Page 9

brITT

W hen Britt stepped into the Archives, a new world unfolded.

His Glory commanded the best of everything, so white stone walls flowed in lazy grandeur, brilliant even through her veil. A line of windows too high for a person to reach without climbing spilled sunshine. A smooth exterior ensured no one could scale it. A protection from wayward, drunk sailors, no doubt.

She paused to take in the whispering women and floating dust motes.

In a word?

Lovely.

The first floor had the shape of a sprawling octagon, lined with wooden shelves and leaflets. Most islands bound their pages into books with leather covers to protect the words within, but Stenberg islanders created flimsy, short-form leaflets for their words. They opted to protect the Archives itself, instead of individual leaflets.

A tiny representation of their cosmic political strata. Forget the individual, think big.

Two women with flowing linen garb and undulating white veils crossed her path. Sisters of Stenberg, presumably. Britt resisted the desire to remove the comb tugging on her hair. Her scalp would hurt within an hour, no matter how she adjusted it. The silky veil ended around her collarbone, frustrating her. Hope for Tesserdress and Malcolm lay on a razor-thin line.

She’d deal.

Lurking in the corner stood an older woman with a twist of lips that reminded Britt of someone sucking on a sour melon. She reeked of perturbation with her pursed bow lips and exaggerated sighs. Britt tried hard not to look at her.

A different woman hurried toward Britt. Her pearl-colored dress, simple as a prayer, hung to her wrists and ankles. The neckline scooped across her shoulders, stretching to either side with the sole decoration of a strip of bright blue lace.

"May I assist you?"

The hallowed silence permeating the room magnified through her folded hands and reserved expression. She couldn't be much older than eighteen, though her judgmental disapproval added years.

Britt smiled. "No, thank you."

The woman blinked.

"I'm sorry?"

"I don't need help."

"What are you here for?"

Silent panic assaulted Britt. She'd been so focused on getting here she hadn't planned out her next step. Eh. Such was life in the isles. If it's not a hurricane, General Helsing always said, it's a typhoon. A not-so-funny way of reminding Britt that she controlled nothing, certainly not Stenberg, Henrik, or Malcolm.

She said the first thing that came to mind. "What's your name?"

The woman reared back.

"My name?"

"Yes."

The pause bought Britt a moment to recover. Why had she come again?

Right.

Henrik. Malcolm.

Selma.

"My name is Raquel.”

Like the name Henrik, Raquel was as Stenbergian as a woman could embody. From what little Britt had studied of Stenbergian history, at least four of ten famous women were called Raquel, earning acclaim for perfectly boring deeds in honor of unswerving loyalty to His Glory. In Stenberg, women didn’t get the luxury of adventure.

“A lovely name.”

Raquel lifted her brow, clearly immune to the compliment. "Again," she drawled, "how can I help you?"

Britt formed a circle with her thumb and forefinger. As she began to lift it upward, in the typical Kapurnickkian greeting, she stopped. Her fingers relaxed as she pretended to fan her face, preventing Raquel from seeing the giveaway motion.

Britt smiled, her lips tense. "Sorry. Hot in here today."

Suspicion lined Raquel's tone.

"Is it?"

Well, this wasn't going at all the way Britt hoped. She'd have to plow her way through.

"I'm Bri?—"

Stopping mid sentence left a ringing vowel in the air . If she were any more foolish, she'd take herself to the depths of the sea and stop swimming. She couldn't tell this purely Stenbergian woman her name. If somehow it was discovered that she snuck around the island, and they tried to track Britt's movements around Stenberg, she'd lead them right to her.

Raquel's other brow rose slowly.

"Brih, did you say?”

“Forgive me!” Britt fanned her eyes, nose scrunched. “Almost had a sneeze. My name is Bridgette. That’s it.”

"Bridgette?"

"No, Bridge is fine."

“You want me to call you Bridge?”

“Sure.”

Britt widened her tight smile. The look she received in exchange was anything but pleasant. Suspicion deepened with every second. Raquel folded her hands again, rearranging them so the bottom now rested on top.

