2 June

Beastslayer

Prism Sound

Dear Tarisa,

I wish you didn’t have to grow up in this way. I remember as a child seeing someone spit in Arran’s father’s face when we went to Werinton. Papa lost his temper at the stranger. Steward Farro had to hold Papa back and wipe the spit off his own cheek at the same time.

I’m surprised at your reaction to Orlon’s poisonous comments about Quinn. This is not censure, I assure you. It’s just I think you’re confusing manners with morals. I know I’ve always been seen as an eccentric spinster, though I’m only twenty-three, largely because I’m willing to abandon good manners if morals are in question.

When Papa was separated from his men after battle he found Farro Arran lying on a Trifayan beach, unconscious beside his dead horse. Papa didn’t finish the job by putting a sword through the man’s heart. He picked up the enemy, carried him two miles back to camp and gave the helpless man medical aid. Farro was so grateful he turned traitor and told Papa about a massive attack planned against the camp, one that would have wiped their battalion off the map.

Papa’s moral act was completely against a soldier’s expected manners. It saved three-hundred lives, including his own.

You’re sitting there thinking, “I’ve heard the story, I know, M, I know!” But do you really, T? Do you know how impossible it was for a Trifayan calvary soldier and a Solish commander like Papa to become staunch friends?

I still believe with all my heart in your ability to make allies. But in order to find allies, you have to decide which side you’re on and show it. For the last soot-ridden time, Steward Quinn Arran is family. Nate is an idiot to have pretended anything else and I don’t know how he convinced you to follow him.

I’d rather have you lose Rosetree and be a social pariah than lose yourself, Ree. Stand your ground and make some waves.

I will abruptly change the subject now that I have disobeyed you by sending advice. I can’t help it and I hope you’ll forgive me. You did ask what I know about the people at Yoren Hall that are more my age. First, I have to praise your perception. You seem to have correctly judged Orlon and Frincel already.

Lord Orlon was indeed a glowering bully whenever I saw him around town, though he disappeared for a short while—an unexplained absence to the country that changed him not a whit, but caused gossip nonetheless. His is a courtesy title; his father is still alive. Mr. Frincel is, as you suspected, more sly than he seems. I’ve seen him spend a whole evening setting a social trap to humiliate someone he doesn’t like.

Lady Havers is more of an enigma. She was the diamond of society, breaking hearts and rules and taking Solis by storm the year I debuted. Since she so outranks me we were rarely at the same events even though we’re close in age. I heard it was an accident that cost her the use of her legs.

After that, she lived for years as a hermit at Duke Havers’ country estate, different professionals being called down from the university to try and cure her. I didn’t think she would rejoin society in any fashion, let alone attend a bizarre party like the one you describe. She is known for being wicked smart, sister. Be careful.

Charlette is too young and the others too old for me to know any more than you do. As for Camden, you probably don’t want my opinion on him but…he finally held you like a lover should. I’m wondering what has changed the man. Do you think it is being separated from you so long? Or has being viscount matured him, helped him break free of his inhibitions a little?

With nothing more helpful to say about your situation, I’ll share about mine. The Slayer is such a different place since I first wrote you, that it is difficult to believe she is the same ship.

After my last letter, we were able to more precisely divine our location. Uri caught alive some seekishrimp in a crab trap, little black shrimps with three huge eyes that look like ebony pearls. They’re unimaginatively named for the way they swim constantly to the northeast this time of year. Then, the seekishrimp abruptly turn and migrate southwest as soon as they get to the opposite shore of the Sound.

Who knows why they do it, but the shrimp gave us our direction and even an idea of our location, since we can roughly guess where in the Sound the shrimp should be at this time of their journey. Unfortunately, the news isn’t good, but I took a risk and decided to be forthright with the men.

Every watch, I had the men presently on duty gather around. Eventually the entire crew heard me repeat the same message: “You’re all experienced sailors and there will be no molly-coddling from me concerning the state of things. We are almost three weeks away from Neth Harbor with one week of water to split among us. That means being thirsty until we see shore and even then we’ll need your help to make it.

“I don’t care if you’re a midshipmen or his Majesty the King, I want to know any ideas you have on how to extend our water and food rations. You can come up to the quarterdeck at midday or midnight with your thoughts. No deserting your posts in-between and throwing off the swing of things. Aye?”

