Chapter Six Idris
Chapter Six
Idris
In my dreams, I dance.
Every night after we return home to Skyare, music follows me when I sleep. I am in constant motion, and the color and sound of it all burns in my head like a fever. Come morning, I wake late and feel no rest.
On the ninth day, I can’t help groaning when the cathedral bells toll eight.
I promised Abram I’d go with him to the holms, a series of tidal islands.
Low tide is at—what, ten? I try to figure out how early we need to leave so that we reach the harbor at Stromwell and depart with time to spare.
The journey time once we’re in the yole will depend on the wind, and I need to account for the current being against us. Maybe we should just take horses …
But my brain hurts, and I press my palms to my closed eyes. These stupid dreams have me going mad. And it doesn’t help that Speir still hasn’t shown up to collect on the curse. No wonder I keep dreaming of dances, with something about fulfilling her “dancing days” hanging over my head.
A big, slobbery tongue licks my wrist. I nudge True away with my elbow before I open one eye to give him a look. “Thanks.”
He wags his tail.
I sigh heavily and heave myself out of bed. As far as I can tell, I still have time to go with Abram. The cold sea air might do me good. Clear away the fragments of the night.
I start pulling on my clothes, hardly paying attention to what I’m grabbing. Buckskin trousers? Sure. Green-wool waistcoat? Great. Bright orange hat Abram found washed-up on shore? Perfect.
As I’m grabbing my boots, I knock one over. A shimmering sort of dust spills out across the floor.
I pause, surprised. I squat—my legs protest, unexpectedly sore—and rub the stuff between my fingers.
It’s too fine to be sand, and it isn’t the right color—not the faint pink of the beaches on Varmyra to the west or the startling white of Glett to the north.
This color shifts between gray-white to lavender and the softest of yellows, like dawn on a foggy morning, depending on the way I angle it in the light.
The dust coats my fingertips in a thin pigment, the way I suppose a lady’s rouge would.
Cautiously, I tip my other boot. More of the dust falls out.
Finally, I make myself check my feet.
My soles are covered in the stuff. Even the skin on the top of my feet has a slight shimmer.
A sinking dread settles in my chest. My gaze catches on my leather dancing shoes, dumped in a messy corner. But they look just as good as they did on my birthday—I haven’t been wearing them anywhere.
My feet hurt, I realize. More than they did when I went to bed last night.
A creeping suspicion raises the hairs on my arms.
I jump to the wardrobe and throw it open.
My everyday garb is the same as always, but when I push back to the formal attire I’m hit by the smell of kelp and sweat.
I stick my nose close to the armpit of one jacket and, yes, I have definitely worn this very recently.
The fabric is crusty with salt. I wince at the silver buttons that are already starting to tarnish from exposure to seawater. I’ll have to polish them.
Polish them? It is so ridiculous I almost want to laugh. Clothes and buttons—what does it matter?
Because I haven’t been dreaming.
I lower myself to my bed, taking a shaky breath. The curse has started. I’m already enchanted. And I have no memory of what’s been happening to me.
True puts his big head on my knee, turning his brown eyes up to me. I rub his wiry fur between my fingers. Speir is already collecting the dancing days, but I hadn’t even realized it. I’ve been going somewhere in my sleep.
But where? And how?
I swallow on a dry throat. My body is possessed. I have no idea what they’re doing to me, aside from—apparently—making me dance.
Someone knocks lightly on my door. Abram’s voice asks, “Idris?”
I spring forward and slam the wardrobe shut guiltily. I grab my wool socks and shove them on, then the boots. I kick at the dust to disperse it.
“Yes, come in!” I shout, too loud.
Abram pushes open the door and gives me a worried look. His glasses make his eyes a little too big, a little too concerned. I ignore him while I run my hands through my hair instead of a comb.
“Are you all right?” he asks, for what must be the thousandth time since our trip south. He asked that on our journey home, as soon as he got a chance to speak without my father present. And yesterday, when I got so tired I tripped over a cobblestone …
Tired. I’ve been so, so tired. Of course I wasn’t dreaming. I want to bang my head against a wall.
“Yes,” I say, sliding my arms into my greatcoat. “Never better. Let’s go and find some—what are we looking for today?”
