Page 19

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Hedda and I venture deeper into Cheapside, further East, this rainy Warmth.

I half-expect Forranach to slam the door in my face, just for the bother of turning up. It’s been three weeks since I was last here. He doesn’t.

The time is too quick to pass. It is sand in my grip; water in my fist. It’s not that time in the Midlands moves differently, somehow wrongly ; it’s that the phases are too busy, too full—and the Sabbat is just a handful of falling time away.

I still don’t like our chances of opening the phase after the Sabbat, when tired mourners scour the streets for loaded, starchy foods and coffees; when out of towners wet their tongue before their journeys back home; and, more importantly, when the drink for the dead begins.

The Sabbat is a full phase of joy and colour and celebrations, of parades and dance.

The drink for the dead is the unofficial sister to the Sabbat, the phase where mourners come together at their watering holes and swap stories. This isn’t about mourning, it isn’t about telling the dead we miss them, weeping for them—the drink for the dead is a happy time, even in Licht, just fae telling stories about the ones who have passed and all the fun details of their lives before they did.

That is our time limit.

And, honestly, if I don’t get to celebrate the Sabbat, if we aren’t ready by that phase, I might just burn the tavern down myself.

Probably not, but I can dream.

“Says six barrels of brown ale and three of porter.” The garbled accent takes me by surprise for a beat. “I count three brown ales and one porter.”

I forgot, almost, that Forranach is here.

My mind was too lost in my spiralling thoughts of urgency, and my body too occupied with the steady brushstrokes I slide down the floorboards. Floor polish stinks, I learn, and it has a knack of starting headaches.

I throw a look over my shoulder at Forranach.

He runs through a list, letters inked onto parchment, with the tip of his slow-moving finger.

“Is that all that’s missing?”

I asked Forranach to come work at the tavern. He grumbled, muttered under his breath about how litalves can’t do anything right, it’s a wonder I am still alive, a lot of other garbled nonsense—and now, he sits on the chair by the still-boarded-up window, a snoring Hedda curled on his lap. There is much he can’t do around here, given the missing leg, but as it turns out he can still do a lot.

Already, Forranach has decided what to order in Eamon’s absence, since my brother of the soul decides to be gone so long, and somehow I’m meant to carry the weight of the tavern preparations all on my own.

Forranach has been something of a saviour.

It doesn’t hurt that, even without his leg, he is formidable. I watched him just yesterday, weight leaned onto one crutch tucked under his pit, and he reached out for the stove in the kitchen, then yanked it out of place, tore it away from the wall, and saved me a tonne of trouble with that.

And I don’t quite feel as exposed with him here.

Besides, together we are getting a lot done.

All that is left is the final coat of paint, which I cannot do as I cannot reach up to the ceiling, so I have left that for Eamon; the polishing of the floorboards, which I do now; the stock fulfilment, which Forranach takes care of now; furnish the dwelling upstairs, another time; and, finally, absolutely anything to do with the kitchen.

The stove is out and gone, but the new one has not arrived yet, and I was raised with servants, so I don’t know the first thing about what kitchens should have in them besides food.

Like I do with the final paint coat, I leave that to Eamon.

“I’m certain,” Forranach decides and folds the inventory list. “I’ll go now and sort it.”

My shoulders sag with a touch of relief. Still, I offer, “I can go—”

Forranach tuts, harsh, cutting me off. “They won’t argue with me.”

He slides Hedda off his lap and sets her softly on the table. She slumbers through the shift.

I let him go.

I am saved the bother with the supplier.

I have no regrets hiring Forranach. I hope Eamon agrees when he returns.

If it’s coin trouble that Eamon takes with the matter, I will argue it, because now I know that the payment for Forranach will be coming out of Daxeel’s pocket, as our secret-but-not-secret investor. He has more than enough, so let him pay.

Besides, I like Forranach’s company.

Whoever he was before battle took his leg, I don’t know, but I know who he is now—and I am fond.

I finish half of the floorboards by the time my wrist and fingers are aching to the bone, and I set the brush down on thick layers of scrap parchment.

