Chapter 11 #2
As I jogged down the path to the harbor’s small jetty, a quiet voice in my head said, It’s easier because it’s pallwater. I squashed it down. I knew archwater would come around again soon, but I didn’t want to think about that. It made my stomach twist with fear.
Vercha and Debry were waiting at the harbor, but to my shock and unease, Llir and Tigo were there, too. It was only as I picked my way over the shingle that I recalled Tigo’s words from the day of my arrival: “Half the gold now and half in two weeks, on market day.”
As I approached the little party, Llir’s eyes caught mine.
His hair, dark brass, was breeze blown and fluffy; his cloak fluttered around the tops of his boots.
Tigo gave me an evaluating stare, and I suspected he was remembering our encounter in Rexim’s study.
Over the past week, I’d been far more careful.
I just had to hope our paths didn’t cross in town…
Vercha was immaculate in a deep-emerald coat, elbow-length gloves, and hair pinned so tightly that the gusts off the ocean barely shifted it.
Neither she nor Llir wore laconite, of course—my efforts would have been hamstrung if they did.
Perhaps because of the lack of protection, Debry eyed Tigo and me suspiciously as she helped her mistress step into the vessel.
Most of the non-Orha servants avoided us.
They seemed simultaneously afraid of and scathing toward our “gifts.”
“Such a relief,” Vercha said, “to have a Floodmouth again. We hardly managed after pallwater last month.”
Llir said nothing, watching the ocean, but his sister’s eyes were glittering excitedly. “Corith, you must be dying to hear about the ball. It’s all in motion; the Cormorants have confirmed. Old allies of ours. You’ll love them—everyone does.”
The boat moved off, buffeted by waves and wind. I stared at the green-gray water, trying in vain to focus.
“If they set off directly, they’ll be here at full pallwater, so they’ll be coming by boat, but they’ll bring their own Floodmouth, of course. And they’re to stay for three weeks, with the ball on the thirty-eighth…”
She was clearly exhilarated; she’d barely paused to draw breath. The boat lagged. I fought to block out her chatter.
At a flashed glance from Tigo, Llir reluctantly interrupted. “Orha need quiet to concentrate, Sister.” I met his eyes, feeling a flicker of gratitude, but he settled back, watching me expectantly—disconcertingly.
“Gosh, sorry,” Vercha said. “Me and my mouth!”
All of them sat and stared at me in silence, which was hardly any better, but at least it was quiet.
I angled away, trailed my fingers in the water. I brought to mind my small success with the pallwater current, sought that brief moment of connection I’d felt. “Bear us westward,” I murmured.
For a long, stretched-out moment, our trajectory didn’t change. The boat still bumped at the same pace through the swells. I wrestled with the nerves that threatened to bubble over. “Please,” I mumbled, staring hard at the water, wishing keenly it was Zennia at my back instead of Vercha and Llir.
Eventually, we tilted more toward the mainland, and though it was hard to tell with the rolling of the waves, the water—with the same vaguely docile air as this morning—rippled against the boat’s stern, nudging us forward.
Vercha seemed satisfied, or perhaps she just wanted to keep talking, as she soon took up her prattle again.
“There’s just so much to do. The ballroom isn’t ready. I tried to persuade Father that we need new flooring, but he says what we have will do well enough. And the drapes, let me tell you…”
This continued for some minutes, punctured only by the odd noise of feigned interest from Llir.
“Sounds wonderful, Miss,” Debry said wistfully. “I only wish I could go.” She shot me a strangely disgruntled look.
We soon neared the waterline, where a black carriage waited, much smarter than the coach that had brought me from Arbenhaw.
Horses with violet plumes stood ready to bear us onward.
A coachman helped the others into the vehicle, but our livery marked Tigo and me out as Orha, and as a result, we were avoided, which suited me fine.
We clattered into Port Rhorstin in a spray of dust and gravel, where Llir and Tigo immediately disembarked. Market day meant the small town was bustling, and pallwater meant its residents could trek to the sea’s edge, take boats out, catch fish, or forage on the dry flats.
Vercha, Debry, and I stopped first at the posting house, where Vercha produced a letter from her pocket.
“I’ll only be a moment,” she said, stepping from the carriage.
She glanced both ways down the street before entering.
Why she hadn’t sent the note from the culverhouse on the island like everyone else, I had no idea.
Probably a letter for her friends, the Cormorants.
The dressmaker’s—Madam Mora’s—was just across town, a small, neat shop with velvet bodices in the windows.
As we entered, a bell tinkled, but it was hardly needed.
As soon as I stepped over the threshold, a great humming assailed us from all sides.
There was more laconite here than I’d ever seen in my life: a glass case of laconite jewelry and brooches, adornments on headpieces, embellished doublets, even a studded ceremonial saber.
The din brought a figure hurrying out of the back, a short, compact woman I presumed was Madam Mora. Her raven-black eyes widened on seeing Vercha.
“Miss Shearwater,” she gushed over the drone of the laconite. “Such a pleasure. I’m honored you would think of us again.” She shot me a swift look. “Come, back here where it’s quieter…”
We trailed after her to a cluttered workroom. There were bolts of fabric piled on a table, sheaves of paper covered in shorthand. “What brings you to my door?” she asked, shutting out the racket.
“My sister and I trust only you to outfit us for a ball we are hosting in three weeks.” Vercha tugged off her gloves and accepted some papers Debry held out to her. “I’ve taken the liberty of listing some shades, noting some styles…There are a few sketches here…”
The papers were covered in Vercha’s elegant hand. I somehow doubted whether Catua had been allowed much input at all.
“And our new Floodmouth here will need an outfit, of course.”
Vercha pointed out some cramped notes in the margin, turning a winning smile on me.
I blinked. “Miss?”
Madam Mora was hovering, beginning to scrawl down some shorthand of her own.
“One’s set always attends social occasions like these.”
Debry’s grumpiness suddenly made sense.
We’d had a few dance lessons at Arbenhaw. At first I hadn’t understood why we might need them. Then, once I’d learned about service with the Hundred, I’d never believed I’d get the kind of placement that required them.
A memory came to me: a worn timber floor, a harpist plucking out a melody in the corner.
An Instructor called Albach—tall, white-haired, spindly—barking at us as we twirled and stepped in formation.
Zennia’s bright gaze; her barely suppressed grin.
The unbearable feeling of a laugh threatening to burst out of me.
I wanted to flee, to shrink from their gazes. Madam Mora was assessing my figure, already mentally measuring me for a gown.
Vercha stepped up to me, fingering my braids. “And we shall have to do something with this lovely long hair.” I cringed, my senses clanging like a servant’s bell, but I knew—as sure as I knew I would hate this ball—that I had to keep her happy. At least until my meeting.
My eyes flicked to the sketches in Madam Mora’s hands, but Vercha moved her slim body to block them. “Let it be a surprise,” she said with a knowing smile. “A gift to you. Out of my own allowance.”
Rexim must have refused to cover it. I met her gaze. “Thank you, Miss,” I forced out.
I was beholden to her now. And she wanted me to know it.
She patted my arm as though we were old friends. “We shall make a proper Hundred’s Floodmouth of you yet!”