“I want to check if the storm dredged up any more flotsam from the Rover,” Abram says, naming a pirate ship that wrecked a few months back. “See if the winds have exposed any more of the old chapel.”
“So we aren’t hunting beetles and owl pellets?” I ask, relieved.
“Not today, anyway.” Abram smiles, a little cautiously. “Are you sure you’re up for it? You look a bit—”
“Never better.” I hear myself repeat the words and see Abram’s eyes narrow. Feigning indifference, I snap for True’s attention and slip past Abram into the hallway. “So excited to go scrambling over beaches.”
He follows me downstairs. Father sits alone in the breakfast room, examining a newspaper.
He must hear us come down, but he doesn’t look up.
Ever since our fight, it seems he has decided to just not talk to me until he can find a way to “undo” my “horrible decision.” I wonder if I should tell him that the curse has started.
“Do you want breakfast?” Abram asks me. “I think we still have time.”
I would like breakfast, actually. But I do not relish the thought of sitting down to a cool table with a distant father and Abram looking between the two of us, trying to figure out why we’re both not speaking.
Instead, I take a cloth napkin and fill it with whatever I can grab from the sideboard—ham and toast. I stick an apple in my pocket as well.
“This will do.” I hesitate at the table. I could send Abram ahead, get a moment alone with Father …
“Stay safe,” Father says without lifting his gaze, his voice hard-edged.
My inclination vanishes. I won’t confess with my tail between my legs, like the scolded dog he thinks I am. He can break our silence. After all, it is still mostly his fault.
“I am your obedient son!” I call, half jogging to the door.
Outside, a thick haar has come off the sea, enveloping the city in cold gray. Our manor house stands at the top of the hill, and on a good day we can see the distant shape of the other islands. In this weather I can barely make out the shadow of the cathedral’s spire at the city’s center.
“Sure you want to go treasure-hunting in this?” I ask Abram, pulling my coat closer.
“It’ll clear up,” he says confidently, heading down the street with True at his heels. “It’s off the water. We just need the wind to shift.”
He doesn’t have to tell me it’s off the water—I can feel it in the air’s cold bite.
As I follow him through narrow alleys and small, busy courtyards toward the harbor, I think back to the fog over the loch.
And Princess Katherine—Kit—standing at the edge of the dock.
She never did tell me what she had been looking at.
The houses of Stromwell are built at odd angles to keep the wind from blowing even fiercer through the alleys.
It’s more effective in some places than others.
When we get to Kabyl Pass—named for a treacherous mountain path halfway around the world—the straightness of the way channels the full force of a gale.
The haar closes around us, stinging in the wind.
“It’s slick here,” Abram calls over his shoulder. “Be careful.”
“I know how to walk,” I reply. My foot lands on polished stone and slips suddenly from under me. I curse, stumbling—but Abram catches my arm to steady me. Sighing, I add, “Thanks.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Abram asks, staying by my side as I keep making my way cautiously down the steeply paved hill. True has reached the bottom and sits to wait patiently. “You seem a bit … on edge.”
I don’t answer, keeping my gaze on my feet and my hand on the nearest wall for balance.
Abram shifts beside me, then takes off his glasses to rub them with a handkerchief. “Did … Princess Catharine reject your proposal?”
“No.” I slide the last few feet to the main street and release a breath, grateful to be on even ground again. “I didn’t ask.”
The streets are already bustling, and I cut into the flow of people before Abram can pose more questions.
Carts pulled by horses labor their way toward the mills on the far side of town.
Women hold out knitted goods for sale—socks and gloves and colorful hats like mine.
Men pass back and forth on their way to the water or from it.
I wave to Merlin Muir, a retired fisherman who spends his days exchanging stories outside our one hotel.
He tips his cap to us. “After the tide, my lads?”
“That’s right,” I answer, still walking. “How’s the fishing?”
“Got a few good tales.” He winks. “Come by when you’re in less of a hurry.”
I slow, curious. But Abram catches my arm. Quietly, he reminds me, “If we stop for five minutes, we’ll be here for sixty.”
“Right.” Abram must be very keen on that potential flotsam to avoid Mr. Muir’s stories. But he’s correct—the tide waits for nothing, not even a good yarn. More’s the pity. I lift my hand to the old fellow and continue toward the harbor.