Chapter Two Before
MUCH AS SHE hated it, Lady Catrine Rose found herself grateful to the perilous ocean.
The waves were terrifying but they kept her husband sick at all hours, too distracted with emptying his guts to bother with his young wife.
Lord Rose had not touched her since their last night on the Continent, giving her several long weeks of peace.
Despite all the discomforts of their voyage, she feared the day they reached the calmer tides of the Lyrian Sea.
Nineteen and na?ve, Cat had not imagined marriage would be this way. But it was a crueler cage than the life she left, bound to a negligent husband instead of a negligent mother.
He was Lord Rose, master of the estate across the lake, with soft hands and a softer smile.
So many girls to choose from, and he chose me, she thought, the memory bitter in her mouth.
How she wished she could reach back in time to grab the young bride by the throat and drag her screaming from the altar.
But how could I have known?
A silk jacket mended instead of replaced. Dusty rooms in Rose Manor, shut up well before the season. Fewer servants with every day. Creditors on the lord’s doorstep. No family members at the wedding ceremony. And letters, so many letters, all of them dismissed with those soft, white hands.
Until Lord Ryman Rose could not dismiss them anymore.
Until the carriages were brought, the cases packed, the estate sold mere weeks after Catrine became lady of the house.
By then, the ink was dry on the marriage license, and the deed of sale.
By then, she had traded her veil for shackles, and the rolling green hills of the Meridian countryside for the heaving blue waves of the ocean.
By grace of the Meridian gods, Lord Rose kept a separate cabin onboard, and she was spared the worst of his sea sickness, both above and below deck.
Wife though she was, it was not her place to attend to an ill husband.
They still had servants for such things, and each one earned their pay twice over helping Lord Rose retch into a bucket or over the side of the ship.
And when he is not retching, he is ranting, Cat knew, remembering his voice as it shook the walls of Rose Manor.
She tried not to picture it, both her husband, red-faced as his namesake, nor the fine home in the Meridian countryside, its windows shuttered and its contents packed away.
She barely knew the place—but still, it felt like a loss.
But there was no use in thinking about all the things that lay behind, more distant by the day. It was better to pass the time preparing for what was to come. Or so she told herself, picking up her book on the Lyrian Sea, holding it close in the dim light of her little cabin.
Her finger held the mottled page, marking her spot in the wall of black text.
Even so, the words blurred. Esperese cities, Meridian colonies, traders of Itzima far to the south, farm islands ruled by planter kings.
The continental powers seemed to have swallowed the Lyrian Sea whole—save for one island.
Arcayo.
The unfamiliar name stood out sharply, solid against the wavering sea of ink.
A sovereign nation, unbound to any continental power. The Arcayans do not worship the true Church, or gods of any kind, but the Lyrian Sea itself, under a belief called the Song—
The deck rolled beneath her, more gently than it had all day, and Cat snapped her book shut. Her heartbeat skittered. She knew what calmer seas meant, and for whom.
Quickly, she slid off her narrow bunk, planting her feet against the rhythm of the ship, and donned a heavy shawl on her way out. It was spring, but the wind was still cold across the ocean, the air chill and damp.
As expected, Lord Ryman Rose was already oozing his way down the stairs from the deck.
He braced one hand against the wall, his red-rimmed eyes finding her in the low light.
Without his powdered wigs and brocade coats, Lord Rose looked boyish, though he was twenty years her senior.
His dirty blond hair lay stringy about his face, having come loose from its knot.
He could not grow a beard, and no amount of powder could hide the sallow tone of his skin, yellowed by weeks of nausea.
Mr. Greer, one of their remaining servants, followed, a bucket in his hand.
“And where are you going?” Ryman demanded, his spittle flecking the air.
Cat pressed back against the wall, trying to make herself small in the narrow passage. She lowered her eyes and curtsied as best she could against the roll of the ship.
“My lord,” she said, her gentle voice well practiced. A thousand miles away, her governess would have been proud. “I meant to take some air on the deck. Will you not join me above?”
Ryman gave a shudder, disgusted at the prospect.
But then his eyes flicked between his cabin door and her own, clearly weighing the options.
