Chapter 6 Now
I rise before dawn to catch Margery as she arrives. She’s surprised to find me perched in the kitchen and grows more perplexed when I beg her to take me to Cora. I can’t bear to be trapped in this cottage all day, I tell her, and is Cora not the closest woman to both my age and rank in the village? Who better to spend my time with? Margery looks unsure, but she can’t concoct a reason to say no to me. I’m a guest in the Bailie home, not a prisoner, and although we both know Mistress Bailie won’t be pleased, my rank prevents Margery from denying me. I regret taking advantage of her in this way, but memory and fantasy made sleep nearly impossible last night. Seeing the familiarity of Proserpina in Cora is the only way I can think to calm my racing mind.
“She’ll likely be at the market. Come on, then.” Margery hands me a cloak from a peg beside the door, and we take to the streets. Our breath creates small clouds of mist, barely visible in the gray light of morning that spills over the horizon as the city wakes. Men stumble out of cottages with weapons slung over their shoulders, with fishing nets in hand, with axes in tight grips. The clanging of hammers rises around us—on metal from the blacksmith’s shop, on wood as carpenters erect more buildings, and on the palisades as others strengthen the city’s fortifications. I’m thankful for the noise. It hides how loudly my heart beats.
Margery is quiet as she leads me along a row of angled houses, and only then does it hit me that she won’t be the one to break our silence first: Her rank forbids it.
“How long have you been working for the Bailies?”
She shoots me a look out of the corner of her eye. “Since last September. After Dyonis—my husband—passed.”
“Oh, Margery, I’m so sorry.”
“Hard to believe we sailed all the way here only for him to catch a late summer fever. He was a good man, but he was the one who believed in this place. On my worst days, I wish he’d died before the governor returned to England for supplies. Maybe then Jeremie and I could’ve gone back with him.”
“Jeremie?”
Her entire face lights up. “My son.”
I recall the child she cradled in her arms the night before, and my stomach turns. “Are they good to you? The Bailies?”
“Good enough. Mistress Bailie can be a little exacting, but without them, I’d likely have to remarry. At least this way I have a choice.”
“Between?”
“Claiming my late husband’s promised acreage as my own, once we’ve found a more permanent location to settle, or returning home with the next supply run. Ah, there she is.” The street opens before us, though market is a generous wordfor the handful of stalls that line either side of the road.Cora stands before a woman selling bars of soap. Beside her, a boy oversees a display of tallow candles. There’s abutcher offering unimpressive cuts of meat, a warrener selling skinned rabbits. Another woman hawks a handful of stunted bluefish—far too small for this time of year.
“Master Warner will be back shortly with some crabs!” she hollers, but her promise doesn’t draw any potential customers to her display.
It’s a far cry from the forums I remember—street after street of vendors selling food, spices, colored silks, perfumes, and jewels from all across the known world. Though each seller’s wares here differ, one thing among them remains constant—their tables have far less goods than they should.
“Not up to your standards, Lady Thelia?” Cora walks toward us now, and my cheeks burn at her observation—was my distaste so plainly written on my face, or is she just unusually good at reading it?
“I thought you could show Lady Thelia around the city this morning.” Margery ignores her slight, and I could hug her for pretending the idea was her own.
“Is Agnes busy?”
Margery’s lips curl into a knowing smile, one I’d yet to see. “I think you and I both know that Mistress Bailie would prefer Lady Thelia stay inside.”
“We have that in common.” Cora’s green eyes are cold as they bore into mine. It’s hard to reconcile this version of her with the tender hands that brought water to my lips, that wiped sweat from my brow. It’s as if she offered me a gift only to snatch it away, and I’m overcome with the urge to make her feel as unmoored as I do.
“Master Thomas will be waking shortly,” I say, refusing to break our eye contact. “Perhaps he’d like to give me a tour instead.”
Cora huffs, folding her arms across her chest. “All right, all right!”
“Great!” Margery says. “Then I’ll head back—your betrothed will be wanting his breakfast. Have fun, you two!”
Before I can say goodbye, Margery’s already turned to be on her way.