“Aye,” the men chorused, looking confused.

After delivering this message for the last time at the fourteenth hour, I went back to the wheel, collapsing against it. My jaw jarred against the spoke ever time the Slayer slid down and crashed into the trough of a wave because I was too tired to lift my head. My stomach used to lurch at the ship’s drops, but now I hardly noticed, my overworked Touch lightly buzzing at my fingertips.

Sleeping on deck bought us time but leaves me in a constant, drifting twilight. Deep in my gut, T, I was afraid. I didn’t tell the men that my strength as well as the water was running low.

It was near dayset when I heard a familiar voice break through the fog.

“Permission to come on the quarterdeck?”

“Sure, Trin.” The sky mostly filled my view—we were climbing another wave.

Trin stood there beside me with hands clasped behind his back, thoughtlessly bracing himself against the seesawing motion of the ship as an experienced sailor does, keeping his knees soft and stance wide. I’m woman enough to admit he looked absurdly handsome at that moment, just before he spoke. “I’ve had an idea, Captain, and I know it isn’t midday or midnight, but it’s a timely matter, ma’am.”

I smiled at that. Ma’am. Only a handful of sailors seem to remember I’m female at all anymore. I’m ‘sir’ to everyone else. “What’s this idea, Trin?”

“I think we should halt the ship for three hours a day.”

I settled my chin back on the wheel’s spoke. “Perhaps this idea could have waited after all.”

“Please, Captain. You can’t go on half-asleep at the wheel like this. And we can’t go on consuming water at such a rate as we do. The heat in the sound is terrible, and the men on deck are sweating buckets. We could all be resting below in the shade when the heat is at its worst, conserving water, and you could sleep deeply for a little while.”

After another rise and fall over a wave, my sluggish brain caught up with his logic. I squinted upward. “Three hours.”“Yes, ma’am.”

“In the hottest part of the day.”

“Yes, ma’am.

“Huh.”

That was our first breakthrough. That first moment of true rest in my cabin was heaven. If heaven is dark, quiet, and private. Plus the men got rest and needed less water.

A day later, Vorin, whom I’d never spoken to before, shyly approached me on the quarterdeck at midnight. A redhead and one of the youngest of the crew, not yet approaching twenty, Vorin overcame his shyness enough to describe a system for purifying water that they use back in his desert home in Gondeth, using water and a tarp and just a little dot of magic to change saltwater to fresh. I’ve included a sketch of it below.

A sketch of a barrel with a tarp stretched over it [https://i.imgur.com/Esqx1OI.jpeg]

“How much can the water trap produce a day?”

“Enough for two men. If they skimp.”

I hid a wince. “We’ll take it. Have Tory find someone else to take over your job then use Bunt as an assistant; he’d love to help you build this thing. I’ll confess though, I didn’t think Gondeth folk had the Touch.”

“We don’t, but our magic is connected to water. The Touch should still make the trap work, though, if you can help.”

“How much magic do you need?”

“Just a drop.”

“Perfect. Thank you, Vorin.”

He looked nervous. “I haven’t built one myself, only seen it done—”

“Can’t change that now, so don’t worry.” It sounded a little absurd, even to me. How couldn’t we worry? “Hop to it.”

You’ve often accused me of being bossy, Ree. I’m afraid my bossiness is becoming chronic now that bossing is my job.

I started with the good news. Here is the bad.

You’ve asked me half a dozen times if anyone has touched me in a way Papa would have run them through for. The answer is, not quite.

Cook kept them off me when I was a galley slave. Once I was captain, I’ve spent so much time on the quarterdeck in plain sight, eating my meals at the wheel and sleeping there, that the danger hasn’t been anything to speak of.

I must give credit to the crew, too. Though many were rotten to me in the beginning, they are used to giving respect to a captain of a ship. Since the monster attack, they have accepted me as their captain and it has resolved a lot of the contention between us. I think most are not the sort to misuse a woman in that way, though they might cheat or steal or buy a night with female company.

That said, I know there is at least one monster among my men. What scares me Tarisa is I can’t identify him.

