Chapter 54
Maylie
Fifteen winters old
THE NEWS CAME to Maylie a few days later, while she was standing by the townhouse second-floor window, beating a rug. As soon as she heard it, she knew something was terribly wrong.
She stilled, puffs of dust floating on to the busy street outside. The doors to Ms Delaphio’s private sitting room were flung open beside her, to freshen the thick, dense air, and the chatter of the two old women inside echoed down the corridor.
‘A girl from Tormale, you say?’ said Ms Delaphio.
‘That’s right,’ replied Ms Pilla. ‘Just announced before I arrived.’
Looking over her shoulder, Maylie could see the two ladies seated at the tea table, their voluptuous dresses wilting around them and their grey temples dampening with sweat. It was unseasonably hot for the first day of spring.
‘You always expect the girls to come from a mountain hut,’ muttered Ms Delaphio, her teacup clattering in her saucer. ‘Not somewhere civilized. Not somewhere decent.’
‘To be honest, my husband says there’re more Mountain folk in the towns and city than left in the mountains, these days!’ scoffed Ms Pilla.
Both women laughed.
‘Besides,’ added Ms Pilla, taking a sip of sweet milk. ‘The girl’s from the Pits.’
‘I see,’ replied Ms Delaphio, as if that explained everything.
Maylie did not feel the carpet beater slip from her fingers and she did not hear the dull thud as it hit the carpet.
She was dimly aware that the old women were still talking – something about street closures for the Maiden Sacrifice ceremony later – but her ears were filled with the ancient language of the Hidden People:
Sorrow lies ahead. A great tragedy.
Maylie had thought of the warning often since she left the mountains.
But surely they had borne enough sadness.
Surely that prophecy must have been fulfilled.
Now, though, the creature’s words reared to the forefront of her mind.
She felt its threat with searing clarity, dread rushing over her in a hot, burning surge.
She turned and ran.
Without hesitation, she raced along the corridor and down the staircase, chased by gasps from the passing housemaids and Piepe’s roar of outrage, before bursting through the main entrance on to the street outside.
Sorrow lies ahead. A great tragedy.
She sprinted down the avenue, pushing past people, who spat and shouted, and spooking wagon-horses, which shied and whinnied.
But she did not care. She needed to get to their shack in the Pits.
She needed to see that Esmelie was safe and well, lying in the bed where Maylie had left her.
After all, there were many Mountain girls in the Pits. A number would be eighteen winters old.
And yet she ran.
Breath tore from her throat in sharp pants, but she would not slow.
She dashed through the heart of the Old Quarter, heading towards Midtown.
In the main streets, she passed liveried guards raising flags and barriers in preparation for the upcoming ceremony, the golden dragons on their chests glinting in the bright sunlight.
She felt sick.
They had known Esmelie had turned eighteen winters old, of course.
But away from Silicia and the familiarities of the mountains, such threats had seemed distant.
Everything had paled in comparison to the pain of their life in Tormale: the dank lodging, the punishing grind of work and Ravie’s infidelities. They had been complacent.
She zigzagged through the streets of Midtown and finally reached the descent into the Pits. The pavements receded and the buildings shrank. She ran on, her lips salty with sweat and the unravelled ends of her cloche whipping behind her.
Sorrow lies ahead. A great tragedy.
She must be wrong. This would all turn out to be some great mistake. The alternative was too terrible.
Maylie wove through the cramped, murky lanes, dodging beggars and drunks.
She ran with her fingers clenched and her head pounding the rushed beat of her heart.
Mangy stray dogs skittered out of her path with grumbling growls and a flock of spooked lovetails scattered from a rooftop with panicked coos.
Finally, aching and breathless, Maylie reached the dark mouth of their street.
Something was wrong.
Bony women and grubby, wide-eyed children were dithering on the cobbles, clucking and whispering to one another.
Maylie’s steps slowed.
By now she could see that the door of their shack stood open.
Inside it was empty.
Esmelie was gone.