The Otherwhere Post

Chapter 7

Gray slivers of moonlight pierced the grounds as they crossed an ancient graveyard bordering the eastern side of the office building. Headstones kissed one another, their markings rubbed away from centuries of battering wind. Scriptomancers of old were buried here, bones turning to dust. As Maeve’s skirts scraped against stones, she wondered if the truth about her father was worth this suffocating feeling of dread that grew heavier, weighing her down with each step. At least the Postmaster didn’t recognize her. It was only Tristan she had to worry about.

Tristan Byrne, the Postmaster’s son.

He wove her diligently around gravestones, the blank expression from his father’s office shifting to a clenched jaw, probably mulling over whether he should turn her in. The thought kept her on guard.

Past the graveyard, the bare oaks thickened, then opened for a circular clearing, a dark pit in its center. Hundreds of sharpened metal spikes lined the edges of the pit like the yawning mouth of a beast.

A howling gust came up from within that mouth, misting Maeve with salt spray.

She licked it from her lips. They must be very close to the ocean ledge, probably perched on a cliff above it now. This hole likely emptied to sharp rocks below.

Her heart slammed into her throat. “So now what? You’re going to throw me in?”

“You underestimate me. If I was planning to kill you, I think I could come up with far more creative ways than shoving you down that.”

“Then why did you bring me here?”

He lifted a rock and tossed it down the hole.

Maeve listened, but the howl of the wind wrapped around her ears and made it impossible to hear if the rock landed anywhere.

“It’s called the abyss. They used to bring scriptomancers here centuries ago to toss down for violating the most important of rules. Fascinating little hole, isn’t it?”

Maeve would rather feed a horse with her naked fingers than hear another word about that little hole.

She tightened her arms across her chest as a new gust of wind grabbed the edges of her coat, her braid. It stung her eyes, and she cursed herself for getting into this situation to begin with.

Tristan stared at a spot beyond the trees. “My father and I might not be the chummiest, but I know him well. He’s beholden to the House of Ministers. Because of it, he runs a tight ship. He doesn’t take kindly to people breaking any of the Post’s rules. If he learns about what you did, he’ll bring you here and hang you over the edge until you tell him everything about yourself, down to the color of your knickers. Then he’ll deliver you straight to Stonewater.”

The Leyland prison was infamous for feeding its prisoners rats, among other delicacies. Maeve had no desire to pay it a visit.

Perhaps if she wished it hard enough, the ghost of Molly Blackcaster would appear to give Tristan a healthy shove down that hole.

Tristan turned to face her. “I don’t care much for the Post’s rules, but I’m also on a stipend that I’d rather not forfeit by harboring a swindler, no matter how innocent she may look. We both know you’re not Eilidh Hill. Either I’m returning you to my father, or you can tell me who you are and why you’re here and we can go about our merry way. I don’t suppose you have a preference?”

He only wanted answers? She could certainly give him some answers.

“You already know why I’m here. I told you that day in Alewick,” she said.

“The letter?”

She nodded.

“You mean to tell me that you would impersonate an apprentice and lie your way inside the Post to find out who sent you an old letter?” Disbelief was written on his face.

“The letter is important to me.”

He seemed truly perplexed. “Nothing is that important.”

“It is. If I can find the sender, it—it could change my life,” she said, praying he would understand. But he still appeared skeptical. “If you could reverse the worst thing that’s ever happened to you, wouldn’t you risk everything to try?”

“The worst thing that’s ever happened to me is irreversible,” he said, then held out a hand. “But let’s see it.”

“My letter?”

“No, your knickers. Of course your letter.”

She shuffled backward. “I misplaced it.”

“Ah, yes, of course. A letter that’s so important it has you sneaking inside the Otherwhere Post—risking going to prison over—and you simply misplaced it.” He sighed. “Do you honestly expect me to believe that?”

She straightened her shoulders, bothered that she only came to his chin. “Believe what you want.”

