Chapter 6
Chapter Six
The crimson feather
sapphire
I hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. I pressed my palms to my eyes.
Every time I closed them, Lily was there—her laugh echoing down the hallway.
Eyes glittering with joy like sunshine in spring.
The soft shuffle of her bare feet on polished floorboards as she held the edges of her skirts, twirling around with glee when she thought no one was looking.
I’d miss the silly little dances she’d perform for me when the Silver Finch was empty, flashing a grin over her shoulder, enticing me to join in.
Now she was just a slab of cold flesh for the morgue boys to carry out before anyone woke up to see the truth of what this place really was.
Frozen feet carried me towards my dresser. My lungs craved the bitter touch of cinderleaf, each breath clawing in my chest like the dead screeching to escape the sulphurous grasp of the afterlife . . . if it was even real.
The wooden box where I stashed my cigarettes creaked open, brittle against the early morning silence. Not even the sun had bothered to rise yet. But the cold kept me company—the kind of frigid winter air that lingered, hollowing my bones with an absence that nothing else could replicate.
I dragged myself to the window, cigarette clamped between raw lips, the taste of ash and bruised skin still clinging to my tongue.
That’s when I saw it—a scrap of paper fluttering on the sill, tied to a single red feather like a bird had dropped its last piece of hope on me by mistake.
It must have wedged itself there when I slammed the window last night, hoping to scare the chill away.
It had been no use.
With numb fingers, I pried the window open, then snatched the paper and shut the glass pane, sealing out the icy wind once again.
The feather was velvet to the touch, its colouring the shade of blood-red cherries.
I lifted it closer to inspect it further, unsure of the last time I saw a bird of this colour.
The paper crinkled under my fingers as I gently unfolded it. Not knowing what I’d find on the inside had me erring on the side of caution.
One line. Etched in what looked like coal sprawled across the parchment.
“There’s a light in you the dark cannot touch.” The words came out in barely a whisper as I read.
I huffed a breath that almost resembled a laugh.
What a load of horseshit.
Light? Where? Buried under Kavish’s belt lashes? Between my thighs for the men who lined up with their sweaty hands and sad coins? Maybe it was in Lily once—before she ended up on that stretcher, wrapped in a blanket that smelled more like rot than mercy.
Tears threatened to spill again as I took another drag of my cigarette. The lump in my throat swelled, so thick and sudden I feared my grief might strangle me.
Perhaps I wouldn’t care.
I crumpled the paper in my hand, nails biting into my skin.
There was no name. No promise. Just empty words that tasted as stale as last night’s ale on the men I serviced—for nothing.
All those coins clinked in my palm for a heartbeat, then straight into Kavish’s fat pockets.
My freedom dangled like a carrot before a beaten mule—dragged forwards by hope, broken by the lie of it.
I dropped the note into the rubbish, ash from the cinderleaf falling with it. There was no light here. Just the dark . . . the kind that crept into your bones and stayed.
Taking another drag, my body tensed as I turned back to the window and watched them carry Lily’s body down the alley. If there was any justice left, maybe she was free now. Or maybe freedom was just another lie they fed girls like us to keep our legs spread wide and our temperaments docile.
If only I could have done something to save her.
With a sigh on my lips, and a heavy heart in my chest, I finished my smoke, and dressed for the cold.
No one else would be awake yet, it was still too early, but I couldn’t stay here any longer.
I’d rather brave the cruel winter than be in this place for one more second even if I could barely walk.
My legs still throbbed with pain from the lashing Kavish had so generously offered.
Throwing the only thick woollen cloak I owned around my shoulders, I pulled it close and slipped out of my room, down the stairs, and headed for the kitchen.
Ree’s door was sealed shut. Hopefully he was fast asleep too—the bastard—no better than Kavish.
Except now he sported a broken nose and a black eye. Suited him really.
Icy fog greeted me as I stepped out onto the dimly lit street, the dull golden glow of the oil lamps my only companions. Soon, someone would be along to snuff them out, taking the shadows with them.
I clutched my wicker basket in the crook of my arm as I pulled my hood over my head. There was a very good chance that Meeka’s apothecary wouldn’t even be open yet, but it didn’t matter. I just needed to be somewhere else.
