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Ten

Smoke drifted through the docks of Red Harbor, mingling with the storm clouds that lingered over the smoldering wreckage of the old lighthouse.

The spiny red wildflowers that gave the harbor its name grew in every crack of the boardwalk and crept up stone walls, and little red petals stuck to Charon’s boots as he helped a group of carpenters hold up a wall.

Yves had been right, of course. Whether a noble was killed or not wasn’t as important as what was happening in Red Harbor, where outrage had boiled over into a fierce, hot fury that set half the coast ablaze.

Charon had gotten there right after the lighthouse had fallen, and now the navy drifted nervously in the harbor mouth while people tore apart the judicial offices and robbed Lord Marteau’s shipping businesses.

In the meantime, houses needed to be rebuilt.

The people who’d been taken from Lord Marteau’s brothels were supposed to receive care from the crown, but crown soldiers were being turned back at the border of the harbor.

A former whore from Diabolos had opened up her house to them, but there wasn’t enough room for healers, nurses, and anxious family members, so Charon had quietly joined the workers building new structures on the property.

It was good to work. It kept his mind occupied, dragging it away from the expression on Yves’ face as Charon left him, and the deep, aching pain that always followed.

All Charon had wanted to do in that moment was to stay—to kiss Yves again, to bring him to Gerakia and Thalassa, to ignore the dark, bitter creature that had dragged its way to the surface that night.

But he couldn’t do that to Yves. It would be better for Yves to find someone who would be strong enough not to kill for him.

In the end, when the time came for Charon’s will to be tested, he’d been nothing but an interrogator.

He dug into the earth so the stonemasons could lay a foundation for a new infirmary.

He set up tents for people wounded by the smoke and fire.

He brought distilled water across the harbor by the barrel, and when people asked for his name, he shook his head and moved on.

He thought of Yves, and he walked the docks to try and shake the restlessness from his bones.

When one of the children taken from the brothels died, the harbor burned again, and Charon got to work digging graves at the edge of town.

He kicked his spade through the rough roots of the red flowers that grew there, and he gently lowered the sacks holding the people who had died in fires too fierce for the rain to douse.

Charon thought of Yves again, and his chest ached so deeply that he had to stop to catch his breath.

He helped two older women nail support beams into a shelter for Lord Marteau’s victims, and let their quiet chatter drown out his thoughts.

He moved automatically, pushing his mind into the far distance, so engrossed in his work that he didn’t notice the voices had quieted until it was too late.

Someone tapped Charon on the shoulder, and he turned.

“All right,” Laurent de Rue said, and punched Charon square in the jaw.

It wasn’t the strongest blow in Charon’s memory. Laurent’s knuckles glanced off Charon’s cheek, and Laurent hissed in pain and clutched his hand.

“Why are you here?” Charon asked. “Is Sabre here as well?” He didn’t mention the crown. The people of Red Harbor were still wary of the nobility at the moment, and it wouldn’t do to implicate that Laurent and Sabre were part of it.

“I’m not here for that.” Laurent drew himself up. His violet hair was disheveled, and he had dirt on his boots and his fine blue jacket. “I’m here because of you.”

Charon frowned slightly. “You agreed that I should leave.”

“That was Sabre, and I didn’t suggest shattering Yves’ heart to pieces in my house, did I?”

Charon took a step back. “Yves and Raul were already engaged.”

“Yves,” Laurent said, and paused when he saw the two women watching from behind the unfinished wall.

He lowered his voice. “I have spent years watching you two dance around each other. I’ve seen Yves follow you around like a puppy, and you’re no better than he is.

You’re so tied up in each other’s lives that I might as well strap you both together and ship you off to Lukos until you work this out.

Yves loves you, you idiot. You know that.

I know that. Most of Staria knows that, and where are you? Where are you, Charon?”

“Yves said that people in the brothels would need help,” Charon said, staring at Laurent numbly.

“He’s a mess, Charon.” Laurent stepped closer, “and so are you. Do you think I would sneak into a city on fire for you if I didn’t think you were making a mistake?” Laurent smoothed his hair out of his face. “Were you lying when you told me you loved him?”

“I wasn’t lying,” Charon said. “But you don’t understand what I’ve done, Laurent. Who I am.”