He nodded to himself. “Very well. Even if you’re not here for some odious purpose, you’ve somehow cheated your way into the most selective apprenticeship in the worlds. The stewards will figure you out in minutes.” He looked her over with an eyebrow raised. “Can you even hold a quill?”

The way he said it made her hands curl to fists. “I know how to write.”

“Of course you do. How dare I suggest otherwise?”

Maeve’s nails dug into her palms. She had never understood the desire to punch someone in the face until now.

“I assume that you know perfectly well how to scratch out a few garbled sentences,” he went on, “but apprentices can craft paragraphs as if ink is their lifeblood and parchment is their very bones. If you haven’t been to a writing program at an upper school, which I can’t fathom that you have, you’ll never be able to trick anyone that you’re up to snuff. Only a fool would try. You didn’t strike me as inkbrained at first, but perhaps I was mistaken.”

Good heavens, Maeve wanted to prove him wrong. Perhaps more than she’d ever wanted anything before. Then an idea struck her, and she held out a hand. “Writing pad.”

“What?”

There was no way she would pull out her own journal in front of him, and he needed to watch her write.

“Do you have a writing pad, or is your saddlebag merely chock-full of garbage?”

He grumbled and rifled through his bag, handing her a rumpled pad, along with an inkpot and a gorgeous hawk quill covered in globules of melted wax. Its fletching stuck to her fingers as she opened his pad and uncorked the ink. She penned four neat rows of text, then handed him the pad before the ink had time to fully dry.

“Read it.”

He glanced at it, then back at her. “It’s written in Old Leylish.”

“Yes, it is,” she said. Her father had made her learn the runic language as a child. Scriptomancers had used it for centuries, even after the modern tongue had replaced it in common use, because it had descriptive words missing from the modern tongue—words used to hone scribings. It fell even further out of favor after Molly Blackcaster revolutionized scribing, but Maeve’s father still found it useful. “Aren’t you going to read it?”

“Not many people can read Old Leylish,” Tristan said simply. “Most here can only write a few words with the help of a guidebook.”

That nearly made her smile. “Now do you agree that I can do more than merely scratch out a few sentences?”

“That depends.” He handed her the pad. “I think I would really need you to read me what you’ve written in order to believe in your ability.”

Her stomach dropped.

“Go on,” he said, crossing his arms.

He was truly going to make her read it? Very well. “Translated it says: These words prove me capable to stand beside anyone from an upper school. If you refuse to see that, then you are no better than…” Maeve let the words trail off.

His left eyebrow arched dramatically. “No better than…?”

“An animal combined with a body part,” she said quickly.

Tristan covered his mouth with his knuckles. “Fascinating. Which animal and which body part would that be?”

“Don’t you dare make me say it.”

They stared each other down for a long moment, then his mouth quivered. His shoulders began to shake. He was laughing at her.

“This is not a laughing situation!”

“Oh my. Now why did you have to go and say that ?” he said, gasping for breath.

Her embarrassment swiftly boiled into anger. She opened her mouth.

He put up a hand. “Stop it, I beg you.” He slid his fingers beneath his spectacles and wiped his eyes. “I read what you wrote the instant your nib hit the paper, and I thought it was a brilliant insult.”

She blinked at him. “You could read Old Leylish that whole time?”

“Of course I can. My father made me learn it. It pains me to say this, but I’m thoroughly impressed that you can. I was telling you the truth that most here would never be able to string that many runes together. Where did you learn it?”

“From an old book.” And the scriptomancer who made me read it . “Now do you think I’ll be able to join the apprenticeship without being noticed? I only need to stay long enough to investigate my letter.”

His gaze hung on her for a prolonged moment—longer than anyone ever bothered to look at her. It felt as if he were taking detailed notes on each of her eyelashes. It unnerved her, and she tugged the tangled clump of her braid to keep from squirming.

Finally, he tipped his face to the night sky and muttered, “Common sense be damned.” He met her eyes. “I don’t believe you’re being truthful about your letter, but then I’ve never been so curious in my entire life, and I’m a curious person by nature. I’m also fairly certain that if I don’t turn you in, someone else will within the week, and that will prove much more entertaining to watch.”