The streets were a half-dead hush at this hour—frost clinging to the edges of cracked cobblestones, curling off rooftops like ghosts caught mid-breath.
A drunk snored under the butcher’s awning, a mangy dog sniffing at his pockets for scraps.
Smoke from a dying hearth drifted through the narrow lane, mingling with the sharp bite of winter air.
Lanterns swung above doorsteps, their glass panes fogged, spilling thin light onto the damp ground as I passed beneath them.
The world felt softer before dawn—softer, but not kinder.
As I neared the apothecary, I noted the darkness inside. Meeka wasn’t in yet, which I expected.
I perched my aching body on the top step, the back of my legs screamed as I swallowed down the pain, trying to adjust my position.
The cold wood of the doorframe bit into my spine, its chill seeping through every threadbare layer I had on.
Woolen socks did their best inside my scuffed leather boots, but even they’d give out soon. Another thing I’d have to replace.
While I waited for Meeka, I forced my mind to quiet. To try and drown out the voices screaming in my head until it only focused on one.
Hers. Mother’s.
When I was a little girl she used to sing me to sleep when the nightmares dared knock on my door. If I closed my eyes tight enough I could still hear her hushed song. I only let myself remember her when I was truly alone like this.
Before I could stop myself, the tune tumbled from my lips.
There was a maiden who fell for the sea,
But the ocean, it loved her not back.
She danced in its waters and begged for its heart,
But the sea, the maiden’s heart it did crack.
Oh, my little love, let’s go to the ocean,
Let’s go to the ocean, I say.
For when we reach its fair shores, my darling,
The fair shores are where we shall stay.
There was a girl with hair like the tide,
Blue as the brightest of stones.
Her skin was soft porcelain, kissed by the wind,
Her eyes were the sky when alone.
Oh, my little love, let’s go to the ocean,
Let’s go where the wild waves play.
We’ll bury our sorrows deep under the foam,
And there we shall never decay.
It was her hope to take me to the Drayton Sea, where we might dip our toes into its cool waters, and lay on its warm sands. And though we never made it there, and she now rested in the graveyard on the outskirts of town, my heart still yearned to go.
I dreamed of the ocean like it was a promise I’d been born too far from.
I could almost feel it—salt-rough waves licking at my skin, cool water slipping through my fingers, my hair floating like silk on the tide.
I’d heard it smelled sweet and briny all at once, like freedom tangled with the bite of the wind.
I wondered if the waves would carry my sins away, or just lay them out in the sun for the gulls to pick at.
I’d never seen it for myself—only in Mother’s whispers and lullabies—but in my dreams, the ocean always called to me.
I’m not sure when I nodded off to sleep, but I woke when someone gently shook my arm. My eyes cracked open to see the soft smile of the one true friend whom I loved with all my heart.
Meeka.
“Blythe, are you alright? It’s so early.”
There was no point holding in the tidal wave of emotion that swelled through me—as soon as Meeka’s soft, welcoming voice touched my ears, the dam broke. A sob erupted out of me, tears rushing hot down my cheeks as tremors wracked my body.
Meeka didn't say anything further, but her actions spoke a thousand words. She simply helped me up, and ushered me inside, closing the dark green, wooden door gently behind her.
She wrapped an arm around my shoulders, leading me to the back room. “Sit here and I shall make us some tea, then you can tell me everything.”
I watched her glide effortlessly about the room through bleary eyes.
She lit the oil sconces, stoked a fire, and placed the small black iron kettle over it.
While she pottered, I managed to pull myself together enough to function.
It wasn’t like me to break down. Usually I held it all in—for as long as I could.
Moments later, Meeka sat beside me with two steaming mugs of hot tea. She handed me one, then sank back onto the daybed, its fabric a soft lemon-coloured cloth she kept for the long nights spent making her tonics.
Pale blue eyes, softened by fondness, sought me out. “Bare your soul to me.”
So I did. I spilled it all—every rotten piece.
Told her about Lily lying cold and stiff while the rest of the Silver Finch pretended not to notice.
How Kavish split my skin open for daring to open my mouth.
How he took my earnings like I hadn't slaved the night away, giving each man a small piece of myself.
The words tumbled out, raw and jagged, until my throat burned and my tongue felt scraped clean. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d talked this much. Maybe I never had.