Chapter 9
The morning we’re to depart, I find Kit in the kitchen, fully dressed in shirt, trousers, and boots. He’s sitting at the table, bent over a handful of newspaper clippings—book advertisements he’s cut out of the pages.
“Have you chosen what you’re going to get?
” I ask brightly. I told him that Ms. Nilsson would take him to the bookstore after the Heralder leaves and he could put in an order for three books.
If he finishes those while Lydia and I are on the journey to Kielstraat, his governess will help him order more.
He looks up at me, frowning uncharacteristically. “I’d rather come with you.”
It’s too dangerous. Not in a thousand years. “You need to focus on your lessons.”
“Ms. Nilsson can come too.”
“Ms. Nilsson hates the ocean. She’d get seasick and then she wouldn’t be a very good teacher, now would she?”
He pouts. “How long will you be gone?”
“It depends on the weather,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Three months maybe.”
If I return.
The thought sends faint pain rippling across my wrists and hands, a tiny surge of heartbreak. If I fail in this, if I die, will this curse afflict him and Lydia too? Will their hearts break?
Even if their hearts don’t break, their problems will not vanish with me. The shareholders who view me with such skepticism, even though I was educated to take over—how will they view Lydia, who lacks even the bit of training Papa gave me when he was alive?
“I’ll definitely finish three books in three months,” Kit pronounces. He’s crossed his arms, looking a little affronted that I’ve underestimated his reading prowess. “Can I get more?”
“Maybe if you ask nicely.” To distract him and myself from thoughts of the voyage and the possibility of not returning, I sit down beside him and ask again, “What books have you chosen?”
This time the question works. He perks up, shuffling the newspaper clippings with careful consideration and pulling three from the pile.
“A Compendium of Enchanted Fauna by Edmund Thornton,” he reads.
“He thinks that long ago, other animals besides whales had magic too. Second, A Study of Cartilagyga, Marisquilae, and Other Denizens of the Deep by Kohei Ito.”
“What are Cartil-aj-yee-ga and Maris-kwee-lay?” I echo, stumbling over the unfamiliar words.
“Sharks and giant squid,” he replies cheerfully. “Their scientific names.”
I swallow a groan, the thought sending a surge of anxiety through me, making the scales hidden beneath my jacket sleeves prickle. “Great.”
He pulls out the clipping from the bottom of his chosen three. “And The Romance of Thala and Haelgrim by Sigrida Thorvalsdottir,” he concludes, pronouncing the lengthy Hibernese name with confidence.
“Oh, a love story?” I tease, pushing away images of grasping tentacles and flat black eyes. “I’m not sure you’re old enough for that, brother mine.”
“It’s not a love story!” he protests, tipping forward in his seat to pass the clipping over to me.
“Thala and Haelgrim are the sea gods, remember? The ones who made the finfolk, who the finfolk worship. During the summer, Thala sends fair winds and keeps Haelgrim locked in a cage at the bottom of the sea. But every winter Haelgrim escapes and locks Thala in the cage, and sends snow and ice.”
“Yes,” I say slowly. His words, the names of the old gods, call to mind what it was like as a little girl tucked in my bed, feeling the mattress dip beside me and the warm flicker of candlelight wash over me as my mother sat down next to me. “Mama liked that story.”
Kit tilts his head slightly, his brow furrowing, and I can tell from his expression that he doesn’t remember. His knowledge of the fae tales comes from his own reading, not Mama’s tellings. The realization brings a lump to my throat and I swallow it down.
“Just make sure to always remember the difference between what’s true and what isn’t,” I remind him.
“We don’t know they’re not real,” Kit says. “I wish I were coming to Kielstraat.” He sighs and flops back in his seat. “I’d watch off the side of the ship at night and see the storms for myself.”
I ruffle his hair with exasperated affection. “I’ll be back before the storms.” Maker, I hope. I’ll have to tell him to tamp down his interest when he’s older, or if I’m not around, hopefully Lydia will.
Because it’s all right for a child to speak of sea gods and finfolk legends, but it won’t be when he’s older, with the scrutiny that comes from being a Fairfax.