“Of course I know who you are,” Laurent said. “Sabre told me what they found in that house. You did it for Yves.”

“Which is why I have to stay away.”

“No,” Laurent snapped. “If you’re going to be a coward, admit it. Or,” he added, pointing to the wreckage of the harbor city, “you can get out of here, go back to Duciel, and tell Yves the truth before he marries a man he doesn’t love.”

Charon stared out over the harbor. There were still small fires spouting up in the embers of the lighthouse, and several ships had run aground rather than wait for the harbor to open again.

He thought of the coast of Thalassa, where they danced in the waves on the equinox, and thought of taking Yves there.

The aching loneliness in his chest throbbed like a wound.

Laurent was right. Charon had been a coward.

He’d come too close to the darkness that roared to life in the wake of his fury that night.

Yves had seen it, and he hadn’t turned away.

It was Charon who hadn’t been able to face it.

If he returned to Duciel, that meant he would need to accept that it could come back to him one day.

Yves could be hurt, or someone could accost them in the street, and that empty horror lurking in Charon’s mind could claw its way to the surface.

He couldn’t trust himself to accept it, but Yves had.

Charon turned back to find Laurent watching him.

“It may be too late.”

“Then find out.” Laurent adjusted his coat. “If you go now, you might make it in time. And if you don’t, then I sincerely hope you never come back to Duciel again.”

Charon’s heartbeat quickened, and his gaze swept past the harbor to the fields that stretched toward Duciel. “How long do I have?”

“Four days,” Laurent said.

“It takes six to get there.”

Laurent smiled. “I’m sure you’ll find a way. You might find a peculiarly fast horse stabled with my carriage horses at the Last Willow Inn, but he’s reserved for Charon , not whoever decided to leave his luggage in my house.”

“Yves won’t be happy to hear you call him that,” Charon said.

“Someone would have to tell him, then,” Laurent said, and turned on his heel to walk smartly away. He always did need to have the last word.

Charon looked to the sky. The sun was already setting.

That didn’t give him long before the barricades at the gates would close to people leaving the harbor.

He’d passed the Last Willow Inn about half an hour’s walk to the harbor.

A fast horse could get him to the next village by midnight, where he could trade for a new one.

If he were lucky, he could make it to Duciel in time for the wedding.

Whether Yves would listen was another matter.

Charon set down his tools where the others would find them, rolled back the sleeves of his white linen shirt, and made for the harbor gates.

Three days before the wedding, Yves’ family returned to Duciel.

They came with a stream of visitors eager to attend the strangest retirement party of a courtesan’s career, eyeing the banners and ribbons blanketing the Pleasure District with a mix of confusion and delight.

Yves invited Sunny and Harriet to the opera with Raul, and his mother surprised them all by asking to come.

She sat between Yves and Raul while Sunny stared in awe at the singers below, and even bought Sunny an engraved woodcut of a scene from the opera.

Yves could tell by the hard line of her mouth that she was trying to do better by them, even if she clearly still didn’t seem to like the idea of Sunny yearning for the city.

Yves hugged her awkwardly as they left the opera. “This’ll be all Sunny talks about for years,” he said.

“Oh, I’m certain.” Sybil sighed. “That man, Raul. He is nice…”

Yves leaned in closer, watching Raul and Harriet listen to Sunny babble about the opera with slightly dazed expressions.

“But is nice enough?” she asked.

Raul nodded thoughtfully as Sunny showed him the woodcut, and Harriet gave Yves a reassuring smile.

“I don’t know,” Yves said. “I suppose he’ll have to be.”

Charon traded his second horse at a small village with nothing more than a mill, a wheat farm, and a collection of small houses huddled around the creek.

He hadn’t slept more than an hour or two, and his boots were thick with mud from the road, but exhaustion had turned to a heady burst of energy that carried him down the overgrown lane and through the village.

One of the farmers who worked the fields stopped to offer him water, and Charon looked at the proffered cup for a few seconds before he realized what it was.

He downed it at once and handed it back, and the farmer looked up at him with a worried frown.

“What’s happening?” she asked. “Is it news from the harbor?”

“No,” Charon said. “Nothing like that.” He caught her eager look, and an impulse took hold of his weary mind. “The man I love is getting married in three days.”