Since I’m getting a little more sleep, I’ve been trying to snatch a minute here or there to search for clues below. I’m not even looking for information about the murderers necessarily, just trying to know the crew better. I’ve shamelessly searched the men’s things and found nothing beyond the basics; there isn’t room for much else at sea.

The only item of note was a fine, miniature painting of a lady in a hat hidden in a locket. It was in Trin’s haversack. Trin couldn’t have paid for it, considering his station, so it must have been a gift. See, sister, Trin’s heart is already elsewhere and it’s no concern of mine.

As for the scare I mentioned, its like this, T. Yesterday I decided to explore the darkened hold, a little eel-oil lamp my only illumination. Just as I descended through the hole into the hold, I heard a squeaking board behind me—the sort of sound a man trying to be quiet would make.

I froze for an instant then pressed myself flat against the wall, shimmying away from the hold’s entrance. Many thoughts flew through my mind at once: only the dimmest light filtered this deeply into the ship. A scream would be muffled and likely ignored—ships are so noisy in motion. Everyone thought I was in my cabin for our midday rest and wouldn’t come looking for hours. My position as captain wouldn’t protect me from aggression; I only needed to be alive to steer.

There again—the creak of a loose board, with the slightest scuffle. Leather on wood. Someone in boots had followed me, knew I was here, was coming—

Acting on pure instinct, I blew out my lantern, plunging the hold into near-perfect darkness. Following the wall with my fingers, I sidled deeper into the hold until I felt the rough, curved wood of barrels. I skirted around them, moving slowly, listening for another breath in the dark.

After an eternal pause, I did hear the sound of air leaving someone’s nostrils—a huff of obvious frustration. Then nothing but silence for a long, long time.

I bet I waited nearly two hours in interminable night, back pressed to those barrels, half expecting to feel a hand come out of nowhere and grip my throat. At long last I slid one foot forward, then the next, towards the hold’s entrance. I climbed the ladder into the corridor with shaking hands and unsteady feet, skulking against the bulkhead like a rat, expecting an attack.

It didn’t come. I made it above decks safely, waiting on the quarterdeck for a while until the midday rest had ended, face up to the warmth of the sunless sky, praying it could banish the chill from my skin. Before you explode, T, no, of course I won’t be going back down to the hold again. At least, not without bringing someone I trust as backup.

Since I don’t really trust anyone yet, my searching will have to wait.

That night, we had some more weed snag on the rudder and I came down to my cabin, hoping to recover from the close call in the hold and my exhaustion. Before I could even lay down, there was a knock at the door.

I opened it to find Rex there. At the sight of him, I sobered. Since the monster’s attack, Sawl enlisted Rex as a nurse and seeing him is almost never a good sign.

“Captain. Sawl will be burying two men today.”

“Burying? Two men have died? Why didn’t I hear of it?”

“Just happened in the past few hours. Losses come in packs sometimes.”

My tired brain scrambled for purchase. “I thought the victims of the attack were out of danger.”

Rex shrugged, a gesture of deep weariness. “For a few, the cuts healed but the blood loss was hard to recover from. We can’t give the men all the water they need.”

He must have seen my face fall because Rex added, “Coir refused extra water, sir. Basoo too. They knew they were already getting double rations and whatever they drink now could mean they just die later. ‘Sides, Coir died of heart trouble. Sawl says the stress of bad blood loss can hurt hearts and cause problems later.”

For Rex, this was a speech. I’d never heard him say more than a sentence or two at once before. “So the death was unexpected?”

“Coir’s death was. He seemed to be rallying. Basoo was always in a bad way. He was tough to last this long.”

I nodded, heart heavy, shoulders feeling as if a heavy flour sack had fallen on them with the news. “Ocean funeral. What is the protocol for such things?”

“Since I joined the crew, only one fellow died under Clacey. Got blood poisoning. The captain lowered him overboard while the men looked on, quiet-like. Then Clacey said ‘back to work.’”

“What was done for the men who died when I was indisposed?”

“Sawl would say something nice and ask whoever was on deck to stop and bow their heads while he pushed over the body.”

I pressed my lips together. These dead men once walked the shores of our faraway world with friends or family or lovers they’d never see again. It seemed wrong to let their deaths be so ignominious. “Tell Tory to gather the men on deck at dayset.”

Rex cocked his head at me, his features somehow alight and solemn at once. “You planning a proper funeral, Captain?”

