The Otherwhere Post

Chapter 9

Maeve woke in the chill predawn hour, when the shaded light was barely enough to see by. Her fingers weren’t used to her new uniform, and she prayed that Nan was a heavy sleeper and wouldn’t hear her bustling about, trying to wiggle into an ill-fitting camisole and plucking at unruly buttons. The courier’s cloak was the only item she adored; its dark hood slipped easily over her head to cover it completely, the thick waxed material muting her curves until she couldn’t tell her hips from her elbows. She sighed at how secure it made her feel. Venturing outside, however, was a different matter.

Clouds of silver mist pooled between the bare oaks, and their spindled branches gave little cover from the morning rain. Maeve was thoroughly soaked by the time she reached Tristan’s suggestion of the Hall of Routes, a gray stone building on the north edge of the grounds. Its imposing, unwelcoming facade gave her pause, but she nudged away her reservations and stepped inside to a bustling open chamber with soaring ceilings crisscrossed with elaborate brass sorting chutes. Rows of enormous bins the size of carriages lined the floor beneath the chutes, brimming with envelopes.

Maeve had read about this building in the Postmaster’s newsletters—where all mail was brought after being collected, to be sorted for scribing.

A reception desk stood amid the chaos. Maeve’s heels clicked along the stone floor as she made her way to a clerk at the far end of the desk, a mustached older man, fully engrossed in today’s Herald .

“What is it?” he barked.

Maeve fidgeted. “I’m in need of help.”

“Of course you are,” the clerk said, and returned to reading his paper.

Gilded doorstopper indeed.

Maeve swallowed and crept closer to the desk. “I need to find the sender of an anonymous letter. It’s one of the old letters from right after the doors were burned. It was delivered with no name. And the recipient would dearly like to know who sent it.”

The clerk yawned. “Afraid I can’t help you there.”

“Why not?”

He gave her a disdainful glance. “There aren’t records in the Hall of Routes for letters that old.”

“You could try the tracking office,” someone said from behind her. The deep voice resonated through every one of Maeve’s bones. She turned slowly.

Steward Tallowmeade towered beside her, carrying a large bundle of letters.

“Undeliverables,” he said to the clerk, and the man scrambled to take the letters from the steward’s hands. Tallowmeade turned to her. Earthenware pots jangled from his neck, scents of cedarwood and clove drifting to Maeve’s nose. The spiced scents would normally be soothing, but they had an opposite effect. “You’re Apprentice Hill?”

Maeve nodded, focusing her attention on the desk.

“Look up, child,” Tallowmeade said.

She forced her eyes to the base of his bearded chin.

“Much better,” he said in that deep, meandering voice. “A scriptomancer must always keep their gaze level with the horizon, paying attention to their surroundings. It’s one of Molly Blackcaster’s rules for traveling, written in the Ideals of Scriptomancy . There should be copies floating around the apprentice hall. It might serve you well to give it a read.”

“I will,” Maeve said.

“Good. Now, about that letter of yours…” he started, and she tensed instinctively at the mention of the letter, then forced herself to take a breath. “Someone at the tracking office would know exactly how to help you. They have special methods of tracking old letters, even ones from before our current postage records.”

Maeve tried to keep her voice even. “Thank you for the advice, Steward Tallowmeade.” As he began to turn away from her, she risked one more question. “Is the tracking office nearby?”

“It’s in Barrow, Apprentice Hill. You could give it a visit once you’re able to cross worlds.”

Her newfound hope withered on the spot.

He nodded to her, then lumbered away, walking as slowly as he spoke.

Maeve waited until he was out of sight before she, too, headed outdoors, circling buildings for a few minutes before finding the courtyard, the ink fountain. She braced her hands against the fountain’s edge, staring at her reflection in the black ink.

She had no way to visit Barrow to find the tracking office. That was a dead end. And worse, now Steward Tallowmeade knew that she was searching for the sender of a letter. If he mentioned it to others—

Stop it, Maeve told herself. She was only being paranoid. People received letters all the time.

She squeezed the fountain’s stone lip until her fingers were chilled through her gloves, then shook out her hands, looking around her.

If she couldn’t go to the tracking office, she’d simply find another way to investigate from Leyland. There had to be something she could do from here—the place where her father had lived for so much of his life. Surely if she could uncover more about her father, she might be able to guess who his old friend was.

The misting rain darkened the gray buildings that her father had spent his days inside. He must have filled countless journals here—journals that never seemed to wind up in their home in Inverly. She had learned her own journaling habit from him, after all, and she rarely saw him without one.

Last night, she’d noticed a few journals were stuffed between the books in Hawthorne House. The shelves seemed to have no clear order, and were organized simply at the whims of the couriers living in the halls. There would be no easy way to search them besides sifting through shelves by hand. But if she knew which residence hall her father had lived in, it would be a start.

If she found just one of his journals, it might mention the names of people he was close with. A name would give her a lead.

A group of stewards walked into the north end of the courtyard, including Tallowmeade.

Before anyone might wonder what she was doing, Maeve darted into a nearby building. Her stomach clenched from hunger as heavy smells of breakfast meats and stale coffee assaulted her. She followed the scents to a loud mess hall filled with otherwhere couriers. Hanging at the edge, she watched them sip from steaming cups and slather beans onto bread crusts. A worker carried a basin filled with mush to a sideboard covered in opened canisters of gray jelly and a brown sauce that nearly stifled her appetite.

The food budgets set by the House of Ministers must be minuscule by the look of it. But then they probably didn’t care if otherwhere couriers ate well, only that they bruised their fingers scribing letters for delivery.

This place must be a shock for someone from an expensive upper school, who was used to oysters and prime rib on silver platters.

Maeve stuffed four slices of soda bread down her saddlebag to take with her, then spotted Tristan. He sat at a nearby table in the corner by himself, reading. The bruises beneath his eyes were darker this morning. Did he sleep at all? He ruffled his hair, then he flipped a page in his book. An untouched plate of food sat beside him.

She knew it. He was one of those disturbing people who could pick off morsels for hours, whereas she tended to lick her plates clean. He probably hated all sweets as well.

Maeve was about to leave, then halted when a courier stood up from the table behind Tristan. A large fellow with a thick neck and bunching shoulder muscles. He carried a full glass of milk, then raised it above Tristan’s head.

Tristan flipped another page of his book, oblivious.

Maeve once had a glass of water tipped down her back at the Sacrifict, and knew intimately what it felt like to be whispered about, targeted. Hated. A sharp burst of anger struck her at the painful memories, and she pointed to the courier with the milk. “Tristan, watch out!”

Tristan was seated close enough to hear her and looked up, then leapt out of the way a moment before the milk splashed onto his chair.

The room fell to silence.

The courier’s gaze shot to her for a heated moment, and Maeve’s scalp prickled. Then he took Tristan’s entire plate of food and flipped it onto the open book, mashing it into the page, then walking away as if nothing happened.

Tristan stared at the mess for a long moment, his back to her. He must be scalding with anger. Maeve braced herself for an outburst, but it never came. Tristan gave his book a brisk shake, then tucked it down his saddlebag and turned to meet her eyes.

To her surprise, it wasn’t anger she saw. Her mouth slackened at the sorrow plainly etched in every line of Tristan’s face.

He gave her a curt nod of acknowledgment, then exited through a back door.