I abandon the front of the tavern for the kitchen, and take Hedda with me. I set her down on the middle bench, tall and sturdy. Her snores, grumbles and growls are the music I work to.

I start on putting away the inventory we did receive, save for the barrels which are tucked under the bar.

An hour passes before the bell above the tavern door jingles. It’s a faint sound to reach the kitchen at the back, but I hear it, distant, and still.

Crouched under the bench, drawers pulled open, I set down the last of the spice jars, then lift my chin to peer over the bench.

Still, Hedda sleeps. Her mid-phase rests are too long.

Before any sort of panic can lift through me, Eamon’s familiar voice calls out, “Nari? Are you here?”

I sag with a sigh.

“In the kitchen!” I call out and push up from the floor. My knees are quick to ache, as though strained beneath the cartilage. I double over and rub out the soreness.

The swing door to the kitchen turns.

I look up as Eamon slips through the gap.

His smile is slanted; exhausted, but relieved. It is warm, it is honey.

Not even a heartbeat passes before I’ve shoved from the bench and rounded on him.

Eamon moves to meet me, and the moment we collide, his arms come around me, firm.

“You are late.”

His smile twists against my temple. “I was held in Licht.”

I blink, once, then tug back a step. “You were held? Are you safe now? Are you hurt?”

My gaze sweeps him, from his dishevelled braids coming undone to the mud streaking his clothes.

“I am fine, I am fine,” he hushes me. Still, he doesn’t let me go, his hands soft on my arms. “I was held for only a couple of phases. I wasn’t harmed, they merely questioned me.”

“About me?”

He nods. “And Daxeel, and the Sacrament… and what Mother said to you on the summit.”

He doesn’t know.

I didn’t tell him.

I haven’t told a soul.

Not that there is purpose behind that. I just… want to keep on with my new life, not dwell, and frankly it was nothing that made sense.

Besides, I lost. So Mother’s nonsense means nothing.

“I saw Pandora.” Eamon slips his hands away from my arms, then reaches into his back pocket. “She gave me this—to extend to you.”

He hands me an envelope, wax sealed.

I eye it for a moment before, with a huff, I snatch it into my fist.

This is the last thing I need, to be reminded of my family in Licht, to be thrown into sudden awareness that they are still there, existing.

I prefer to go through my new life as though nothing exists outside of me.

It helps.

The jangle of the doorbell interrupts us.

I throw a wide-eyed look at the wall.

“Sorted!” Forranach’s voice booms through the tavern. “Barrels will be here within the hour!”

Eamon’s frown turns to the swing door.

“About that,” I start, a sheepish grin plastered onto my face. “I hired some help.”

Eamon turns to look down at me, the frown smoothed and gone. He arches his brow at me.

Eamon is sour this late phase.

He ignores me as he cooks our dinner in the kitchen of our small dwelling, whispering sweetness and adoration to Hedda every other moment, but turning his cheek to me whenever our gazes touch.

I fight the smile playing on my lips.

He will be thawed come next phase.

It isn’t that he dislikes Forranach, he simply dislikes that I made decisions in his absence.

If he had stayed, we could have made that decision together. Instead, he ran off with Dare—and didn’t even find Bee anyway.

The flittering thought passes me, that I hope she is well, safe. It startles me.

I frown through the sensation, then turn my gaze back to the letter unfurled on my lap.

Too many moments ago, I parked myself here, on the armchair by the hearth, and toyed with the wax seal for a while before finally fishing out the letter. I didn’t unfold that immediately. Instead, I picked at the corner, smoothed it back out, creased the paper, smoothed it back out, and I watched Eamon clang around the pans and feed Hedda strips of meat in the kitchen.

Reading Pandora’s letter is… uncomfortable .

I’m not filled with rage, not pulled to tears. I just want to pretend she doesn’t exist. That she never offered me up to the Sacrament the way Father so freely offered me to Taroh.

I want to pretend I had better family.

I have that now.

Eamon, of course. And Dare.

Forranach is getting there.

Hedda is in my heart.

Maybe Bee, one day.