“Anything but proper, but a worthy one, yes, I am.”

“Can I…can I bring something?”

Slowly, I nodded. “Yes, Rex.”

Rex ducked away from my doorway, leaving me with my hands on my hips and uncertainty in my heart.

Three hours later, all of the crew except those still too ill or injured to attend were gathered near the bulwark, looking down at a churning, lavender sea. They seemed uncertain, solemn, or uncaring depending on the man. Sawl stood by two lumpy shapes—Coir and Basoo. We wrapped the bodies in the men’s old hammocks, since we don’t have the canvas to spare.

Beads of sweat trickled down my neck, not as much from the heat as the pressure. I knew whatever I did needed to be simple; the men wouldn’t feel comfortable with anything else.

The clouds here sometimes swirl so much more than at home—as if they are a dog chasing their own tails. With the glow fading from the sky, the fractious tumbling of the clouds felt like the heavens playing silent music, crashing symbols in the dead mens’ honor.

“Those that really know Coir and Basoo aren’t here, like family or sweethearts,” I said into the uncomfortable quiet. “Coir liked to laugh and I bet he had a favorite pub back home where they bought him drinks in return for his jokes. Or his silence, eventually.”

A surprised smattering of chuckles broke out among the crowd.

“Basoo…” I trailed off. Basoo was one of the men who sometimes leered at me. But I found something good to say. “Basoo never shirked his work, and would have done his best if no one had been looking. He could be counted on to tie a knot that wouldn’t have to be redone by the next man.”

Several of the crew nodded.

Remembering something I’d heard said at court when a high-ranked soldier died, I improvised. “As Captain, I release you from your duty. May your soul ride gently on calm seas, beneath a crown of stars.”

Aware that the stares on me had become wide-eyed, I waved at Sawl, who got Mahn to help him drop the bodies overboard. As they did, I remembered that song Mama used to hum to us, and on impulse, I started to sing, not any too loud:

Mama, I don’t like to see the leaves turn gold and fall

Nor hear the doves desert their nests, wing away and call

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Summer’s passed and I have grown brave, and strong and tall

Still, Mama, I don’t like to see the leaves turn gold and fall.

It didn’t really make sense, Ree, but somehow it fit nonetheless. I turned to leave but was surprised to hear a high, piercing note.

Rex had pulled out a wooden whistle, a long one. Judging by the apparent astonishment of the crew, no one knew he had it. Rex played a quick, lilting, yet somehow mournful melody as we all watched, transfixed, his skill and compassionate intention unmistakable.

My heart was so stirred with emotion that the Slayer must have felt it. The ship shivered beneath our feet. Some men looked uneasy, but most captured the same sense I did—honor was being done here.

Strangely, I got the sense all of us left that strange sea funeral feeling better than when we’d come. I bustled away to the quarterdeck first, so the men wouldn’t feel obligated to linger, yet Sawl caught my eye before he disappeared to tend his patients. We both paused on different stairs, his going down, my going up.

He nodded with obvious appreciation. It was then I realized: he had carried this burden of doing honor to the dead alone too. Until now.

On that point, I thanked Rex very seriously for his song. He shrugged off the thanks, and in response to my asking why I’d never seen his whistle before, he said simply, “The ship wasn’t fit for music before.”

I don’t know if I’ve ever had such a wonderful compliment in my life, T.

I know I should be afraid—we don’t have enough water and terrible decisions could be in the offing, not to mention the man who stalked me—but I can’t explain why I don’t feel that fear as I should. Instead, I feel hopeful. After a funeral.

Maree

2 June

Yoren Hall

Solan

Dear Maree,

As much as I am worried for you, and read every word you send with desperate attention and feeling, I am at my wit’s end with your ‘advice’ as you put it.

You are not my captain. You are not here. You have no idea what my position is like and have no right to pass judgment on my reactions. What’s more, I am not you. I do care what people think of me. The way you abandon the rules of polite society has always been beyond me. I am a young lady of a certain class and must conduct myself as such. No one I’ve ever known has let me forget that but you.

And if you drag Papa out of his grave and throw him at my head a third time, I’ll burn the next letter you send me unopened. Try me.

