Page 1 of Waters that Drown Us

Prologue

Emily

Twelve Years Ago

Ishouldn’t be here.

Actually, it might beillegalfor me to be here. Certainly ill-advised.

Zia Lucia has been in tentative talks with an up-and-coming arms dealer out of Vladivostok, determining if his ambition can be used to our advantage. Clara and Charlie, both newly eighteen with real Syndicate responsibilities, are off on some recruiting mission in the Yukon. And Zio Aurelio is recovering from having his appendix removed. So I was tapped as my aunt’s plus-one for this very long weekend. It’s supposed to be an easy job, even for an infamously hardheaded and rebellious teenager such as myself. I’m to attend meetings with my aunt, be silent and observant, make pleasant conversation when approached, and not leave our secure accommodations after dark.

And I have followed all the rules.

Except that last one.

But I heard a rumor that our host’s daughter is also sneaking out tonight. And that’s something I can’t miss.

I sit on the darkened balcony, listening to the hum of conversation as the lights flicker overhead. No one looks at me too closely, but I still readjust the scarf hiding my face. I’m not the only one obscuring my identity, so acting suspicious ironically makes me blend in. It’s not like we’re at the fucking Mariinsky.

My Russian isn’t great, but I knew enough to navigate to the wine bar above us, slip a small roll of bills and the right phrase—???????? ????—to the sommelier, and find my way underground to this well-worn seat. And as the light fades, I pick up a few whispered words here and there. Whispers abouther.

It’s too dark to see the curtain rise, but I hear it. Slow and creaking, like the hull of a boat in unfriendly seas. And when it quiets, a single spotlight illuminates what can only be described as an angel.

She stands center stage, draped in iridescent organza—her entire existence seeming like a mirage. White-blonde hair falls down her back, frizzing strands catching in the harsh overhead light, creating a soft halo around her. Fresh flower petals adorn her hair, her skin, her dress—as though scattered by the wind or some unseen deity. A carefully painted mask of red, orange, and lilac obscures her features, but I would know that face anywhere. I’ve stared at her for so many hours this weekend, I could probably draw her from memory alone, and I’m no artist. She lifts the viola to rest beneath her chin as more sunset-hued petals scatter from the folds of her dress to create a garden at her feet.

An angel.

The audience holds their breath, the silence surrounding me almost oppressive as we wait for her to pull the bow across the strings.

When the music finally comes, it's perfect. There’s no other word that fits. The fragility of the sound—like eachnote might shatter under the weight of its own beauty—keeps our breath caught in our chests. I don’t pretend to have a great understanding of classical music, especially notRussianclassical music, but I am decidedly converted. The movement she plays expands my understanding of sound, painting a picture in the air. Of running, of fingertips skimming cascading waves, of droplets on skin and eyes closing against the wind.

But even the elegance of her music can’t compete with what it is to look at her. Her body sways, shoulders dipping and brow furrowing as she pulls the bow across the strings over and over again. It reminds me of videos my father showed me of Mercedes Sosa, the way every molecule of her body was consumed by the music she sang.

The sound changes, and so does her energy. In my mind's eye, the picture she paints is still of someone running, but no longer only to feel the Earth under their feet or the wind against their face. Now, they’re runningfromsomething.

More petals shake loose from the pearlescent fabric as her movements become sharper, more frantic, matching the shrill and staccato notes. I’m too far away to be certain, but I think the streaks carving gashes in her painted mask are tears. This music is fearful. It’s pained. It’s the thrashing of a captured animal, tearing its own arm off in a desperate attempt to escape a fate worse than death.

My hands, clasped between my knees, twitch with the desire to lunge for her. To free her, or save her, or beg her to saveme.The music swells, higher and tighter and shriller than ever before, and her body hunches, knees bending and shoulders curling in, like she’s protecting her instrument from the onslaught. A mother hovering over her child. A lover providing cover in their final moments.

A few beats of silence later, she releases a shaky breath that echoes louder through the theatre than any note she’s played.She doesn’t stand, but her bow caresses the strings once more. This part of the movement is softer, kinder, gentler. It swaddles me, tending to the wounds inflicted by its predecessor. The warmth seems to seep into the body of the player too, loosening her movements and allowing her to slowly stand straight again. This time, her expression is relaxed. Or perhaps accepting. Like this compassion is the inevitable counterpoint to the violence she played.

I don’t stymie the tears leaking from my eyes. She looks so content, so comforted. And I amjealous.

I envy the naivete it takes to believe that there is any natural counterbalance to brutality. I am a daughter of The Syndicate of Fate. Over the sixteen short years of my life, I have learned tobethat violence, and to ensure there is no healing from it. I claw that hope of comfort away from those who don’t deserve it, and I watch those who do be robbed of it anyway. The only true promise of peace in this world is death.

That is what I think about as the audience breaks into thunderous applause, and as she bows in another shower of golden petals, and as I take shadowed alleyways back to our villa. But as I climb up the stairs of the employee entrance, ditching my scarf in a fireplace along the way, I wonder if I’m wrong. Maybe there is a small amount of peace before death, a way for our minds to comfort ourselves before we enter oblivion.

I wonder if I died tonight, if I might see Alisa Zakharov in a halo of gold, and hear the soft notes of her strings beckoning me to the other side.

Chapter 1

Alice

Ipush the brim of my cap up to wipe my forehead of sweat, squinting hard against the blinding sun. The cold wind at the dock always tricks passengers into thinking they need to bundle up for our trips, but by the time we’ve been out on the water for an hour or so, they predictably strip their layers and seek out overpriced sodas and what little shade they can find.

“Anything off the starboard?” Captain Jimmy yells through the open window. As usual, I’m parked on top of the roof of the cockpit, because it’s as far up as I can get on this catamaran. The gritty metal and peeling paint dig into my skin through my cargo shorts, but I find it comforting.

“Nothing yet,” I call back, tapping my tennis shoes against the window. The waters are too choppy to see spouts very clearly, but I’m hoping for birds. The birds never lie.