The Otherwhere Post

Chapter 42

Afternoon storm clouds crested the sky as Tristan and Maeve exited the lecture hall. He took her hand and threaded their fingers together, then helped her walk to a winding footpath that curved around a building. Not a moment later, someone shouted Maeve’s name from a distance. A tall woman with a dark head of hair came loping up the path. Maeve expected Nan to stop, but she kept racing forward and plowed straight into her, throwing her arms around Maeve’s shoulders, knocking the wind out of her in a single wallop.

“She might not be covered in bruises, but she’s still healing, Nan,” Tristan said, nudging her roommate off.

“Oh dear. Sorry about that.” Nan backed enough away that Maeve could get a good look at her.

The hospital staff didn’t allow for many visitors, though Tristan had snuck Nan in once. But that was weeks ago now, when Maeve could barely open her eyes through the bruising.

“Did you use an inkwell to wash your clothes?” A splatter of lampblack ran down the front of Nan’s blouse.

“Oh, drat. It is rather soiled, isn’t it?” She wiped at her front, which did nothing. “I spilled it this morning at the Groggery and haven’t had a chance to change. I’m working on something.”

“An epic poem?” Maeve asked.

Nan wrinkled her nose. “A gossip sheet.”

Maeve sighed. “Why does that not surprise me in the least?”

“I know, right? I pitched the idea to the stewards, and they were as nervous as newly birthed foals, but they eventually caved to my whim after I explained to them the benefits. I’m penning the official gossip sheet from inside the Otherwhere Post, with scintillating details of couriers’ lives.”

“So long as none of your gossip is about me,” Maeve shot back.

“I wouldn’t dare,” Nan said with a devious smirk.

Maeve didn’t believe her at all. “Is it going to be printed here on the grounds?” She pictured the flyers pinned up in the mess hall’s entranceway.

“Goodness, no. I already have a verbal agreement with the Times to run the first few pieces in their Sunday paper. Second page. And so long as the stewards get an opportunity to check over the sheet before it prints, they’re fine with it. After everything that happened, they said they plan to make transparency one of their new ideals. I didn’t think they had it in them.”

“That’s wonderful news.” Maeve was thrilled for Nan, and also wary.

Nan leaned toward Tristan. “Did you already show her?”

“Not yet,” Tristan said, his eyes narrowing at Nan. “I was about to until you nearly ruined the surprise.”

“Show me what?” Maeve asked.

“You must let me come. Please.” Nan bounced on the balls of her feet. “I’m already writing all about it for my gossip sheet.”

That was it. “If you write about me one more time, I will set your paper on fire then sprinkle the ashes over you while you sleep. Are we clear?”

“There’s the attitude I’ve been missing these past weeks.” Nan grinned. “Let’s show her, shall we?”

Nan covered Maeve’s eyes with her hands, while Tristan took Maeve’s elbow and helped her to walk. After a minute, Maeve could tell she was standing in the central courtyard by the way the wind blew through trees and the feel of uneven stones beneath her feet.

“Is this really necessary?” Maeve said, trying her best to pry Nan’s hands away, which only made her press harder. “You’ll blind me before I see anything.”

Someone else ran up. “Has she seen it yet?”

It was Shea.

“Unless you think I’m some special human with the ability to see through flesh, I have not. Now, I demand to know what in the worlds you all are hiding from me!”

The moment Nan dropped her hands and Maeve saw what they were speaking of, she staggered backward, nearly falling to her bottom on the uneven pavers.

Tristan caught her. He placed his palms on the sides of her waist, steadying her. It wasn’t nearly enough.

“Don’t go fainting on me,” he whispered against her ear.

“I’m not the fainting type.” Maeve stepped forward and placed her hands on the lip of Molly Blackcaster’s fountain, staring up at the smaller statue that now stood beside Molly. A man with a soft fall of hair and large dimples and piercing eyes that Maeve would recognize anywhere.

Her father had never worn a courier’s cloak, but his statue wore one. The hood was down, the edges flaring out behind him as if caught in a Gloam storm. His shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, the Silver Scribing tracing a path along both of his forearms.

The likeness was startling.

“They commissioned it the week after Mordraig was sent to Stonewater,” Tristan said. “Before Mordraig confessed to everything. They had enough evidence, and they all knew Jonathan and believed us when we told them your whole story. The statue was a unanimous vote between the stewards, if you can believe it. And now the ministers want to foot the bill and take credit for it. It’s incredible, really. They never care about anything on these grounds, but they see the importance of this. Though I think this statue here is the least they could do.”

Her father would have been overjoyed to see this statue, and perhaps a little embarrassed as well, considering the artist took a few liberties with his musculature. But it was him staring down at her now, his mouth drawn in concentration, his foot mid-step as if he were walking across worlds.

Maeve had never felt prouder to be an Abenthy.

“He’s a hero,” Tristan said.

That he was.

Maeve didn’t realize she was crying until Tristan held up a handkerchief. She took it and scrubbed her eyes until they stung.

Tristan turned and said something to Shea and Nan. Whatever it was, the two women hurried away. As soon as they were gone, Tristan put an arm around Maeve’s shoulders. “There’s something else I want to show you.”

“I don’t think my heart could take another surprise like this.”

“I promise the next one won’t make you weep. If it does, that’s your own fault.”

She didn’t believe him at all, but she trusted him implicitly, and let him help her walk all the way to his room at Hawthorne House.

He stepped inside first and ran to the window, opening his heavy curtain, filling the room with daylight. Dust motes shimmered like specks of arcane magic in the air.

The room was rearranged. A modest scriptomancy worktable now took up the entire corner beside Tristan’s upright piano. The bookshelves were all still there, but the leather settee was gone, replaced with two smaller chairs that faced a rather large bed.

Maeve stepped to it and ran a finger along a tracery of leaves carved into the wooden posts. They weren’t the Aldervine’s serrated leaves but resembled a garden of wildflowers sprouting along the wood, weaving upward to where a simple canopy was strung with small bundles of drying scribing herbs.

She imagined herself lying on this bed, asleep, with Tristan’s arms draped loosely around her waist, her head pressed into the crook of his neck while her palm covered the top of his chest, rising and falling with his steady breath.

“It’s a shame the stewards don’t think they’ll have the Silver Scribing ready to attempt for another month,” she said, playing out the simple fantasy in her mind.

“It is a shame,” Tristan said, then pushed his spectacles up his nose. “Which is why I decided to take on the task myself. I figured it out last night.”

Maeve turned to him. “You figured out my father’s journal?”

He unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his rumpled shirtsleeve, revealing exquisite lines of text that shimmered silver in the sunlight streaming from the window. She’d seen it on Mordraig’s arm, but in Tristan’s handwriting, it looked even more beautiful.

“There’s a small amount of crematory ash mixed with the original text’s ink. It was tricky to get the right amount. I had to test it on parchment for several days first, but I eventually gathered enough courage to try it on my arm, and it worked better than I hoped.” He brought his hands to his collar and unbuttoned his shirt, pulling apart the material. “See?”

She did.

The two black puncture marks surrounding his heart had disappeared.

The truth felt like a quill had pierced open her own heart, and she swiped at her eye. “You promised this wouldn’t make me cry.”

“Yes, but I lied.” He brushed a soft kiss along her lips. “Now, Maeve Abenthy, come and have a seat by my worktable and roll up your sleeve.”