One of those all-important things you don’t know is that if I had chosen differently, I would be writing you from a boat this very minute. I would be gazing out at ordinary blue waves, the smell of old fish all around me as I bobbed away from Solan forever. I’d probably be tossing up my breakfast over the side too; you know how I am with boats.

But I didn’t choose differently. So I am still here, in my borrowed bedroom at Yoren Hall, sweating and swearing at myself and wondering if I’ve just made a terrible mistake.

I don’t want to think about The Decision anymore, though. I’ll explain my conflict later—maybe. I’m still angry at you. But I have no else, and I’m about to burst, and by and by the anger will leave and I’ll be lonely for you again, wishing I’d just had it all out while I had the chance. I’ve grown up enough to write it all down anyway, now, before I lose steam.

So instead of telling you about The Decision, I’ll tell you about the murder I’m planning. I don’t know who to kill yet but I swear I’ll discover who robbed me of a once-in-a-lifetime moment and that person will pay.

It’s about Camden. After I wrote you last, the men all left on a two-day hunting trip. During those two days, Lady Warren fell ‘ill’ and to everyone’s amazement, declared no one could have any great fun until she was better. Regular meals were canceled in favor of trays being sent to everyone’s rooms.

Left to entertain ourselves, the only one who seemed really happy was Mrs. Tarai, who at long last could enjoy Viscount Warren’s expansive library in peace. The Professor seemed of a similar mind and buried himself in the shelves too, but he’s always happy so that was of little note.

I tried to get to know the other women better despite my misgivings about them, but Mrs. Hanath was so offended by Lady Warren’s actions that she resolved not to leave her room in protest, keeping poor Charlette trapped inside with her. Lady Havers was nearly constantly outdoors on mysterious errands of her own, but I did catch her at lunch once (I realized I forgot to sketch her in my last letter). The portrait of a lady in a fancy hat [https://i.imgur.com/5lw9wBu.jpeg]

She was wearing a creation of a hat, lemon and crystals and feathers in such abundance that any other woman would have looked ridiculous. Havers looked instead like a glittering force of nature.

“Gone into hiding, Miss Naman?”

Again, sister, she could have meant nothing. Or she could have slyly been implying all sorts of things about you. I answered blandly, “In a fashion.”

“Why did you leave Solis?”

The bluntness of her question rather shocked me. My hand went slack, and the plate I’d been holding and filling with spiced potatoes touched down on the table. “Pardon?”

“You and the baron left Solis in the middle of the season. I had hoped that it was due to positive news about your sister. Not that bit of hubbub at the ball.”

I would thinkk a vicious attack on life and limb to be more than ‘hubbub’ but decided not to cross swords with her. “I already told you we have no news to share on Maree.”

Lady Havers smiled, tilting her head. “I always thought you and your sister uncommonly close.”

I said nothing. I wasn’t aware the Havers thought about us at all.

“You are not too upset by her absence. So I have taken comfort in that. Perhaps you have reason for more hope than I.”

“Lady—”

“I’d like to take a stroll through the gardens, Maxim.”

The young man who pushes her everywhere stepped forward—I hadn’t even noticed him in the corner—wrapped his big hands around her chair’s handles and shoved her out of the room before I had recovered myself.

I didn’t see Lady Havers again until the next morning, when the men all returned. Viscountess Warren miraculously recovered—I wonder, Maree, if she just couldn’t be bothered hosting until her husband was back—and put on a splendid luncheon. Lady Hanath wished to make her point more severely felt and didn’t come down, but everyone else was there including Arran.

Camden didn’t look at me much, but he straightened his cravat as the golden plates were being cleared—a twitch to the left, right, and then left again—and I knew he wanted to meet with me. Figuring the women would talk for hours and make it difficult to get away, I unbuttoned and buttoned my sleeve. The meaning to him should have been clear: After tea.

My instincts were correct. Matilda Warren didn’t let any of the women out of her sight, first parading us to the music room to try all the oddly magical musical instruments. For instance, there is a harp that only makes sound when the harpist closes their eyes; some ancient Warren enchanted the harp to show off, since he was the only one who could play it well with his eyes closed.