“Shall we?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, turning back to Cora. “If my presence is truly such a nuisance, then maybe I’ll just go back with Margery.”
She has the decency to thaw, though just slightly. “It’s just that I have chores to do. The Bailies are one of the few families here wealthy enough to employ help.”
“Then let me help you,” I say too quickly, too eagerly.
“I wouldn’t want you to dirty your royal hands, Lady Thelia.”
Shit. Another mistake. Even Proserpina, despite our closeness, never offered to help me with my duties all those years ago. It simply wasn’t, and isn’t, the way of things. And now Cora has discovered a loose thread at the edge of my tale. How can I be certain she won’t unravel the entire thing?
“Please, just call me Thelia.”
Now she does soften: Her arms unfurl, her jaw unclenches, and a hint of warmth sparks in those verdant eyes. “All right, then. Thelia. Come with me.”
She says my name slowly, and I savor each syllable as it drips from her lips.
Cora leads us west out of the market, through rows of cottages that grow smaller the farther we get from the city’s center. Ahead of us, the wall draws closer, composed of hundreds of vertical logs. She scoops a stick off the ground in one graceful motion and then waves me to her side.
“Come, I’ll draw you a map.”
I relish the opportunity to draw close to her again, to smell the delicate kiss of rose water on her skin. But my excitement withers into dread as Cora drags the stick through the dirt, as her coastline begins to curve in on itself—another island. This one’s oblong, with the land bending gently to the west. Its western shore has a small cove, and another, sharper inlet of water cuts in from the sea on the south.
“The colony is here.” Cora draws a circle in the middle of the northern edge. Then she takes a step away and draws another line farther west. “…And this is the mainland.”
Then she marks an “X” at the top of the sharp inlet of water. “This whole area is a swamp, though I haven’t seen it myself.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s dangerous. There are few good reasons to leave the fort, let alone wander that far away from it.”
I frown. This island is roughly the same size as Scopuli, and Cora is suggesting that most of it is off-limits.
Next, she draws a quick outline of the actual village. It’s composed of three concentric rings, all orbiting the meetinghouse. The Bailie home is directly north of the meetinghouse in the first ring. Cora’s home is in the second ring, to the northeast. The village is encased in a fourth, final circle—the wall before us, intended to keep the city’s occupants safe. There’s a gate in each cardinal direction, and each is guarded by a sentry posted on a ladder.
“What are they watching for?” My eyes snap to the man who sits atop his perch.
“Natives,” she concedes, “and for ships at sea.”
“How many people live here?”
“One hundred and twelve now. Though far fewer will likely survive the winter.”
A somber mood settles over Cora, but I bite my lip to keep from shrieking with joy: More than one hundred people call this place home. The number makes saliva pool under my tongue. If I can convince even a fraction to return with me…
“Come, let us walk around the wall.”
We continue west, weaving our way among tiny thatched houses and curious stares. The guard on duty eyes Cora from his post as we approach. I recognize him immediately; he’s the one who found me first. At least today his clothes aren’t soiled.
“He’s a drunk,” she whispers before we enter his range of hearing.
“Good day, Mistress Waters and…oh!” In the light of day, I can see that his eyes are a dark brown, and that they’re leery.
“This is Master Chapman,” Cora says.
“It’s good to meet you,” I offer, and his face crumples as he tries to parse whether our initial encounter truly was a hallucination brought on by too much alcohol. His expression doesn’t betray where he lands.
“I’m showing Lady Thelia the city. Can we look across the sound? It would only be for a few minutes.”
“If you’re quick about it.”
He doesn’t speak again until both feet are on the ground, and then he locks his eyes on his leather boots, missing how Cora rolls hers before she proceeds up the ladder.
“Why such fortifications?” I ask as I climb after her. From above, it becomes clear how many men are tasked with the city’s defense—many, like John, posted as sentries, but even more fortifying the wall with larger pieces of timber. What type of people do I now break bread with?
Cora watches the horizon, scanning the distant shoreline as if she’s looking for answers there. When she speaks, her voice is so hushed that it nearly gets lost on the wind that whips past us, chilling her words midair. “Because of what Grenville’s men did.”
“Grenville’s men?”
