Chapter 8
I stay in the vestibule for as long as I can after Silas leaves, breathing deeply and trying to get myself under control.
Sitting on the ground with my back against the door, so no one can walk in on me, I take out the vial of whaleblood and the nail file I always carry with me.
Drink the whaleblood and file down the claws, biting my lip against the pain.
The idea of sitting through a church service now sounds torturous.
All I want to do is go home and lie down, but my siblings will miss me if I slip away.
And something Silas said comes back to me.
If there are blessings to be had, I’d be a fool to disdain them.
I can’t bring myself to consider the rest of it, the message, the war with the finfolk.
The implications are too huge, too overwhelming.
But he might be right about blessings, at least. I get up, straighten my clothes, and double-check my gloves are in place, then take a deep breath before slipping out.
The sanctuary is mostly full, all the candles lit—did Harriet come in and finish the job, I wonder, or did Silas light the remainder with his magic?
Well-dressed men and women, officers and merchants and their children, file into the front pews, while the sailors tend to sit in the back in battered oilcloth and faded linen, wearing iron knives and iron necklaces, their throats and wrists and waists ornamented by strings of yellow-white bone beads carved with tiny crosses.
Our people, Mama called them when she was here.
She never wanted us to forget that our true allegiance wasn’t to the shareholders but to the sailors on our ships and the lowly of Kirkrell.
The men and women who toil on ships to bring in whales, and those back on land who rely on whale magic to stay alive.
Seeing them, slumped and tired but still here, usually fires me up with determination to fix what’s gone wrong.
Cure my heartbreak not just for me and my siblings but so I can carry on the work of bringing whaleblood and oil and bone to everyone who needs them.
If what Silas says is true, I’m putting them all in danger by carrying on whaling. But to do otherwise would be to tear away their lifeblood.
I find Kit and Lydia in our usual pew and plop down next to them, pressing a kiss to Kit’s combed hair, and smile hesitantly at Lydia. At least she can’t ask me more questions about heartbreak and the voyage, not in church surrounded by strangers, not to mention Kit’s sharp ears.
Kit fidgets. When he was younger, I would sometimes let him bring a book to church to keep him quiet, but recently I’ve forbidden it, conscious of avoiding any seeming impropriety with the eyes of the city on us.
I know he’s not happy about it, but he tries to be good, though he can’t help but fiddle with the hem of his shirt.
I put an arm around him, and he leans into me, making my heart twist.
“Will August be joining us?” Lydia asks, her tone neutral.
“Not today. He’s down at the docks to oversee the preparations of the Heralder.” I glance over at her, trying to read her expression, but her eyes are slanted away from me, wandering over the stained glass windows like she hasn’t seen them most every week of her entire life.
I’ve never been able to quite parse out whether Lydia approves of August. She tends to make herself scarce when he visits our house, but I never gave it much thought before.
Now, though, knowing that she and he and I will all be living in close proximity on the Heralder, worry gnaws at me.
I didn’t tell her about the seashell, about the possibility that August may have designs on my life.
I let her think that my heartbreak is merely over our parents.
But has she guessed that something else is at play?
I send up a little prayer that she hasn’t. If the unthinkable is true—if Silas is telling the truth and August means me harm—I want Lydia to know as little as possible, to protect her.
The service begins, its rhythms familiar, and for a while, I can get lost in the recitation asking the Maker to guide us through the rough waters of life. I let my attention wander to the windows, splashing panels of bright-colored light over the congregation.
The nearest window to me tells one of Mama’s favorite stories.
Ivar Kirkrell was half human, the son of a finfolk woman who tricked a human man into marriage.
She agreed to join her husband onshore for seven years, on the condition that at the end of it he and the boy Ivar go with her to her home, which the husband didn’t realize meant Drekja.
Yet the man’s mother, a wise old woman, saw the finwife for what she was.
Tasked with watching her grandson one day, she secretly burned the shape of a cross onto Ivar’s skin—a ward, so that when the bargain came due and his mother came to carry the babe into the sea, she couldn’t touch him.
In the story of Ivar Kirkrell, the finwoman gnashed her teeth and wailed, but she couldn’t touch Ivar, and he stayed with his grandmother on land.
He was strong and brave, grew up to be a hero, founding the city that would come to be the whaling capital of the world.
Which would imply that human blood is stronger.
Is it so with Silas? Is he really on our side?
The time slips by, so I’m caught off guard when Lydia pokes at my arm. “It’s time.”
I blink, coming back to the moment.
“If any among you are planning to go to sea this week,” the minister is calling from the pulpit, “please approach for a special blessing to protect you on your voyage.”
Kit slumps in the pew, crossing his arms as I lean across to speak to Lydia. “You want to go up?”
“We’re going to sea, aren’t we?”
We stand and join the tide, heading for the front of the church to be blessed.
I keep my eyes forward, but I can feel the gazes of others on me, on us, as we move to the front.
Again Silas’s claims echo at the edges of my mind.
All these people rely on the Fairfax Whaling Company in direct and indirect ways. But if there really is to be a war …
The bottom of the bowl the minister holds is carved with a cross, the bowl itself is forged with iron, and the water has been prayed over before the service. Three layers of protection against the sea, its storms and sharks and finfolk.
The minister doesn’t look surprised to see me and Lydia in front of him, just smiles kindly.
Probably word of the Kielstraat expedition has already reached him.
My heart beats faster as I reach the front, clasping my hands in front of me as I step up to the minister.
I’ve no choice but to tilt my head up, baring my throat, but his eyes just skim benevolently over my face.
“Remember there are no waters in the world where the Maker does not reign,” he says gravely. “May your voyage be blessed.”
He thumbs briskly between my collarbones, two crossed lines, leaving my skin chill in his wake.