Then we retired to the armory—yes, the armory—for tea. It is one of the hostess’s favorite rooms, chock full of cozy fainting couches and chairs, pink and delicate in glaring contrast to the room’s forbidding atmosphere. All around us were suits of armor facing in at the occupants, guarding gilded cupboards that apparently hold the estate’s armor.

The creepiest thing about the suits is that if you walk past them, the points of the swords or spears they hold follow you. I got up as tea was being poured and examined one of the suits while it pointed a halberd at my chest. I felt ridiculously defiant, as if I were facing down a bully.

Viscountess Warren chattered like a chickadee as if nothing was strange about a few dozen metal golems watching every biscuit and sweet you eat. Perhaps she comes here for dieting purposes, because I did not take a third cookie, haunted by the sense I’d be run through for my gluttony.

Taking a drink from my teacup, I nearly dropped the delicate, painted thing as a zinging sensation shot through my tongue. I coughed and blubbered a little, and the ladies looked on with concern.

“Are you well, Miss Naman?”

I couldn’t answer because the tingling and zinging sensation had spread to my lips. I smacked my lips together just a little, noting how the tingling increased as I did, then forced a smile to hide my fear. “Quite.”

What was in the tea? Was I allergic? I didn’t have any allergies and otherwise I did feel fine. It was only my mouth—

It was then a distant, niggling thought clicked into place: kissel tea. Do you remember, I told you about that magical tea that makes you a better kisser (supposedly). I glanced down at the amber liquid in my cup, then around at the ladies lazily chatting. No one else seemed affected. Could this be the famous drink? Or was I actually ill?

I spilled on my sleeve on purpose not long after that, excusing myself and fleeing to the hall. I stood for a moment in the marbled corridor, slapping and licking my mouth and trying without success to banish the odd sensation.

There was a touch on my elbow and I turned, smiling up at Camden. I could scarcely see him—the inner corridor was dim—but my smile faded as he didn’t return it.

He took my hand and silently lead me deeper into the house. His stride was tight and fast, that of a man with a mind and heart that was not at peace. Clearly Camden had picked our meeting place ahead of time because he did not hesitate when he came to a modest black door, lifting the latch and guiding me inside.

We slipped into a darkened room, drapes drawn tight. I recognized it as a more ordinary sitting room—well, almost ordinary. Little spots of light, like colored fireflies, wandered lazily about, skimming over the gilded furniture and tasseled chairs. The stiff chairs felt somehow as if invisible people were in them, listening.

As soon as we were alone, I asked, “What’s wrong, Will?”

I didn’t realize until now that that was the first time I’ve ever called him by his first name. His distress wrenched it from me.

Will didn’t answer in words. He just took me in his arms again, his hand coming around to cradle my cheek. I leaned into his touch, a little awed.

“Nothing is wrong.”

“Something is.”

“Sh, Miss Naman.”

“I will not ‘sh’, Will, when you are clearly troubled.”

“Tarisa.”

Camden pushed me away, holding me a bit apart, looking down at my face as if seeing it for the first time. Then he shook his head. “Sh.”

He kissed me, Maree, slipping his arm around my shoulders as my fingers clutched at his waist. The way he drew me close was a little clumsy but clearly sincere, and I loved him all the more for it. I held him closer than I should have, tongue and mouth now not only tingling but unpleasantly on fire. I tried to feel the warmth of him, the thrill, but all I could discern was that blasted tea.

Then he pulled away, kissed me once more softy, and left without another word. I stared after him, stunned.

It wasn’t long before the wonder and joy and shock passed, replaced by worry for him and cold rage. My first kiss with the love of my life, Maree. Some heinous person ruined it, slipping something in my drink.

Then it occurred to me: Someone slipped something in my drink. They could have poisoned me.

What do you make of it? Do you think it was a threat? A prank? Who spends unholy amounts of money (we’d have to sell nearly all of mama’s jewels for just a packet of kissel tea) on a prank?

The effects of the tea, if tea it was, wore off in the next half hour. I rejoined the ladies in a fresh dress and pretended nothing had happened. Yet I unsuccessfully tried to discern guilt in someone’s face.

I thought that was the last time I’d be surprised by a man in the dark that day, but when I returned to my room that night, Arran was sitting at my toilet table, looking as if he hadn’t slept in a week. The coals lightly flickering in the fireplace and a single candle were the only lights, making the shadows under his eyes all the more pronounced. The cupids at the corners of my mirror covered their eyes mischievously, silently giggling as they peeked at us. I’d never before realized the painted cherubs could move at all, so it was unsettling to say the least.

