushes. “And what would you call yourself?”

Jack touches the place where Margaret’s lips had graced his skin, his eyes glittering. “Favored by the Stars.”

I clear my throat. “I’m finding that what awaits me upstairs is more preferable to… whatever this is.”

Margaret blushes, but Jack winks at me as Father thrusts the handle of a paring knife into his hand and begins herding him toward a mountain of potatoes. In turn, Margaret leads me upstairs, down the hall, and—

The green baize door is open.

I glance at Margaret, my heart kicking into a gallop. “What are we…”

Margaret smiles, apparently pleased with my reaction. She hooks her arm through mine, leading me over the threshold that separates the servants’ hall from the Castors’ living quarters. “Lady Isabelle granted us use of her chambers for the afternoon.”

I barely register what Margaret has said. We pass by the first door on the right, the room that shares a wall with my own, and I have to force myself to keep moving. But my gaze lingers on the burnished knob, and for a brief moment, I fight the urge to open the door to Will’s chambers. Would I find him there, on his bed? What does his bed even look like?

“Aster?” Margaret gives me a slight tug.

“Sorry,” I murmur, not meeting her gaze as we continue down the hall. But I can feel her eyes on me as she gives my arm a squeeze.

“Are you ready for this?” Margaret asks.

Ready for what? To be prodded by hot irons and painted with rouge from delicate glass pots? To don a gown made of fine silk fabric that costs enough to buy a small ship? To spend the evening on Henry’s arm in a room full of Nightweavers, pretending to be something more than just… me? To meet the prince of the Eerie? To see Will?

Will. Somehow, everything else—everything but him —feels manageable. But the thought of seeing him again…

“I’m ready,” I lie, because the truth would mean turning back around, walking through that green baize door, and never crossing the threshold again.

“It stays.” Those are the first words I spoke since Margaret all but chained me to the stool in front of the vanity. I didn’t argue when she dabbed a demure, rosy shade of pink on my lips and cheeks. I didn’t fight back when she curled my hair, sweeping half of it off my shoulders and arranging it in an elaborate updo. I even let her curl my eyelashes with little more than a look of protest. But I won’t part with Owen’s bracelet. Not for the evening. Not ever.

Margaret withdraws her hand. She nods, her eyes glimmering with a familiar fire—a look I saw countless times fighting by her side aboard the Lightbringer . “It stays.”

I take a shuddering breath, the tension in my shoulders easing a bit as Margaret’s battle-hardened expression softens to a look of girlish mischief.

She takes the leather garment bag from the wardrobe, beaming. “Now for the fun part.”

I frown. “I thought you were having fun when you combed black goop through my eyelashes?”

“Oh, that was fun,” she says, brows raised as she unzips the bag and motions for me to turn around and lift my arms. “But this is going to be life-changing.”

Life-changing. I had enough of that to last an eternity.

My eyes drift closed as Margaret slips the gown over my head. The fabric glides over my skin like water, cool and soft.

Once, when I was a child, Lewis and I overheard Mother comforting Margaret as my sister cried herself hoarse. Margaret’s birthday was a week away, and all she wanted—all she ever wanted—was to wear a gown like those she saw illustrated in the books Father stole. That week, Lewis worked until his fingers bled to create something from the scraps of fabric he looted from enemy ships. The finished result was beautiful, expertly crafted. Then, I envied Margaret. Now, as I open my eyes and take in the canary-yellow gown, I catch a glimpse of Margaret behind me, her expression one of awe and sisterly love.

Guilt squeezes my heart like a fist. Material like this was never meant to grace a pirate’s mud-slicked, blood-soaked skin. But Margaret—my loyal, devoted sister, who, despite the jealousy I’m certain she feels in this moment, wouldn’t dare admit her own desires now—she deserves a wardrobe full of gowns like this.

“Wow,” Margaret breathes.

I seek out my reflection in the cheval mirror. I thought once that Owen might not recognize me if he saw me in my servant’s uniform. But, standing in Lady Isabelle’s luxurious chambers, my ivory skin gilded in the candlelight, I hardly recognize myself.

