The Otherwhere Post

Chapter 27

Maeve stepped into Leyland with unease gnawing at her stomach and the barest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. She wasn’t sure she would ever get over the shock of what Fion told her about her father’s death, but speaking with Tristan had made it all bearable. More than bearable. They planned to meet up in a few days, where she just might give up another secret.

Her smile grew at the thought, while snowflakes drifted down on her cheeks. Leyland was much snowier than Barrow. The streets were difficult to traverse, even with her own boots on her feet.

Dreading the idea of going back to the boardinghouse, Maeve ducked inside a tavern and ordered a glass of milk from the barkeep. She took a sip and glanced over at a stack of newspapers. The headline on the front page of the Herald read:

Jonathan Abenthy’s Missing Roommate

“Has the milk gone sour?” the barkeep asked. Maeve shook her head and choked the mouthful down.

The article was dated yesterday, written by a Zelda Crawford.

Maeve dragged her fingers over the name—one of the pen names Nan had rattled off in the Groggery.

The article went on to describe the exact setup of her father’s room with the sitting room that connected to another bedchamber, then endless paragraphs of speculation about who it might have been and why their name was absent from all articles about Inverly.

Nan must have been working on this that day in the Groggery when she’d hidden her library books in her saddlebag before Maeve could peek. She’d never wanted to publish poetry; she fancied herself a reporter, and Maeve had handed her the most tantalizing story imaginable on a silver platter.

At least the Herald was a Leylish paper. Fion must not have seen this yet, but as soon as he got wind of this, he would think it her doing. The timing was too coincidental.

Maeve bowed over the bar top until her forehead rested against the paper, breathing in and out through her nose.

This was bad. Reporters would come for Fion, and he would tell everyone all about her. Her full name. That man in the tracking office would hunt her down immediately, along with every constabulary courier in the known worlds. She’d be arrested by dinnertime tomorrow.

She couldn’t remain in Gloam.

Rifling through her saddlebag, Maeve found her purse and quickly counted out the coins Tristan had given her—the entire contents of his pockets. Enough shills for a one-way train ticket south and little else.

She slid from the stool, then hesitated. If she fled this city now, she would be leaving behind the rose journal—her investigation.

The journal’s distinctive cover flashed in her mind. It would be easy to find on a shelf, and the Postmaster was likely still at the exhibition until very late.

“Don’t you want the rest?” the barkeep waved at the unfinished glass of milk, but Maeve was already out the tavern and turning up the street that bordered Blackcaster Square.

Most of the protesters were gone for the night. Maeve rushed past the few who were left, then up the steep embankment until she came upon Tristan’s secret opening in the fence. She slipped through it, into the Post’s silent woods.

Icy footpaths made her trek tedious, but she soon found her way to the office building Tristan had walked her through on her first day here, called Amaranthus Hall. She pushed inside to a small front parlor where a worn chaise sat before a cold hearth. An iron poker hung above the mantel.

Maeve dragged the poker down and carried it quietly along the narrow office corridor, checking the cracks below each door she passed for any hint of flickering light, but the offices were all dark; everyone gone for the night.

The Postmaster’s office was like the others, with a simple brass handle that was locked tight like everything else inside the school. Maeve brought the poker up and swung it down with all her strength. The brass handle snapped, pieces scattering to the floor. She kicked them to the side and pushed the door open.

The office felt like an icebox. A dark, stuffy icebox.

Maeve opened a curtain, allowing a sliver of moonlight to spill across the large bookcase that took up one wall. There were hundreds of books, but only one shelf of journals. Her fingers worked quickly, pulling out one journal after another, until at least fifty lay piled across the floor, and not a single one with roses.

Where was it? There were no more bookshelves. No journals on the Postmaster’s desk. Maeve opened a small closet and found a large, locked cabinet inside that looked suspicious. She ran over to where she’d set down the poker, then froze at the distant creak of a door.

Footsteps were coming from down the corridor.

She tried to shut the office door, but she’d broken the latching mechanism, and it wouldn’t close. She couldn’t stay here.

Darting into the hall, Maeve turned deeper into the building, rushing past more shut doors until she found one that led to a darkened storage room with walls hung with tapestries. Chests below the windowsills were piled high with scribing glasses and mounds of rumpled papers.

An oil lamp flickered to life.

Steward Mordraig reclined in a rocking chair a few paces away. He wiped at a string of drool from his chin and squinted up at her.

“Is that you, apprentice? What in god’s nose are you doing in my parlor? I thought you were visiting a relative in the south.”

“I just returned,” Maeve said. “I was looking for a lavatory on this floor, and I got lost. I should go.”

She turned quickly, knocking a glass cloche off a shelf with her elbow. It hit the floor and shattered. She was going to leave it and run, but perhaps it was best to stay put for a few more minutes, until whoever was in the hall left.

“Goodness, I’m so sorry. I’ll help clean it up.”

“It’s all right,” Mordraig said. He slowly pushed himself up and hobbled toward the patch of glass, pulling an emerald feather from the mess.

Maeve had never seen a feather like it. Iridescent fletching sparked with an inner fire.

“Something, isn’t it?” Mordraig said.

“Where is it from?”

“Outside the known worlds. Back when it was safe to travel, scriptomancers came across some interesting variations on our animals,” Mordraig spun the feather. “Cows with sleek gray coats. Cats with violet eyes. Birds with bright green wing feathers. There are more historical artifacts in the Library of Forgotten Things, where I stole this feather from. Don’t tell anyone.” He winked and set the feather on a shelf, beside a few other glass cloches. “It’s a pity that most of the animal varieties were lost to the vine.”

Maeve glanced to the open door as the voices carried from down the hall. She could make out Steward Tallowmeade’s meandering baritone.

She needed to buy herself more time for Tallowmeade to leave.

“Did the old scriptomancers ever figure out where the Aldervine came from?” she asked.

“The vine? Nobody knows exactly where it started. The earliest recordings of it speak of the Aldervine creeping up buildings and winding around fence posts, but that’s all,” he said, then looked at something behind her.

She turned.

Tallowmeade stood in the doorway, holding the remains of a knob. “Is that you, Apprentice Hill? I thought you were in the south.”

“She arrived back this evening,” Mordraig said. “What is that?” He squinted at the broken knob.

Tallowmeade held it up. “Someone took it upon themselves to break into the Postmaster’s office and sift through his bookcase.”

Mordraig whistled. “Onrich will be raving mad.”

“Did you see who did it?” Tallowmeade asked Maeve.

“I—I didn’t see anything.”

He held out his free hand. “I’ll need to confiscate your saddlebag.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you’re here. It’s policy when a crime as great as this one is committed.”

“I’m afraid he’s right, apprentice,” Mordraig said.

But the letter from Professor Claryman was tucked in the bottom, right beside her journal. If one of them saw it, it would be worse than if they thought her guilty of the break-in.

She lunged for the hall.

Steward Mordraig swung his cane up, blocking her, but Maeve dropped to her knees and scrambled forward, under the cane.

“Stop her!” Tallowmeade bellowed, but she was already down the hall, out the door.