Chapter 4
Nyx
If it were not for the furious throbbing in my head, perhaps I would be handling this situation with more grace. But my head is killing me. It throbs with every step I take, and that’s only the second most painful thing I’m experiencing.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Lyra.
Her face streaked with dirt and tears. The wild terror in her eyes. The way her bound hands reached for me as they dragged her farther away, as though she still believed I could stop them.
The memory tears through me fresh each time it rises.
I should have fought harder. I should have ripped her from that horse, thrown myself between her and those monsters, done anything but crumple uselessly into the dirt while they carried her toward the capital.
My stomach twists so sharply I have to brace a hand against the edge of the bed.
I will get her back.
I don’t yet know how. I don’t care what it costs. I only know that every second I waste here is another second Lyra is alone, frightened, and waiting for me to come for her.
“Darling, please, listen to me,” Hilda says, fluttering anxiously around the outskirts of my bed as I continue packing my things. “Nyx!”
Her voice pulls me fully into the present.
She and Ivor had both been leaning over me when I blinked awake scarcely a minute after the vampires rode away. My head still aches from that blow now as I turn to look at the woman I would ordinarily trust over my own instincts.
Hilda has been sent by Ivor, who was unable to sway me in the parlor and possesses far too much decorum to follow me into my bedchamber. Even now, I can picture the look he wore when I refused him downstairs, that desperate mixture of fear and helplessness etched into every line of his face.
Anything to make me stay.
Anything to keep me from following the path I’ve already chosen.
“I’m listening, Hilda,” I say, as I carefully fold several undergarments and pack them into a bag.
The very act of it feels odd. I’ve never been away from this manor long enough to warrant a changing of the undergarments.
And now, here I am, preparing to leave with the knowledge that I might not return at all. Not if I anger the gods enough.
Which I probably will.
“You’re listening, but you’re not heeding the words,” she says, pushing a hand up into her frizzing gray hair. “You can’t go to the city alone. It’s not proper—”
“With the utmost respect, Hilda,” I say, exasperated as I reach into the next drawer and pull out several socks, darned and mended by Hilda herself, “we are far past the point of what is proper, don’t you think?”
She’s quiet, seeming to bite her tongue as I carefully pack two pairs of socks into my bag.
It’s not as though I can bring my whole chest with me, as much as I would like to.
I’ll need to only bring the bare minimum, to keep my horse from being over-encumbered.
He’s earnest, but aging. Just like the rest of this place.
“And even if we weren’t,” I go on, when Hilda says nothing in response to that statement, “I’m more than willing to sacrifice my honor, my public reception, for the sake of my sister. And I think we both know I have no other choice.”
“This is a suicide mission.” I turn to find Ivor standing outside the doorway, his arms crossed petulantly, his thick gray eyebrows drawn low. Despite his objections, and how he frustrates me, my heart warms at his worry.
He’s the closest thing I have to a father, and I don’t blame him, or Hilda, for trying to stop me. If it was Lyra jumping on a horse to ride off to the city and face the gods, I’d be doing much more than trying to argue with her. I might lock her up if I thought it would keep her safe.
So, how can I blame them for wanting to keep me alive? I’m not the only one who has suffered.
Perhaps the blow of my parents hit me, and Lyra, the hardest, but my parents were dear friends with Hilda and Ivor, and grief is a cruel weight on us all.
Moving with purpose, I drop my bag on the bed and turn, striding for the doorway and throwing my arms around Ivor, hugging him tightly.
Like I might a father.
His honor, his decorum, his manners, stall him, clearly, as he must be thinking how improper it is for a male servant to hug the lady of the house, but then that falls to the side, and he hugs me back.
For an instant, it’s like being in my father’s arms again. Feeling like the world might not be so big and intimidating with strong arms nearby. “I can’t stomach the thought of losing you.”
“And that is how I feel for Lyra,” I whisper, pulling away from him and swiping off a stray tear from my face. Breathing deeply, I find his eyes, center myself, and say, “I’m going. No matter what. So if you could ready my horse, I’d appreciate it.”
He holds my gaze, swallows, then nods and turns, walking away.
“Well, if Ivor gets one, then I do, too.”
I startle, then laugh, as Hilda wraps her arms around me, pulling me in tight to her. I breathe in the scent of soap, cleaner, and soft chamomile, allowing myself a moment of comfort in her arms.
Ivor is right. This is a suicide mission.
But I have no other course of action. If there’s even a chance I can save my sister, then I have to take it.
When Hilda releases me from the hug, she has the same look of understanding in her eyes that Ivor had. Then she clears her throat and turns, bustling through the doorway.
Hurrying, I get right back to packing. Several minutes later, I emerge from my room with only two bags, one to wear around my person, and the other to strap to my horse.
Instead of the rather impractical dress I wore earlier, I’ve changed into a traveling dress with a thicker material, less tulle and lace.
Each second I remain in this house feels stolen from Lyra.