“Has something happened to Nate?” I asked at once, hurrying over.

“No, but this is about Nate. I apologize for accosting you like this, Miss Naman, but we couldn’t be overheard and time is crucial.”

Arran proffered a piece of paper. I took it automatically, beginning to read.

“What is this?” I asked, though I already knew. My vision started to swim.

“Our agenda for leaving Solan.”

What wasn’t said, but rather rang in the air between us was the word forever. Leaving Solan forever.

Feeling numb from the shock, I read the ‘agenda’, lines of text with times beside them. We were to slip away from Yoren Hall just after everyone retired tomorrow. Meet a man named Morissey on the docks in Eimouth. He would take us as far as the Yora Coast, and we would pay him with Mama’s jewels—“You brought the heirlooms?”

“Hidden in Mrs. Tarai’s undergarments.”

“You shouldn’t have bothered.” I held out the paper, and when Arran made no move to take it, I let it drop from my fingers to the carpet. “In fact, I could have told you this plan was a waste of your time if only you or Nate had consulted me.”

“Nate assumed you would protest.”

“Of course I’m protesting! We can’t leave Solan, our home—”

Arran stood and stepped closer, boot crushing the paper. “Nate ordered me to tell you nothing until the arrangements had been made in town. Can you blame him? Look at your reaction—”

“I won’t go.”

“Nate hoped that once you came here, and discovered for yourself that the allies you sought weren’t to be found, that you would recognize the reality shoved in our faces: we can’t fight the Crown and win.”

The pieces fell into place. I realized that I came to Yoren Hall to fight back, while Arran and Nate had been moving us one step closer to dishonorable surrender. Arran joined me not for safety, but to make the arrangements in Eimouth once we were here, arrangements to run. Abandoning our responsibilities with Rosetree, the tenants, business partners, our family name—

“If we run like this and stay gone for a year, we can’t ever come back. It’s considered abandonment. The Crown will seize Rosetree and all our assets. We’ll be declared peasants. Since the king commanded us not to leave, that makes us traitors, too.”

“No, I can buy you a little time, going back and managing Rosetree for a while. Everything is arranged. You leave day after tomorrow. Nate will slip away from Rosetree on foot and bribe a fisherman in town to bring him north to Hawkstail Spit, where Morissey will pick him up, then—”

I tried to hide my shaking hands in my skirt. “I’m not leaving.”

“Nate believes it’s your only chance.”

“Nate is too drunk to judge our chances.”

“Tarisa—”

I flinched. Somehow, using my first name like that felt like someone stepping closer in a duel, body to body with swords locked.

Yet that flinch had an astounding affect. Arran bent down, picked up the agenda, ripped the paper deliberately in four pieces, then tossed it on the flickering coals. He and I watched the scraps burn completely to ash before he turned and left, half slamming the door.

Despite my best efforts, our conflict was apparent the next day in my silence towards him and Arran’s stiffness. He wouldn’t even let his sleeve brush mine. At a picnic in the garden, Lady Havers asked innocently, “Is Mr. Arran still sore over that Darts game?”

I avoided the man expertly, all while whelming in the acutest anxiety and agony of soul. With every minute that passed I came closer to the deadline I hadn’t known was approaching, a boat waiting at harbor, a decision that was already made in my heart but ate me alive anyway.

There was no time to get word to Nate to stop him coming up the coast. When Morrissey didn’t show he’d just have to turn back, no doubt fearing the worst had befallen us. Despite the money and the worry and the danger, I couldn’t countenance the thought of leaving Solan, still can’t, which baffles me. Wasn’t it I who arranged for your flight on the Slayer?

But this is different. This is turning our back on everything. Including those graves up on the hill, under the poplars. Being an orphan is bad enough, but never returning to Mama’s monument—

Arran managed to get me alone only once, lurking in the dark outside my room in a most improper fashion. I tried to pretend he was just one of the eerie suits of armor and reached for the latch.

“Miss Naman, please.”

That was all. No argument. No censure in his voice. Just a raw, tight, pleading tone that almost broke my determination. Almost. “I’ll find another way, Quinn. Any other. I can’t leave. Now or ever.”