The material clings to my frame—no longer gaunt, but well fed in a way that I never was aboard the Lightbringer —and spills over at my feet in a pool of silk the color of the setting sun. Canary yellow—the defining shade of the Oberon clan—embroidered with silver stars along the sweeping neckline. Nine stars, just as I requested. One for every member of our family. One for Owen.

The floor-length gown leaves my arms bare and exposes the hollow of my collarbones, revealing the various scars that pucker my freckled skin. My gaze lingers on my neck, on the faint white lines left behind from the rope that marred my flesh.…

Margaret clears her throat, drawing my attention to the matching elbow-length gloves in her grasp. I extend my fingers as she slides the first glove over my hand. As Margaret tugs the second glove over my forearm, where the brand marks my flesh, I catch sight of the P burned into Margaret’s skin. Our eyes meet, and Margaret’s face hardens once more.

Here, surrounded as we are by such wealth and beauty, it is almost difficult to imagine Margaret’s lovely face smeared with blood, a cutlass in either hand.

“You would forgo the gloves if you could,” she murmurs, a sad sort of smirk twisting her mouth.

I don’t speak for a long moment. “I’m not ashamed of who I am,” I say finally. But for the first time in my life, I’m not sure I mean it.

Margaret nods, tugging the glove on the rest of the way before taking my hands in hers. “Owen would be proud of you,” she says, her voice soft.

I want to believe her. I’d like to think if Owen knew I was working in secret to dismantle the Nightweavers’ entire system—if he knew I was hunting Underlings and scheming to murder the prince—he would be proud of me. But something about the way Margaret says our brother’s name, the hint of fury blazing in her dark eyes, makes me wonder if she hasn’t let go of Owen, either.

“Jack told me about Dorothy.” Margaret releases my hands, shaking her head. “Do you think she’s…”

“Dead?” I can’t be sure. “For her sake, I would hope so.”

Margaret curses under her breath. “I wish I could have been there.” She takes a long strip of yellow silk chiffon and arranges it around my neck, concealing the faded scars. “I wish I could have been the one to drive a dagger through that Nightweaver’s chest.”

I blink, stunned. I thought Margaret was more inclined than any of us to leave behind a life of violence and bloodshed. I know I shouldn’t, but I begin to peel back the glove, to show Margaret the enchanted tattoo there and the promise of vengeance it represents. After all, Jack has already shared more than he is permitted to, and Margaret is my sister. She is branded, just like me. If revenge is what she seeks, the Order can give her an outlet.

“Margaret,” I say, just as faint traces of black ink begin to surface on my inner forearm, “there’s something I want to tell—”

“Surprise!” Annie bursts through the door. Elsie bounds along behind her, carrying a vase of flowers. The two girls giggle, no doubt caught up in the excitement of the evening before it’s even truly begun—despite the fact that Annie will be attending and Elsie will be sequestered in the upstairs rooms, listening to music and laughter through the walls but unable to participate.

I tug the glove back to my elbow. I’ll tell Margaret about the Order tomorrow morning, after the ball. Hopefully, I’m right about her and she’ll want to join. It would be nice to not have to hide this from my sister, at least. It would be nice not to feel so… alone.

Both Elsie and Annie come to a screeching halt. They stare at me, mouths open.

Elsie gasps. “You look like—”

“—a princess!” Annie finishes.

I can’t help the blush that warms my face. But as the girls continue to gush over the gown, the flowers Elsie carries snag my gaze, and my heart twists.

She presents the bouquet to me, looking mischievous. “From a secret admirer.”

I swallow hard as I accept the bouquet. “For me?” I breathe in the sweet, intoxicating aroma, my stomach aflutter. The stargazer lilies, their pink-and-white petals dappled with buttery golden candlelight, send my mind into a whirl. I try to remember what Will told me they represent but come up short.

From a secret admirer.