She turns away from the view, leaning her back against thewooden palisades, and for a moment, she doesn’t speak. Guilt is a powerful silencer, and it’s etched all over her face, impossible to ignore. My stomach sinks. Out of all the ships I’ve seen carrying soldiers—for isn’t that what these people are?—how many of them fought for just causes? They’re preparing themselves for revenge owed for a past atrocity, which means I’ve found myself in a bed of snakes. Every time I speak to someone, the City of Raleigh grows more dangerous. A curious quiet hangs between us, refusing to drift to the ground below, demanding to be acknowledged.
“There was a group here before us.” Her voice is a bit louder now, but the tone is detached, as if she’s sharing an old story she’s heard countless times. “They were led by a man named Sir Richard Grenville. He sent a party to Aquascogoc, a Secotan village on the mainland, to broker trade deals. During the negotiations, someone discovered that a silver cup was missing. Stolen by one of the Secotans, they assumed, and Grenville and his men were quick to retaliate.” Cora pauses, teeth digging into her lower lip. “Men’s egos are so fragile. Can you imagine? Razing an entire village to the ground over a silver cup? Aquascogoc smoldered for days…The wall was built immediately after. It needed to be, to protect the colony from the savagery that was owed tous.”
I think of the centuries of men deposited onto our beaches, their helmets and shields scattered among their broken bodies, their spears and bows still bobbing in the surf. So many on their way to and from wars, to and from committing atrocities of their own. In their final moments, did they see their death as clearly as Cora sees this—as a violent debt finally being repaid? Will the rest of the City of Raleigh’s inhabitants? I imagine Thomas’s smug and confident smile; there’s my answer. But his arrogance will be his downfall. When I cut his throat, the tear of my blade across his skin will break our song’s enchantment. He’ll die choking on his own blood with the knowledge that no god saved him. But what of Cora, and her role in it all?
“It’s time to come down now, Mistress Waters!” John hollers up at us. Cora waves a hand to indicate she heard him, then begins down the ladder without another word. When I reach the ground again, my hands are shaking. Cora’s already a few houses away, eager to put distance between me and her confession. I have to run to catch up to her, the late autumn air whipping my face.
A chill dances down my back in spite of the midmorning sun that shines brightly overhead. In the palisades’ smothering shadow, the fort loses any remaining pretense of safety. Suddenly, it’s hard to breathe.
“Can we leave?” I ask. I hate how weak my voice sounds. How desperate.
“And go where? I told you, there isn’t much to see out there.”
My hand finds my heart racing, and I close my eyes and force myself to slow down. There, behind my eyelids, I see Scopuli’s shores and hear its waves; I know exactly where I want to be.
“Show me where I was found.”
We exit the settlement through the northern gate, escaping into a sparse forest. The trees here are different from the ones on Scopuli. They’re not as tall, similar to the ones on Rotunda, though they’re covered in moss. It hangs from their limbs like a strange and beautiful fabric. I lift my hand to graze my fingers against it, bringing a handful of the plant to my nose to take in its deep, earthy scent. Already, I feel my body relaxing. Seeing such unique flora brightens my mood considerably, and I don’t try to hide the smile of relief that spreads across my face. Cora watches me, her lips pressed into a tight little ball. She doesn’t know what to make of me.
Fair enough. I don’t, either. I’ve only ever known myself in the context of someone else. As Proserpina’s handmaiden. As Raidne and Pisinoe’s sister.
As one of a trio of monsters, tasked with luring these men back to Scopuli.
I release the moss so we can continue along. I almost ask her if Roanoke is home to its own shy dryads, though even if it is, she’d never know. Only Proserpina could coax them out from the variegated shapes in their trees’ bark, and even still, not for very long. Some loud sound or unexpected movement in the underbrush always inevitably sent them lunging back for the safety of their oak or elm. They had good reason to be skittish. Their beauty brought them unwanted attention.
“Why did you come back here?” I ask after her, trying to shake off the heavy silence that’s settled over us once more. “After what you did.”
Cora’s head snaps to face me. “What I did?”
“Your people, I mean.”
She straightens, and her hands turn to fists at her sides. The reaction surprises me, and a bitter laugh escapes from my throat.
