Chapter 10
I toiled all the rest of that day, late into the evening, then sat up trying to memorize Tigo’s tide tables.
But my thoughts kept zipping from Zennia’s letter to the story Tigo and Rhianne had told me, and then to my meeting, now a mere week away.
I’d already heard Vercha mention market day more than once.
I’d need to make sure I was still in town at sunset, slip away somehow… and acquire myself a mask.
My work was exhausting in spite of my ability.
Though I could persuade the groundwater to go where I willed it, I couldn’t tell the wire brushes to scrub off stubborn stains.
I couldn’t tell the tubs and ewers to haul themselves around.
Despite whipping through my duties faster than a normal servant could, I still went to bed that night half dazed and aching, doubly tired after my ordeal with the Waking Tide.
All the same, I forced myself to rise before sunup the next morning and hurried down the rocky path that led to the shingle beach.
Worry was gnawing at me, a growing unease that before long, nearer pallwater, my services would be called on. The family would expect me to steer their boats, clear the causeway. After what had happened in front of Llir and Tigo, and in the cove, I had to do something. I had to keep trying.
I’d chosen this particular time of day for a reason: The Waking Tide was still a quarter of an hour off, and the waves were low, receding around the island. The causeway shone under ivory moonslight, and either side of it stretched the endless mudflats, empty and ominous in the predawn dark.
I shuffled to the water’s edge—it would soon retreat beyond the island—and crouched, staring at it, trying to get a sense of it. It lapped at the shingle, rippling almost with a purr.
“I’m Corith,” I said tentatively. “It’s good to meet you.”
I sensed only a vast weightiness, an indifferent disregard.
“I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot the other day. But I really hope we can learn to work together.”
I thought I detected a weak answering swirl, but it was gone before I could be sure I’d really seen it. The water seemed bent on its withdrawal from the bay, on building its strength for the assault to come.
“Form a whirlpool,” I whispered. “Please. Or a wave.”
But there was something so removed about these archwater swells. As though the ocean’s purpose was so great, so consuming, that my entreaties didn’t register at all.
What would Zennia do if she were here instead of you?
The thought surprised me, made my breath catch in my throat. I gazed out at the waves and realized I didn’t really know. Zennia was lost; I could barely think of her without crumpling.
But what I did know was that my friend would never have given up.
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I said to the surf, “and the next day.”
And even though the tide hadn’t deigned to respond, I murmured a quick “Thank you” as I rose and backed away.
—
Late morning found me in one of the fine halls I’d padded down the day before with Miss Haney.
My duties included washing the floors, and I was hauling a bucket of lavender water.
This part of the castle seemed oddly quiet, and when I passed Rexim’s study, I was surprised to see the door standing ajar, no sign of him within.
I’d been told the Brigant answered correspondence here in the mornings, which was why it was the best time to collect laundry from his bedroom, but today he was absent, the study still and silent. I lowered the bucket and inched forward, gripping my washcloth tightly in my hand.
The thought came again, insistent, tugging at me: What clues about Zennia might this room hold?
I turned my head, listening, but no one was about. A clock on a side table clucked a steady rhythm. Moving to the great expanse of mahogany that made up Rexim’s desk, I glanced quickly through the papers scattered across it.
A letter, half written, to someone called Orlagh, its topic some dense, philosophical rebuttal that I could make no sense of.
I shifted it aside. Another, this one addressed to Rexim, bearing a House crest I didn’t recognize.
Again the subject was uninteresting—no mention of the family, just people I didn’t know—but beneath the letter lay a large, leatherbound book, splayed open, its pages covered in figures.
An accounts book.
I leaned in, scanning it closely. My eye snagged on a couple of lines: “Emment—Illir allowance. Emment—Tima allowance.” Substantial sums at the start of each month.
Plenty of figures inked in red. I was certainly no mathematician, but I got the impression the Shearwater finances weren’t exactly robust. The “savings” figures were steadily declining.
There was a scribbled note in the margin: “Can’t crack open hoard. ” What did that mean?
Creak.
I whirled, my stomach pitching, to see a figure standing in the doorway.
Tigo was dressed in his purple livery rather than his usual earth-stained overalls. His gray-streaked hair was neat, tied back with ribbon, and his dark eyes narrowed as he took me in.
“I’ve been sent to find you,” he said. “You’re late. The guests have arrived for the Brigant’s luncheon.”