Samick couldn’t care less about me, and Rune I haven’t seen since the close of the Sacrament.

But the one who wrote this letter, ink to parchment, was supposed to love me more than anyone, perhaps save from Father.

Uncomfortable. Yes, that is what it is to unfold the single piece of parchment and finally land my gaze on the first inked word:

‘ Daffodil .’

A ball lodges in my throat.

I steel myself and read.

‘I named my babe Fáelán, the little wolf. Though I did play with names that mean surprise or unexpected, because that is what he was.

I look into his eyes and I see the end of my career.

I tell no one that.

None but you will understand that sentiment.

Birth can be the end.’

My mouth flattens.

I do not judge her for that sentiment.

I would feel it, too.

‘Home is quiet without you. Even Knife, I wonder, misses you at times.

I found that gruesome brownie riffling through your bedchamber some nights ago. I asked him what he meant by sitting in your wardrobe. He stabbed me with a shard of glass. I suspect he was preparing to cut up your shoes. A surprise if you ever return.’

A smile warps my mouth.

Maybe I miss the little creature.

‘Father is not home, not now, not often.

Monies are a worry.

He accepted an assignment out West, in the Sea Court. The merfolk there are raiding the fishing villages every other night, and Father has taken on the work of negotiating peace.

It won’t last.

It never does.’

Sorrow.

So much sorrow in the way she writes. From thoughts to ink to parchment.

‘ Ronan faces an uncertain career, now.

Many believe he led the charge away from you on the mountain. They whisper that he knew you were in the tree, and he turned the focus in another direction.

Treason, is the word they use.

I do worry.

I do not write to ask you for your help. You owe that to no one.

But we all owe something to you.

I watched you every phase. I slept on the stands, Father did, too. We only left for quick feeds and to relieve ourselves.

Some cheered for you, I told you that.

Everyone should have cheered for you.

I watched you take lives with the brutality that comes from the strongest survivors. I watched you cry yourself to sleep, alone in a tree. I watched as death reached out to you time and time again, and you cut it down.

But when you threw yourself and that blade at your love… That is the moment the stands silenced.

It is the moment I cherish.

I always knew you loved yourself.

So why was I surprised?

Yet, you are a surprise, Narcissa.

You are a sister to be proud of. But you are not my sister anymore.

The family you have chosen is not ours. The life you have chosen is not ours.

I understand this.

Yet I will write often and tell you about Fáelán as he grows. If you wish to read the letters and not respond, I will accept that. If you feed the letters to flames, I will never know.

I do hope one day you will come home.

I know that day will never come.’

Pandora did not sign off the letter.

Instead, there is a small smear of blood, creased with the lines that come from a fingertip.

She finishes the letter with her blood so that I know it is truly from her. I lift the parchment—and I sniff the red mark. I have no sense for blood, I am litalf, I am female, I cannot differentiate.

The gesture is sincere… but pointless.

Eamon calls from the kitchen, “What did she say?”

“A lot.” I push up from the armchair and stalk for the bedchamber. “I need to write her.”

Eamon does not follow.

I move for the nightstand between the two beds and, wrangling the drawer out, snatch a parchment scrap and some inkpots and quills.

I settle myself on the foot of my bed to write my response.

‘ Sister, I have little to offer you but the truth. I give you no lies. This is not an answer to your letter, which I found to be sorrowful and desperate.

I do not forgive, I do not forget. And yet, I must.

The ruin of our family is not anything I wished for.

The ruin of your child’s future is unwanted.

So I will give you what I can.

The truth.

You will hand this to Ronan and with it, he might save his career.

Henceforth, I will tell what happened on the summit. ’

And I do.

I recount everything.

I include Mother’s whispers.

I include my failures.

I write that Mother demanded I kill Daxeel, and that I tried, but that I failed. I write that she echoed those two words over and over, four, five , and they don’t mean anything to me, but perhaps will mean something to the Four Sisters of the Queen’s Court.

I finish the letter with a demand.

I demand that I be left alone. I demand that this information, the only information I have, is enough to trade for a future free from Licht.

I belong to freelands now.