I was under the impression that it was no secret Will and I had… admired each other. But we never said that—not in words. Still, I know the flowers could have come only from him. And now that I know he lied to me about so many things—or at least, he didn’t tell me the truth about the Order of Hildegarde and everything they planned—a tangle of emotions twists my stomach into knots. Anger. Confusion. Hurt. How dare he send me flowers? Does that mean he’s back already? Is he in the house? We could be only a room away from each other.

I feel like I’m going to vomit.

“My, my.” Mother’s voice sends the rush of bile creeping up my throat into remission. She stands in the doorway, her hair pulled back into a neat bun. I miss the wild, untamed curls that used to crowd her cheeks, as well as her carefree grin. The woman who approaches me, carrying a small velvet box, is not the fierce pirate from my memories. But she is still my mother—strong, beautiful, wise. And the look of pride on her weathered face as she takes in the sight of me in my gown makes me forget all about Will—about the Sylk, about everything—if only for a moment.

“Do you like it?”

Mother smiles, but I don’t miss the trace of sorrow in the lines of her mouth. “You were born to wear this dress.”

I watch, a bit uneasily, as she counts the silver stars embroidering the neckline. She reaches out, fingertips grazing the ninth star.

“For Owen,” she whispers, almost too low to hear. Tears limn her dark blue eyes, but she clears her throat, her smile widening as she opens the velvet box. Nestled inside, two opalescent pearl earrings glow pink in the candlelight. I knew Mother and Father were making a decent salary, but I had no idea the Castors paid enough that Mother could afford such extravagant jewelry.

I fight back tears as Mother takes the first earring from the box and finds the tiny, pinprick hole in my earlobe that I thought would have closed by now. “There,” she says, fastening the second earring. She draws back, her hand cupping my cheek. “Tonight, you take a piece of the sea with you.”

Her words threaten to unravel me, but I maintain a fragile grip on my composure. “Thank you,” I murmur around the knot in my throat, my voice thick.

I see Owen in Mother’s face as she grins, and something in my chest splinters.

“You’ve outdone yourself, Margaret dear.” Lady Isabelle enters the room, looking like a vision in scarlet. Her tiara glimmers like tiny stars atop her neatly coiffured hair. She extends an arm to me. “Aster?”

I glance at Margaret, who nods encouragingly and takes the bouquet from my trembling hands. For the first time since Killian gave me the means to protect myself, I am without a weapon. I practically begged Margaret to find a way to hide my daggers beneath my gown, but she insisted the tight fabric wouldn’t allow it. I find myself wishing I had strapped something to my thigh—a butter knife, a pair of scissors—that I might use just in case I am found out for what I truly am. After what Percy and his Hounds did in the middle of Ink Haven, and the subsequent revolt of the humans against them, Killian claims Nightweavers are becoming even more at odds with my kind. If they decided to take their anger out on me…

“Aster,” Margaret whispers, derailing my thoughts. She pats the back of her head somewhat inconspicuously. I mirror the movement, touching the back of my head, where Margaret secured my hair with a long, sharp pin. My fingers skim the cool metal, tears pricking my eyes. Margaret found a way to ensure I wouldn’t be without the means to defend myself. I want to kiss her cheek, but I’ve stalled long enough.

Breathing deeply, I give Margaret a grateful smile and take Lady Isabelle’s arm.

“Oh, wait!” Margaret takes an ornate amber bottle from the vanity. She spritzes me from head to toe, bathing me in vanilla perfume. I sneeze, earning an airy chuckle from Lady Isabelle.

“Shall we?” Lady Isabelle asks, smiling warmly.

I nod before I can change my mind, allowing her to lead me out of the room. Every step down the long hallway echoes the throbbing of my heart. I don’t know why I expect Will to appear in each doorframe we pass, but when we make it to the end of the hall, and the muffled chatter of guests arriving below drifts up the stairwell, my heart begins to pound for an entirely different reason.