By the time I descend the stairs with my satchel slung over my shoulder, my pulse is already hammering hard enough to make my temples ache. I scan the dining room for Hilda, intending only to say my goodbyes, but find her standing at the table with a leather satchel spread open before her.
She is packing quickly and methodically, drawing from the pantry shelves she must have raided the instant she realized she would not be able to stop me.
“Hilda,” I begin, already shaking my head. “I do not have time for this.”
“You do not have time to go hungry on the road either,” she says sharply, not even glancing up.
She tucks strips of cured meat into the satchel alongside a hard round of cheese, two apples, and half a loaf of yesterday’s bread wrapped tightly in cloth. A small pouch of dried berries follows, then a flask of water.
I shift impatiently, every instinct urging me toward the stables, toward the road, toward the capital and my sister.
Still, I remain where I am.
This is how Hilda loves. In practical things. In mended hems, stocked cupboards, and careful preparations made when words are not enough.
At last, she reaches for one final parcel already wrapped in linen.
“Spiced loaf,” she says softly as she places it on top. Her eyes rise to meet mine, bright with unshed tears. “The one I made yesterday. For when you need reminding there is still sweetness left in this world.”
The lump that rises in my throat is sudden and fierce.
Before I can answer, Ivor appears in the doorway.
“The horse is saddled and provisioned,” he says, his voice rougher than usual. “As ready as he’ll ever be.”
Together, the three of us walk to the front of the house.
I place the key to my father’s desk into Hilda’s hand and show them where to find my notes, the ledgers, and the records they may need to oversee the estate in my absence. None of us speak aloud the truth hanging so heavily between us.
That I may not return.
That if I fail, they may be left to carry on without either Nocturne daughter.
Hilda reaches for me first, cupping my face between trembling hands.
“You have your mother’s bravery,” she whispers. “And your father’s good heart. They will carry you farther than you know.”
Emotion burns behind my eyes as I pull her into a fierce embrace, pressing my face briefly into her silver-threaded hair.
When I finally step back, Ivor moves toward the horse to help me mount.
His hand settles on my shoulder, stopping me before I can climb into the saddle.
“Here,” he says, passing me something wrapped in leather.
A dagger shines at me when I pull the leather aside, a metal hilt that catches the quickly setting sun over my shoulder. “Ivor,” I breathe, looking up at him, feeling the strange, exhilarating power of a weapon in my hand.
“I can only pray you don’t need it,” he says, his voice rough. “It was my father’s.”
“Ivor, no, you keep it. I’d have no idea how to use it, in any case—”
He shakes his head, pushing the parcel back toward me. Carefully, he lifts the sheath and strap up, pulls it tight around my waist quickly, with deft hands. Then he takes a step back to admire his handiwork.
“Should stay put,” he says. “Should you need it, only draw and stab.”
I swallow, trying not to think about the word stab, and what, exactly, I might be burying the knife inside.
Every thought of those vampires taking my sister feeds the fire burning inside me.
I hate the calm certainty with which they stole her, the terrible ease of their cruelty, the way they looked through my terror as though it meant nothing at all.
They stole my sister from our doorstep and rode away believing there would be no consequence for it.
The thought alone is enough to turn my resolve to steel.
And still, I’m not sure that if those men stood before me now, I could draw the weapon and lunge for them.
Not out of fear that I would make a mistake, or be bested, but out of fear that I would not.
That I could drive the knife through their necks and take their lives, commit to an act that has no reversal.
Still, if I was going to try to save my sister, I have to be ready to kill for her.
“Thank you,” I say softly, wondering if Ivor can see the thoughts playing over my face. If he realizes that I’ve never been truly violent a day in my life.
After two more brief hugs, I’m mounting the horse and settling into the saddle, my worn traveling dress spilling out over the sides. The air has already started to cool, and Hilda, always thinking, hands me up a cloak to keep me warm, which I quickly put on.
The horse lets out a low, impatient noise.
At least riding is something I’m more than familiar with, I think, taking a steadying breath, trying to calm myself. Once upon a time, our family had enough horses for everyone, at least two carriages at any given time.
And now here we are, down to this one aging horse.
He might be older, but he stamps at the ground, clearly eager to get on with our three day journey. I check at my satchels, my bags, then swallow down the trepidation and turn him around, leading him down the road that leads to the capital city.
In the face of the insurmountable unknown, of the city I’ve never been to and a journey of the likes I’ve never even considered, I think only of my sister. I have to help her, have to plead with the gods, however unsavory that might be, to consider something else.
I have to get them to release her. And if not, to consider me instead.
Because that’s the thing I haven’t said. That Ivor and Hilda didn’t dare say out loud. The gods will never just let my sister go, but maybe they won’t care which of the Nocturne sisters they ruin.
“Be safe!” Hilda calls, and I raise my hand to her, knowing that if I turn to look, we’ll shatter the illusion that being safe is even remotely possible for me on this journey.