“Oh, come now. That was a confession you just gave me, wasn’t it? Or do you condone leveling entire villages to the ground over supposed theft? Even if the cup was stolen, that wouldn’t be an excuse.”
I expect her to hurl another insult my way, but instead, her gaze falls to the ground. Shame paints her cheeks red.
“We didn’t intend to stay here,” she admits. “Our plan was simply to collect the last of Grenville’s men on our way north to build”—something stops her mid-thought—“elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere,” I repeat flatly, remembering Agnes’s accusations from my first night, and how Margery’s lips snapped shut the following morning after revealing the city was previously a military outpost.
“When we stopped in Dominica after crossing the Atlantic, we received news that being at sea was no longer safe. So instead of a temporary stop, this became our final destination. But the fort was abandoned. Grenville’s men were gone.”
“Why you, specifically? Why come here at all?”
She scoffs. “My father and Will couldn’t resist the promise of five hundred acres, and I couldn’t stay in England alone.”
I smile sadly. Cora talks as if she had no other choice, but that’s nothing more than a comforting lie. Choices always exist. Even I had one, when I raised my finger and betrayed the one I loved.
“And why stay?”
“We’re waiting for Governor White and the relief ship. The ship we have isn’t large enough to bring everyone back across the Atlantic, though even if it was, we don’t have enough supplies to survive the journey. Seeds seem to die in the soil around here.”
Another sign the gods are punishing the colony.
The sound of waves interrupts us, and the trees finally part to expose the sea. A thin strip of rocky beach is all that separates the tangled woods from the ocean, but there, stranded high on the smooth stones, is my little skiff. Beyond it, anchored offshore, is the colony’s ship. Too small to carry the entire city to Scopuli, but plenty large for what I need.
“John was the one who found you.”
“The guard from this morning?” I ask for the sake of maintaining my cover.
She nods. “He came tearing through the village in the middle of the night screaming for Thomas. His poor wife, Alis, she was so embarrassed. We all thought he’d imagined you, but here you are…though he reported that you were bewitched.”
I turn away from the boat, from the sea, to look to Cora. A gentle breeze blows wisps of her dark hair across her face, and she reaches to tuck them behind her ear. In the full light of midmorning, I can see the light dusting of freckles that adorns her nose, and I think of the mole on Proserpina’s left shoulder. Would I find its twin on Cora’s?
“Bewitched?” I repeat, a bemused smile overtaking my lips. “Do you believe him?”
Her eyes bore into mine as if they can find the answer there. “You were unconscious when we found you. He was drunk and imagining things.”
“The night will play tricks on a drunkard’s mind.”
She nods as her eyes wander to the blue-green waves that lap at the shoreline, but her thoughts are etched in the way her brow furrows: What if…?
I’m a woman, and I’m alone, two facts that immediately make me suspicious.
The distant expression her profile wears should be a reminder to tread carefully, but instead, my instinct is to do anything, say anything, to bring her attention back to me. “I prefer that to Mistress Bailie’s theory. She thinks I’m a Spanish spy.”
Her face snaps back to mine as she sucks in a sharp breath. Gods, those green eyes are bulging. I can’t help myself—agrin cracks across my lips.
“Evidently a poor one,” she says slowly, a mirrored smile slowly emerging. “Given that you’d tell me so.”
We both dissolve into laughter.
“It’s wise of her to be wary,” Cora adds once we’ve finally regained our composure. “The Spanish are unbelievably cruel.”
“And the English aren’t?”
“I didn’t used to think so,” she admits. “Now I’m not so sure. What does it feel like, to find yourself among us?”
“Like a dream, mostly.”
“I know that feeling well. Sometimes in the mornings before I open my eyes and remember I’m here, I’m certain that I can feel my old bed. It’s so real that I hear my old town waking up around me.”
Her words spark an idea, and I take her hand and drag her toward the sea.
“What are you doing?”
I’d answer, but we’re already at the water’s edge, and I’m collecting salt water in my hands. Before she has a chance to process what I’m about to do, I hurl the water at her, hitting her playfully in her midsection. The ocean is cold, and she shrieks at its touch.