For the past week, Henry, Killian, Jack—even little Annie—have been drilling me every chance they got on the proper etiquette I’m to obey this evening. Graciously accept invitations to dance. Do not dance with the same partner more than three times. Do not cross or enter the ballroom unattended. Do not linger at the supper table. I go over each rule meticulously, careful to commit them all to memory, but the dos and don’ts of attending a ball are the least of my worries, as Henry will be there to guide me through.

It is not how I am to be that gnaws at my insides. It’s who I am to be.

Aster Wagner, orphaned daughter of a cobbler from the Cutthroat Coast. According to the story I am to tell concerning my false identity, Lord Bludgrave loaned my father, Hans Wagner, the money to start a business when I was still a child. Hans passed away last year because of an unknown illness and I took over the business, which turned out to be rather lucrative. Should anyone ask, I am visiting the Castors as an old family friend.

But, Killian admitted when crafting such a tale, my so-called freedom will matter not to the Nightweavers in attendance. They see the act of liberation as a farce, one not to be taken seriously, and while I will be Henry’s guest, many will see me as a plaything of sorts.

My stomach tightens, and I remind myself that it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks of me. They may not know the truth, but I do. I am more than just some human doll to be paraded about.

I am something to be feared.

I am death at the other end of a blade— er —hairpin.

I am… way out of my element.

“Wait here,” Lady Isabelle says soothingly. “Henry will be up in a moment to retrieve you.”

Mouth too dry to speak, I simply nod. The moment Lady Isabelle rounds the corner, disappearing down the stairwell, a dizzying sort of feeling sweeps over me. My body tingles, my face is hot. I take a step back, turning, ready to bolt… when a low whistle gives me pause.

“Aster?” Henry’s voice is quiet, tentative.

I turn to find him lingering on the top step, his eyes wide.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” I snap, flushing.

He laughs, and I’m once again reminded that Henry was held captive aboard the Deathwail , too. That they dumped him off the coast somewhere and left him to die, and yet, he survived. His laughter comforts me in a strange way. It gives me hope. It gives me courage. Without thinking, I tug at the strip of yellow chiffon around my neck, pulling it loose as if to free myself from the memory of that rope.

Henry takes another step, towering over me in the narrow hall. His gaze catches on the scars at my throat, and his jaw works, any trace of laughter now gone from his face. His eyes meet mine, his brows knitted. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but he must think better of it.

He shakes his head. “My brother is a fool.”

I nearly choke, arranging the chiffon to cover the scars once more. “What makes you say that?”

His gaze shifts, and he looks over my shoulder, where I know the green baize door is closed. “He’ll never truly understand what he has until it’s no longer his.”

My chest aches, but not because of what he said about Will. “We’ll find her, Henry.”

He gives a tight nod, his eyes narrow. Then his face relaxes, and he straightens, extending his arm to me. The corner of his mouth kicks up. “You smell like a cupcake.”

I snort, taking his arm. “Is that a compliment?”

His nose wrinkles. “Not quite.”

He escorts me down the first few steps, and I find myself searching for the tattoo of an X just behind his ear—the mark of those held captive aboard the Deathwail . Before we round the corner, where the landing will expose us to the gathering crowd below, Henry turns to me, and I pretend I wasn’t staring.

“You look better than any Nightweaver could ever dream of,” he says, his expression sincere. Then his lip quirks into a teasing smile, and he adds, “ That was a compliment. Though, I wouldn’t be too pleased with myself if I were you. Trudy Birtwistle might try to stab you before the night is over.”

“For a dance with you?” I ask with mock surprise. “If that’s the case, we shall duel for your hand.”

Henry laughs again, and the anxious flutter in my stomach calms as we take another step, and another. The chatter below is all but deafening. We round the corner, stepping down onto the landing, and—

Silence.

I’ve never seen the main hall so full of people. Every eye finds me, but rather than the hateful looks I expected to receive, I am met with a vibrant curiosity that nearly causes my steps to falter. Some even appear envious as Henry clears his throat, signaling for me to continue down the stairwell. But the instant I manage to lift my foot to take another step, I see him, and my heart stops beating altogether.

Will.