"Bridge, how may I help you in His Glory's Archives? This is a sacred space that we take quite seriously." She motioned to Britt's slippers, then her robe. "We appreciate you taking care to support him with the cleansing as he strives to support Stenberg in our fights with the mainland."

Britt forced her sober expression to remain.

"Long live His Glory."

To Raquel's credit, the pinched intensity gave way ever-so-slightly. Noted, Britt thought. She could placate the Sisters of Stenberg with unswerving servitude to His Glory. Sometimes, the worst of tyrannical leaders made it only too easy to thwart them.

"I came here today for . . . ship manifests, Raquel. Do you happen to know where I can find any?”

Ship manifests sounded legitimate enough. It provided a starting point, anyway.

"You're here for ship manifests?"

Raquel’s emphasis was utterly unmeasurable. What did it mean? Whether Britt shouldn't have been requesting ship manifests, or something in her physical appearance led Raquel to suspicion, she couldn't ascertain. The request had been made, and she couldn't withdraw it.

Britt lifted her chin ever-so-slightly. “Yes. I’d like to look at the ship manifests for all the ships that came into Stenberg in the last . . . three weeks. I’m looking for my sister," she tacked on.

Malcolm had been apprehended by Stenberg sailors just over two weeks ago, but that would be putting too fine and obvious a point. If she requested too large of a time gap, she'd waste precious minutes searching more than required. Henrik, Selma, Malcolm, and Tesserdress relied on her ability to navigate a simple search.

Then again, the mistake was hers.

This was Stenberg.

Nothing was simple.

Raquel made a noise in her throat and glanced over her shoulder at another woman in the same muted, bland clothes. Britt quelled the urge to race free. If she left now, they'd consider her nothing more than a weird patron. The longer she stayed and gabbed her fat mouth with details they didn't need, she'd give herself away.

The glowering woman from the far corner wandered over. She had a severe expression, no eyebrows, and sunken cheeks. Shadows created bags under her eyes. Britt wanted to curl up and take a nap for her.

"High Matron," Raquel said in an annoyingly unreadable tone, "this is . . . Bridge. She has requested to see the ship manifests for any ship that came into port over the last three weeks. She searches for her sister."

Did they train these women to be impossible to read? Did Britt imagine a pique in Raquel's tone when she said for any ship ? It might have been wiser to be more specific, but she didn’t want to say Kapurnick and create an association.

She didn't imagine the lour leveled at her. The High Matron, whatever purpose she served, graced Britt with undisguised suspicion and distrust.

For all Henrik's preparations in his life and the unswerving loyalty to find his lost birth mother, he couldn't have warned Britt about the High Matron’s hostility before she crossed the threshold?

Then again, he likely didn’t know.

Thankfully, Denerfen and Tesserdress remained calm in her wrist bag, possibly smelling Britt's tension. Denerfen had a habit of twitching through intense situations. Keeping him from giving himself away had always been a feat of willpower.

"You’re looking for the ship manifests?" the High Matron murmured. "Your sister would be listed on the passenger manifest, assuming she arrived via ship?"

“True! I’d like to see those too, please.”

“I’m afraid we cannot allow that.”

“Why not?”

“His Glory’s policy.”

"I'm asking on behalf of Henrik. He's a soldat," she added.

“A soldat is looking for your sister?”

Britt smiled, her stomach in a fluttering panic.

“Yes.”

The High Matron's infernal high-handedness lowered dramatically. Her lips drooped, then pursed. The sudden flash of reluctance disappeared almost as quickly as it came. Ah. Soldats did wield the power she anticipated.

Noted, she thought a second time.

"I’ve never had a soldat request a ship manifest in search of someone else’s sister," the High Matron said. The drawling tone, combined with eyes the width of a slash, set Britt on edge.

Britt smiled with all her teeth. “Would you like to ask him yourself? He personally escorted me here and is waiting outside. I'm sure he'd love to explain himself to a Sister of Stenberg.”

Hesitation replaced the bold inquiry. After several elongated beats, the matron dropped her inquisition with a prim, "I don't think that will be necessary," but didn't remove her glare.