Cat’s fists clenched, hidden in her skirts, prayer beads worming between her fingers.
Silently, she hoped her husband would elect to sleep and not summon her to perform her wifely duties.
“My lord, the captain did say we would only have an hour or so of calm waters,” Mr. Greer offered. He shot Cat a meaningful look behind her husband’s back.
Ryman’s lip twisted, and Cat braced. Perhaps she had miscalculated, and his appetite for her body finally outweighed his need for sleep. Perhaps she should have feigned unconsciousness behind a locked door, though that would have done little if His Lordship was of a certain mind.
He took another stumbling step. Despite the long weeks since they had last stood on land, Lord Rose never seemed to develop sea legs.
“Quite right, I must rest and gather my strength,” he blustered, as if he were not fighting to stay upright.
Cat exhaled slowly in relief, shooting Greer a quick glance in gratitude.
“There is much to do when we reach Rosby Island. It is no small thing, building an empire!” Ryman barked out, fighting his cabin door open. “I take this great endeavor upon myself, for all of us. I will bear this burden.”
Cat wished for a fan to hide her face in.
Instead, she bit her lip to keep from laughing.
Her husband was emperor of little more than a few chests of clothing and an old title with no worth, heir to a defunct spice empire, king of an island no one else wanted.
There was nothing he built that did not immediately burn down.
“We are grateful, my lord,” she forced out.
The festering lord gave her a deep nod—the patronizing kind that made Cat cringe—then dismissed her with a wave, his palm white and soft as snow.
“Be mindful,” he called after her. “These merchant sailors are barely better than pirates. They do not act in ways that befit a lady of your station.”
My station.
This time a laugh did escape Cat’s mouth. Luckily the slamming of his cabin door drowned her out.
My station, she thought again, climbing the stairs into the waning daylight. What station? Is there a name for how low I’ve fallen?
Not that I had very far to fall, she thought, considering the short years she had enjoyed between girlhood and the wifely cage. She had been one of six children, all daughters of a failing house, all looking for a path to survival.
She reached the main deck, and the tang of salt water and brine hit her nose.
Despite her husband’s misgivings, no one on the Credence bothered with Lady Rose, too focused on their work.
Overhead, trade winds filled the sails, pushing the galleon across the Aviter Ocean.
Even with the rough seas, the Credence was making good time.
They were late enough to avoid winter storms from the north and would arrive too early for hurricane season in the Lyrian Sea.
Or so Captain Meedy said. But Cat knew better now than to trust a man’s word.
She crossed to the rail, inhaling deeply to force the stale cabin air from her lungs.
The horizon seemed endless beneath the late afternoon sun, and Cat stared into it, as if she could see beyond the edge of the world.
There was nothing but cold blue in every direction, no hint of the islands they sailed towards.
But Cat’s books were clear enough, every map detailing the same—the Lyrian Sea was ahead, a line of turquoise between the Aviter Ocean and the Southern Continent.
The islands were a natural way station for all ships passing between north and south, where flags of the Meridian Empire, the Esperese, Itzima, and every other power collided in pursuit of trade or war or glory. In service of a crown or greed or both.
Cat knew which her husband sought, having found his ruin back home.
She lifted her face into the wind, her prayer beads clutched in her fist. They had miles to go still, but less every day.
Alone by the rail, she prayed. But not for guidance or patience or luck.
Now she asked for the wind to die, for the currents beneath the ship to lose their strength, for the sun to halt its descent.
For time itself to stand still.
But the wind blew, and the waves rolled.
No gods answered, silent as their many statues in their many churches. Cat tightened her grip on her prayer beads, wishing they would break. Wishing she could throw them into the water, and maybe herself too.
Instead, she watched the sun dip lower and lower, its golden face turning red as it slipped below the waves. Only when the last inch of light bled green, filtering through the blue sea, did she turn away.
Another day lost, another minute gone.
The Credence was a cage, but worse prisons waited.
* * *
SHE HEARD THE gulls before she opened her eyes.
Cat had not heard birds since they left the Meridian coast two months ago. Her heart clenched and a cold bolt of despair ran down her spine. Part of her wanted to slip into the gap between her bunk and the cabin wall, to disappear into the dark with the dust and rot.