In the simultaneously hard-minded and superstitious culture of Kirkrell, it’s viewed as unseemly, even ungodly, to take too great an interest in finfolk stories—at least in anything more than the bare facts: where they have been sighted, how to kill them.
Like thinking too much about them might draw their attention.
A sniffle sounds from beside me, and I startle to register that Kit’s eyes are red with tears.
He leans in and wraps his thin arms around my waist, holding tight enough to knock the breath from me in a surprised huff.
My arms come up automatically, and I carefully cup the back of his head with my gloved hands, swallowing back the tears that threaten to rise in my throat.
“We’ll be back before you know it,” I say softly.
But I disbelieve the words even as I speak them, and Kit doesn’t look up, so I can’t tell if he buys them either.
“Will you be good while we’re away? You’re the man of the house; you’ll need to look after things.
Make sure the doors are locked at night, and that the gardens stay watered.
” Of course Kit doesn’t need to do any of these things, strictly speaking.
Declan would die sooner than let the lawn go brown.
But I know from experience that it’s a powerful anchor, knowing others are relying on you. A heavy weight, to be sure, but I’m fairly certain it’s all that’s kept me from drifting off entirely and being lost in the curse. Maybe a sense of responsibility will help Kit too.
I pull back a little, enough to see his face. I’m surprised by his expression—beneath the tear-swollen eyes he looks almost … guilty? Then he blinks and gives me a watery smile.
“I’ll be good.”
“I love you, Kit,” I say around the lump in my throat. The words feel strange and awkward, insufficient. We’re not, we’ve never been, the type of family to be constantly declaring our love for one another, instead showing our care in other ways. But it feels important to say now.
“I love you too,” Kit whispers, but he won’t quite meet my eyes.
What seems like half the city comes to the docks to see the Heralder off. August and I stand by the railing on the stern deck of the ship, hand in hand, smiling and waving as we look out at them.
The force of their hope sickens me—or maybe that’s just being on the water.
On a ship this large, and with only the harbor’s placid waves beneath us, one can’t really perceive the movement of the ship.
But it’s like my gut still knows I’m not on land.
Holding the smile makes my cheeks ache and my hands itch in their cotton gloves.
The Volyar was a large ship too.
“The whole city is with us,” August says, his eyes bright and his arm tight around my shoulders. “They believe in us.”
I force a smile and a nod of assent, eyes skimming over the crowd.
So many faces, pressed so close together, so many eyes on us, gazes sharp with need and excitement.
I see children watching with awe-wide eyes, women wiping away happy tears, men baring their teeth in envious grins.
August seems to feel their faith, their expectations, like a wind at his back, but for me it’s a weight around my neck.
How quickly will they turn on us—on me—if we fail to find more whales, if we don’t fix things?
Yet if what Silas says is true and we’re heading toward war with the finfolk, will the city blame the Fairfaxes for that too?
“Cast off stern lines!” I hear Silas cry from the forecastle, and I have to stop myself from turning around to look as the dockhands move to obey, loosing the Heralder from land.
He’s been busy about the ship this morning, up in the rigging to check the sails, striding the deck directing the crew, his face turned to the horizon and the wind ruffling his hair.
I haven’t seen him like this before, in his element.
He’s always seemed faintly ill at ease on land, but he cuts, even I have to admit, a dashing figure at sea.
There are thirty-four souls on board this ship—Mance, August, Lydia, and myself; Silas and the four Whistler crew; and twenty-five of Mance’s men.
The two crews have been uneasily folded into one, with Mance as captain, August as first mate, and Silas as second, with Mance’s associate Hammond next in line.
Mance’s men seem resentful about answering to Silas—I’ve seen sidelong sneers, heard low-pitched comments about the scavenger—but they do as he bids them.
The rest of the Whistler crew have proven more successful than their captain at fitting in.
Glancing over my shoulder, I spot Josephine and Lydia coiling lines for the whaleboats; Teuila is up in the rigging, doing complicated-looking adjustments to the sails alongside a handful of Heralder men.
The rest of the combined crew are belowdecks, organizing and tying down the supplies.
I’m a little impressed to see my sister working—not that I thought she wouldn’t be able to, but I envy how easily she seems to have settled in here.