His words chilled her more than the wind, but she felt a small measure of hope. “Does this mean I can stay?”

He shoved the writing pad in his saddlebag without bothering to close it, smearing wet ink on his gloves. He wiped them across his cloak without a care. “You can stay, but do anything to jeopardize me or anyone here and we’ll pay a swift visit to my father.”

Tristan brought Maeve back through the Post’s grounds, pointing out the various buildings inhabited by famous scriptomancers of old. When Tristan wasn’t threatening her life, he had a steady and somewhat pleasant demeanor. It could be genuine, but it could also be an act to get her to relax her guard—and give away secrets about herself.

Just as he finished up a story about Molly Blackcaster’s pet crow—who liked stealing quill feathers and nipping at other scriptomancers—they arrived at an enormous yet slightly crooked stone building with a sharply steepled roof called Hawthorne House. Maeve’s new residence hall. Its tight, twisting corridors were lined in moth-eaten tapestries and overfilled bookcases. Tristan plucked a few old books as he wove her through, tucking them beneath his arm.

He halted when a group of couriers came toward them. One of the couriers spat as he passed, the glob of spittle landing on the toe of Tristan’s tasseled shoe.

Tristan’s expression tightened, but he didn’t say anything to the man.

“Why did he do that?” Maeve asked after the group had left.

“For the same reason the gate guards made us late; they’re all jealous of my wardrobe.” He gave a humorless smile.

He wasn’t telling the truth, but given her own tangle of lies, Maeve decided not to press for answers.

The encounter put him in a worse mood. She sensed it as she hurried behind him up a spiraling stair to a third-floor hall where more old books sat in tipping stacks against walls yellowed from pipe smoke. The chill air smelled of floor polish and moldering tea.

“This is the corridor for apprentices,” Tristan said. “Or those impersonating one, I suppose.”

Maeve tensed up. “Must you say that so loudly?”

“No, but your reactions are lifting my spirits.” He pulled a clipboard off a side table. “Eilidh’s room should be listed here.” She reached for it, but he took a step back. “You haven’t told me your real name.”

“Miraculously, here it is.” Maeve took the clipboard from him and ran a finger down the side. “Eilidh Pretoria Hill. Room 403.”

He wasn’t amused, but he held her gaze. “Who are you?” he asked.

The question carved its way into the pit of her stomach. “Nobody interesting.”

“Fine, nobody interesting . If you’re still here tomorrow, you should speak with someone in the Hall of Routes.”

That came out of nowhere. “Why?”

“Because they keep records of everything from paid postage to our librarians’ dietary habits. I can’t promise you’ll find out much about your mysterious letter—the clerks could all be replaced with gilded doorstoppers and nobody would notice—but unless you want to go speak with the stewards about it, it’s somewhere to start.”

Maeve stared at him, dumbfounded. He was helping her, and she had no clue what to say.

“Now go before I change my mind and drag you to my father’s office.”

She wouldn’t argue with that.

She started down the hall, where sepiagraphs cluttered the spaces between chamber doors. The nearest depicted an apprentice class gathered beside the ink fountain at springtime, budding leaves erupting from surrounding oaks. All the other pictures seemed to be of more classes. Many more than seven years’ worth. Some sepiagraphs had to be of scriptomancy students from when this was part of the university.

“Jonathan Abenthy is in the twenty-fourth one down, if you’re curious,” Tristan called out.

She froze in shocked disbelief at the sound of her father’s name spoken so casually.

He pointed to a sepiagraph along the hall. “All new apprentices usually want to see it.”

Right. Of course they would all be curious.

Maeve counted the class portraits as she walked, all the way to twenty-four—a larger sepiagraph, its silver frame tarnished from age. It showed at least fifty students in antiquated hairstyles and long university robes. She knew which one was him because his face was blotted-out with a thick scribble of lampblack ink, the word “murderer” scratched beside it.

Her father. The man who unleashed the Aldervine in Inverly.