"Henrik just returned from a year serving His Glory in the outer isles." Britt kept her breezy smile firmly in place. "If you like, I'm sure you could discuss this with his Captain?”

The question could backfire in magnificent ways. Britt didn’t know the Captain’s name, nor whether that threat had power. Fortunately, the High Matron didn’t appear inclined to pick a fight with soldat leadership.

Raquel backed away and left Britt firmly in the dragon's talons. The High Matron lifted a hand and curled two fingers and made a bold elevation of her upper lip. She made no effort to hide her disgust.

"Come, please."

* * *

They wafted through the first floor, which wasn't very big. Other sisters bedecked with veils and slippers shuffled through leaflets and ignored the dragon matron. Their murmurs resembled the dry rustle of turning pages.

The High Matron led Britt to the corner of the room, where a staircase wound higher. Questions gummed up Britt's throat as they ascended.

Why the garb? What did a High Matron do? How many women worked in the Archives? She couldn't fathom what His Glory found cleaner about women than men, but had a feeling it had something to do with violence. His Glory only sent male soldats and sailors to defend their lands, investments, or jord. Other island chains allowed women to fight or lead their warriors, but not Stenberg.

If Stenbergians truly believed women couldn't be violent, they wouldn't last a day on the mainland. Stenberg also didn’t invest in or allow use of the arcane or potions. In a word?

Boring.

The stairs led past a second floor. Artifacts, paperwork, chairs, tables, magnifying glasses, and fountain pens littered the area. Four walls created a square wider than the floor below, though the outside of the building didn't mimic the interior.

Odd.

Also, Stenberg. They might hide things in the walls.

The High Matron persisted toward a third floor, where the air held an indefinable stillness. About half the size of the first floor, the walls loomed close. Aged wooden boards framed the inside. The lack of chipped stones and the freshness of the rug meant it had been erected later.

The High Matron stopped in front of a waist high cabinet. When she tugged on a brushed nickel handle, it rolled toward her. She swept a hand over the collection inside. Cluttered papers, with jagged edges and various stages of yellow coloring, packed together.

"The latest ship manifests, sorted by day, over the last year." She tugged open a second drawer to the right. "This is all passenger manifests."

"Between the two of them, it includes everything?"

"All imports and visitor logs."

Britt felt her stomach drop. She hadn't expected so much paperwork. Was the wharf really so busy? She hadn’t been paying attention when she darted past Henrik and raced through the market before her venom faded, though it was possible. Ships constantly freckled the waters.

How could she find Malcolm in all this?

Was he an import ?

A visitor?

It seemed unlikely that even Stenbergians would consider a prisoner of war an import, but one never knew with islanders. She'd heard of stranger things.

"Naval ships, too?" she asked.

The High Matron frowned. "No. They are in the third drawer to the right. In the event that you don’t find what Henrik wants there, sometimes they are misfiled as a merchant acquisition." She patted the folders beneath her hand, in the fourth and final drawer of the cabinet. "Which are here. We close in two hours."

Two hours.

Henrik would get his wish after all.

Britt swung around to face the drawers. "This is quite helpful, thank you."

The Matron wafted the other direction, descending the stairs so smoothly Britt couldn't look away. Thanks to General Helsing's demands, Britt had sailed through her fair share of decorum lessons. Not that they were hard, as decorum was little more than rules around presentation, but Britt never had a tutor that truly floated, like the High Matron. A woman with that intensity was wasted in a rote place like the Archives.

After confirming she was alone, Britt lowered the pouch off her wrist and peered inside. Denerfen curled around a sleeping Tesserdress. They yawned together.

"Tess?" she whispered.

The sleepy female opened her eyes, peeped a noise, and closed them again. A tiny bald spot behind one of her ears drew Britt's attention. Her heart rose into her throat. "I'm working on it," she whispered. "I'll find him, I promise."

Denerfen wrapped one wing over the top of Tesserdress. She snuggled in, hidden beneath. Britt settled them on top of the second drawer. Determination cleared her irritation against the High Matron.

Against all odds, she would uncover both of their lost family members.