“Looks like you’re awake after all!” I grin as she stares incredulously at the stain that blooms across her bodice. Her mouth hangs open, and when she raises her head to meet my gaze, her eyes are filled with fire.
Oh, gods, I’ve made a grave mistake—but then she’s reaching into the water to splash me back. A laugh erupts from my chest, and I turn to dodge her attack. She doesn’t relent, and I’m left with a soaking wet shoulder.
The heavy garments dull some of the water’s bite, but not much. I must look surprised, because Cora laughs as well.
“And I suppose you’re not actually dreaming!” She cackles with delight, and I’m stunned by the sound of it—the pure, uninhibited joy. When did I last hear a laugh like that? I scour through memories of Proserpina’s for one that could rival Cora’s, but Proserpina was a princess always destined to be a queen. A goddess. The only times I saw her composure truly melt away were when we found ourselves circling each other, enchanted by the promise of being tangled together…
“Are you all right?” Cora asks. “You look a little red.”
Gods, what am I doing, allowing myself to get distracted like this?
“I’m such a fool! You’re still recovering, and I dragged you all the way out here!” She reaches a hand toward my face, likely to check for a fever, but before she can, I’ve already flinched away, out of her reach.
“It’s fine.” My words come out too quickly, and if my cheeks were flushed before, they’re burning now. “I’m all right, Cora, really—and I was the one who asked you to take me here.”
Her hand still hangs there in the air, my first error, but it’s the way her lips part just so that gives away my second—I’ve called her by her first name. It came out so quickly, so naturally, that I never would have realized. “I mean Mistress Wat—”
“You can call me Cora.” Her words are kind, but she snaps her hand back to her side. And is it a trick of the light, or are her cheeks turning scarlet as well? Gods, why did I recoil from her?
Because she’s not what you’re here for.
Is that Proserpina’s voice or my own? Guilt pools in my stomach, thick as oil. Of course she’s not, I know that, so why am I wondering what it would feel like to have those fingers cup my face?
“Cora,” I repeat, my tongue exploring the shape of her name against my will. It would feel so good there if I could just relish it, if I wasn’t me. But Cora doesn’t let me wallow. She retreats from the water back toward the tree line without another word. All I can do is collect the soaking bottoms of my skirts and rush after her. “Wait! Where are you going?”
“We’ve been gone too long. I’m going to be late.”
“Late? For what?”
“Bible study with the other women. You should join us.”
My heart swells at the invitation. When I reach the trees myself, I sneak a glance toward the ocean one last time, trying to commit its sights, scents, and sounds to memory—the swirling blue waves capped with white foam, the sharpness of salt on the wind, the mewing of gulls. These are all friends, my threads to home.
Go, they urge as the forest swallows Cora ahead. And although it pains me, my best choice is to listen.
Emme Merrimoth’s home, this week’s Bible study location, is in the outermost ring in the southeast corner of the city. At a single story—and, from the looks of it, a single room—it’s markedly smaller than the Bailies’.
“I live next door,” Margery says, pointing to an equally humble dwelling beside Emme’s. I force a smile, my thoughts on Cora and her change of mood.
Before I can offer Margery a half-hearted reply, an infant comes toddling out of Emme’s doorway into the street. Cora steps aside to let him pass, and his face is swallowed by a smile as Margery drops to his level and extends her arms to catch him. A third woman watches from the doorway, laughing as she struggles to retain her grip on another squirming child in her own arms.
“Sorry, Margery! He was too excited to see you!”
Margery scoops the boy up and spins him around before placing a wet kiss on his forehead. Not much more than a year old, he’s too young for the act to embarrass him; instead, the sloppy sound makes him giggle, and he buries his face in her chest. I tense at the sight of him. Jeremie’s sweet now, ofcourse, but what will he grow into? Cubs always mature into bears, lions, wolves—never sheep; their anatomy doesn’t allow it.
Dis was a child once. Look what he became.
Margery turns to me, coaxing the boy to look in my direction. “Lady Thelia, this is Jeremie.”
There’s no one else he could be. He looks identical to his mother, down to their sickly constitutions.