Of course. That’s why he was so put together, why Rexim wasn’t here, why the halls were so quiet…
Vercha had mentioned some visitors were coming, and Miss Haney had said something about it yesterday—I’d been so distracted by Zennia’s strange letter, the secrets swirling beneath this island’s surface, that it had flown right out of my head. I swallowed.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I completely forgot.”
His gaze moved slowly to the desk behind me; I hoped my body blocked his view of the ledger. Quickly, I held up my grimy washcloth. “Damp dusting,” I added, forcing an awkward smile.
“Did Miss Haney not tell you this room is off-limits?” Tigo folded his violet-clad arms. “She cleans it herself. The rest of us cannot enter.”
I lowered the washcloth, my cheeks growing warm. Miss Haney’s tour had been swift, overwhelming. It was certainly possible she’d mentioned that rule and that, as with her instructions for the luncheon, my darting mind had failed to register it.
“I don’t think so,” I squeaked, looking apologetic, and Tigo held my gaze for a few seconds more.
“Well, now you know,” he said, stepping back. “You’d better come quickly. She’s right on the verge.”
—
We arrived to find the housekeeper barking orders. When she spotted my grubby breeches and creased blouse, she immediately sent a maid to fetch my new livery, which they’d measured me for the previous day.
“You can use my office,” she said, thrusting the clothes at me. “Well? Don’t stand there gaping like a fish! Hurry!”
I changed rapidly, catching a fleeting glimpse in the mirror of a high violet collar, the embroidered House crest.
When I returned, Rhianne and Mawre were there, too, and Miss Haney directed us to the Painted Chamber.
With its high, ornamented ceiling, opulent chimneypiece, and floor-to-ceiling windows, it seemed built to receive guests.
And indeed, Rexim Shearwater was there, sitting easily in a carved gilt chair near the fire.
A few plush couches were arranged artfully around him, and on one sat the siblings, pristine in their finery.
“As part of our set,” Miss Haney whispered in my ear, “you’re expected to be present at audiences like these. This one…” She swallowed. “Well, just follow the others’ lead.”
She positioned us off to one side of Rexim, whom I eyed with a mixture of wariness and loathing. His “test” still lurked in the back of my mind—and my limbs were still laced with cuts and bruises.
I glanced at the siblings. Emment looked bored, Catua expectant, and Llir oddly tense.
Llir’s gaze passed over us Orha, lingering on me, taking in my new livery.
Vercha, smiling, fingered her laconite, and I noticed just how much of it they were all wearing.
In the presence of us Orha, the stones whined faintly, their high, discordant notes putting me on edge.
“What is all this?” I whispered to Rhianne, hoping we were far enough away to go unheard. “Just a social call?”
She shook her head narrowly. “Politics,” she murmured. “He’s been having them every few weeks for a while now.”
Miss Haney, who had vanished a few moments earlier, now reappeared and pushed the doors wide. “Brigantess Osprey,” she announced, stepping aside, “and the eldest son of Brigant Turnstone.”
The first to enter was a small, slim woman, though, despite her size, she exuded a strong presence.
Striking, with pale hair piled onto her head, she flashed with jewels and more laconite than the Shearwaters.
Her ice-blue eyes swept the room, then all of us—a sharp intelligence, almost a cunning, in her gaze.
Behind her sauntered a man around Emment’s age: olive skinned, well-dressed, with black curly hair. With a smirk, he caught the eldest sibling’s eye, and in response, Emment offered a tight, awkward smile.
Turnstone. I’d heard that name before, when I’d eavesdropped on Tigo and Rhianne in the tower. He was the one Emment owed money to. But this hardly seemed an appropriate occasion to talk debt.
I didn’t expect anyone else to come in, but abruptly a group of figures appeared.
I blinked. Four of them were done up in livery like ours, but in fire orange, with a different House crest. They fairly shone, their postures impeccable as they trailed close behind Brigantess Osprey.
The next four, far more sedate in livery of dark green, were no less stiff and grave of expression, though one—a solid man with a scar on one cheek—was sporting a nasty-looking black eye.
“Damona,” said Rexim, briefly standing. He gestured to the couches. “Madox. You’re very welcome.”
“I’m sorry my father couldn’t make it,” said Madox Turnstone, throwing himself onto the plump blue velvet. “You know how he is. Hates to travel these days.”