Chapter 1 #2
We both go backwards, landing hard on the cobbled stone.
An ache shoots through my spine and my hat slips sideways.
I’m quick to correct it and clamber to my feet.
The boy does the same, an urgency on his face as he reaches for my hand.
I almost jerk away. Trust no one. But the scuffle drew curious looks from the market goers around us.
Best not to make a bigger scene when I know the Sisters and war recruiters are lurking about.
I let him lead me a few paces off the main street toward an alley.
My free hand clutches the hilt of the discreet little blade tucked in my waistband, sharper than a serpent's fang.
“What's this about? Who are you?”
The boy lets me go and wipes at a smudge of dirt on his cheek. “Victor. I run messages for Mama Morgana.”
The name is vaguely familiar. I picture a bent old woman who works a stall selling spools of thread and yarn.
If I remember right, she's a wily thing with eyes too spry for such an ancient face.
The type of person I avoid, because they can see deeper than the skin and bone. Deeper than the Fade, even.
“I’ve never spoken to her before. I don’t know her.” I search his round face, looking for the lines between his freckles that might give something away.
“She knows you hunt for pieces of the Midnight Crown. She says she can help you.”
I let out a wild hiss, releasing my blade to grab his slender fingers. With a fierce tug, I'm pulling him deep into the shadows of the alley before darting my gaze across the square outside, searching to be sure we weren’t overheard.
To many mortals in Helgate, the Midnight Crown is meaningless unless they follow the old faith, a practice outlawed here since the war started and the Sons and Sisters cemented their place in the magistrate court.
Many don’t understand or believe in its significance.
The same cannot be said for the pointy eared Nymph women that walk the streets, bound in their iron shackles or collars.
“You can’t speak of it here.” Being cross with a child is difficult, especially one with such a sweet smile.
My time spent caring for the little ones at Blossom House has softened me to them.
When he gives me a look, barely contrite, I force my shoulders to relax a fraction and swallow.
“It’s not safe,” I explain more gently. “Tell this woman I can’t meet with her in the light of day to talk about such things. We need somewhere private, hidden.”
The little boy shakes his head. “There’s no time. Mama Morgana says it must be now or what you seek will be lost for good.”
My fists ball. So it will be on her terms, then. What does a crooked old woman know of me or my hunt for the crown? I should be weary. I am weary. But I'm also running out of time. Too much of it has been spent in Helgate, chasing dead ends, stringing plans together only to realize they won't work.
My fingers unfurl and I give the boy an even stare. "Take me to her, quickly."
We go, perhaps a little too quick. Victor is a wraith among men, weaving in and out of the smallest spaces between bodies.
In an effort to keep up, every few paces I find myself murmuring 'sorry' or 'excuse me', catching elbows and crushing toes under the heel of my boots as I race to keep him in my line of sight.
By the time we reach Morgana’s stall, I'm red cheeked and breathless.
She stands behind the counter, her gnarled fingers holding a gleaming pair of scissors, a purple thread of yarn held taut between her teeth and the other hand.
The clip of the blades make a distinct ring as she severs it before bundling it into a small pouch to hand off to a customer.
The younger woman scurries away, and Morgana watches us approach with those knowing eyes.
"Hurry up there, girl, I don't have all day."
My heart seizes. Girl!
The look on my face has her chortling and she beckons me closer.
"Tea, perhaps? And maybe some food for those meatless bones.
" She pinches my arm until it stings, and I try to jerk away.
"Victor, watch the counter while we're gone.
" A flick of a silver eyrir rings through the air.
Victor, clever and quick, catches the round metal bit neatly in one hand before ducking under the counter to man her abandoned three-legged stool.
"T-tea?" My mind whirls, even as she threads her cool fingers through mine like we're family—a young man leading his grandmama to the Muddy Crow, best tavern in the Barrows.
It leans sideways some, with chipping dark paint and dirty windows.
The door gives a creak of protest and the old brass bell rings hollow when we push inside.
A man with a ruddy, houndish face and heavy mustache looks up from behind the bar when we enter. "Mornin', Morgana. Will it be the regular?"
Mama Morgana chortles again. "Oh, no laddie. Far too early for that, just a hot cuppa for me and the young fella here'll do. An' maybe a meat pie if you've a couple to spare."
The man nods and waves at the aproned woman beside him as I scour the room.
An old, sallow looking bloke with a pipe and newspaper sits in the far corner, and a few tables away is a young couple sharing a moony-eyed breakfast. Other than that the place is empty.
Mama Morgana claims a table away from them all, near a window so grimy the light barely shines through, motioning for me to sit.
"Will you tell me what this is about?" Though I'm talking to her, I can't help but keep glancing around us, paranoid since she called me girl.
Perhaps no one noticed or cared, but a prickly sensation lingers at my neck.
I haven't felt so exposed since I first ran from Blossom House.
Those feelings of helplessness from that frigid night still haunt me after all this time.
"You're lookin’ for something, and I ken where ‘tis," she says coolly.
"Yes, but how do you know I'm—" The squeak of the swinging door to the kitchen cuts me off. The young maid appears and sets our tea in front of us, along with two steaming meat pies. Up close, my eyes cut across her sharp features and the cold feel of shock slips through my chest. She’s one of Helgate’s slaves, or at least should be, but her irons are nowhere in sight. Braided, raven black hair is tucked behind one of her pointed ears and her eyes are like starlight. One of the dryad, if I had to guess, so lovely it hurts. I can tell she’s using the Fade since there’s no iron to keep her from camouflaging herself to blend in with the mortals around us.
But, like Morgana, I have the rare gift of being able to see through it, down to what lies beneath.
"Thank ye, dearie." Morgana grins, revealing a single snaggle tooth. The maiden gives her a fond nod and shoots me a suspicious glance, her upper lip twitching, before she heads back to her post behind the bar.
Mama Morgana lifts her tea, slurping off the edge of the well used porcelain. "You were saying?" The thin liquid dribbles over the large, unsightly wart on her chin.
I shift my attention from the nymph maiden and the old woman to eye the tea and the meat pie.
Despite its questionable production, it smells mouthwatering.
Trust no one. My fingers shake beneath the table, but I stay my hand, though I desperately long to pick up my fork and start carving into the flaky golden crust. Everything in Helgate comes with a price—even a simple meal.
It's an effort to swallow against the saliva pooling in my mouth, but I manage. "I was saying I'd like to know how you know what I'm looking for. And what…I am."
She waves her fork at me before spearing her meat pie and scooping a healthy bite into her mouth.
A lot of uncomfortable chewing and smacking of lips follows before she answers.
"The second question is easy. I've seen thousands of faces in my lifetime.
I ken a girl when I see one." She takes another sip of tea to wash her food down.
"The first is more complicated and we dinna have time to get into it.
" For the first time she seems more aware of the sensitivity of the subject, casting a quick glance to be sure the other patrons are well immersed in their own business.
And then she reaches into the seemingly endless layers of her scruffy green and white dress to grab a flimsy scrap to spread out on the table between us.
I squint at it, surmising that it's some sort of animal skin with crude drawings etched onto it.
The markings are so faded they're hardly legible, and it's several moments before I realize it's meant to be a map.
"What am I looking at?"
Morgana scoffs. "Rumor has it, yer supposed to be smart. It's a map, can't ye tell? It will lead ye just where ye need ta go."
A bubble of uncomfortable laughter starts deep in my chest. I swallow it down. What have I gotten myself into?
"A map to where?"
She sighs and scoots forward impatiently, jabbing at the skin with a crooked finger that looks swollen and painful at the knuckles.
"Here's Helgate." Her jagged, yellow fingernail scrapes a trail over the faded markings.
"Here's a line, ye follow it all the way out ta Red Water Cove.
This—" she gestures at the rough squiggles along the edge of what I can only guess is supposed to be where the coast meets the Dread Sea, "—is the opening to a cave in the cliffside. You'll have’ta swim out ta get to it—"
"Swim?" I repeat, and an icy wave of fear claws its way up my spine.
"Have wax in yer ears? Yes, swim. Or find a boat.
Or ye could dangle but you'd better trust yer rope, dearie, because that's a long fall to rocky shallows.
" She glances back up at me, those glittering, dark, intelligent eyes sizing me up.
"The water's not deep. It's low tide. Get to the cave.
What yer looking for is inside. The passage on the back here will guide ye.
" She flips the skin and strokes her fingers over verses of faded words.
My voice dips. "I still don't understand how you know I'm searching for it. And what's in it for you? Why tell me? If you know of it, you must realize how valuable it is. Fortunes have been made off less."
"Oh, tsh." She chuckles and a bit of carrot from her pie slips out with her spittle. "What's an old crone like me want with riches? No, this is something far more important. This is revenge."
I stare at her, feeling my gaze harden, my brow lift, and lean back to fold my arms across my chest.
The humor in her dark eyes dims a fraction. "Use yer head, child. You aren't the only one searching for the pieces. Word travels fast through Helgate's underbelly, and bottom feeders are afoot. Harlow Black's been sniffing 'round that cove."
I take in a breath, trying not to imagine what terrible things a man like Harlow could do with a piece of the crown. If he's already there searching for it, my problem's just become a lot more difficult than a wade across the shallows. "What does he want with it?"
"What all men want with power. To harness it, use it to keep the rest of us in shackles.
Stop him, before no one can." She doesn't have to say it, but the iron collars adorning the necks of captured nymph flash through my head.
The opium clubs. Helgate's Underworld—all the terrible places and things.
Harlow is the overseer of Solomon's dark empire.
Thwarting them, alone, would make this worth any risk.
Gaining a piece of the crown in the process…
it's an offer I can't refuse, whether I trust the old crone or not. And she knows it.
"What's your quarrel with Harlow?"
"Another long story that we dinna have time for. What will it be, Avalon?" She says my name, slow and clear, drawing out the end. I startle at the sound, having not heard it on the lips of another since I was stood on the shores of Aurorae.
"I'm no hero, if that's what you're asking for. I can't use…it…to save the city or put Harlow in the ground where he belongs."
Morgana laughs softly, coughs around her next bite before following it with a swig.
“There are no heroes in Helgate, Avalon. If there was, they’d beat ye to the crown piece.
Where would that leave ye? Where would that leave her?
I'm not in the market for a savior. I'm simply looking for someone who wants the crown more and who won't use it to burn the world to ash. "
My eyes narrow and I swallow hard, taken aback by her casual mention of such precious knowledge.
How does she know about her? I almost ask, but it's clear that's what she wants me to do.
And I would only get the same answer she's been giving.
Not enough time. If that's the case, I won't waste anymore of it.
Slowly, steadily, I lift my fork and scoop a bite of meat pie into my mouth, chewing without looking away from her.
It's more final than a handshake or nod of the head. It’s the sealing of our deal.
No matter what she claims, that's what this is.
Because, as I said, everything in Helgate comes at a price, and I think I'm about to pay mine.