Until I said the words out loud I didn’t realize just how true they were. I went inside but didn’t sleep until almost dawn. Today, I arose late and Arran was gone—out riding, I was told by the butler. I knew he had to be ‘arranging’ matters to make up for my stubbornness. Likely he told this Morissey fellow to wait another day, hoping I’d change my mind.

Warren found me hiding in the ghastly portrait gallery. As I told you before, many of the portraits were painted with the Touch over a lifetime of sittings, so that as you gaze at a baby sitting in a chair, it gradually turns into a lovely young woman, then a plump matron, then a silver-haired old matron. But they also have a batch of paintings where the people grow uglier as you watch, beset with warts and rashes and baldness—you name it. I looked from face to face, wondering how such insulting paintings could be passed off as merely a joke. There was a viciousness to it that felt alien to family.

The viscount bowed as he entered. “Miss Naman, you have your father’s chin.”

I blinked. “Thank you, sir.”

“I deserve no thanks for pointing out the obvious. Yet if you really want to thank me, could I have a moment of your time?”

Though his abruptness was unnerving, I couldn’t refuse my host. He led me to the library.

Like every other room in this house, it has no perfectly square corners. Strange winged machines powered by long-dead Touchers scuttle around the ceiling like trapped buzzermoths. I suppose the machines will die like moths someday too, falling when they no longer have the strength to search for the sky.

Bookshelves cover the walls, line the floor like martinets and block most of the light from the giant, arched windows to one side. Without a doubt the strangest part of the library is the bars on the books.

Every bookshelf is covered with a silver mesh, the bigger ones with silver bars, making it impossible to take a book off the shelf. Only one bookshelf is open to thumb through, a row of tidy catalogs listing every book in the collection along with their associated ‘fetchwords’. There are three chutes where books can be magically requested according to a fetchword (the Viscountess explained all this in her tour).

Only, the fetchwords were decided by whatever Toucher added a book to the collection. So if you say, “spring rain” don’t be surprised to get a book about seasonal foot rot in cattle.

Warren strolled over to one of the chutes then said abruptly, “I am not oblivious to the fight you are in, Miss Naman. I owe your father a favor I never paid. Too impatient to wait for the afterlife, I’m trying settle my debt now by helping you.”

I said nothing, letting the uncertain whirring of the machines bumping against the ceiling speak for me.

He looked up at his shelves. “Your grandfather was the first new Peer in over a century. He was a wretched fellow who only knew how to make enemies. No one ever taught him the ways of our world and your father inherited that ignorance and suffered for it. I, like many others, looked down on your father for his common habits and attitudes as he grew into a man.”

Warren crossed his arms, squinting as if staring directly into the sun and not the past. “Emeret was a stubborn, thoughtful, impulsively brilliant fellow. One of the best men I ever met. Finally, I became his friend out of sheer laziness.”

“Laziness, sir?”

“I found it exhausting trying to keep a wall of pride intact between myself and a man I liked so much. Butterscotch.”

A book shafted into the slot with a startling thunk. The binding looked like it had been given to a goat to chew on, the original embossed words so faded that some later hand had painted the title over it in crimson.

Warren handed the tome to me. “No one else will explain the ways of nobility to you. Having rebelled against them, I know them better than anyone. Your first lesson, Miss Naman.”

I read aloud the title. “The Idiosyncracies of Ancestral Touchal”.

“Touchal is what professors call the Touch when they’re wanting to feel important.”

I made a face at him. “Butterscotch?”

“Couldn’t use an obvious fetchword, could I? The full details of magical inheritance are considered a noblemens’ secret.Yours too, now.”

He left me without another word, as I have learned is his signature, eccentric way of exiting a room. I read the book every spare moment I had and came to a simple conclusion: nearly everyone in Solan has been lied to.

Everyone knows magic wells up in hotspots under the earth, like unseen geysers. Living flesh is resistant to magic, so it takes generations of exposure for it to soak into the blood, and even then, people can’t use it directly. Magic requires a medium to become part of living creatures.

Expectant mothers, when they live on hotspots, act as a medium between the magic and the baby. It’s the only time we know of when magic becomes welded with living flesh, creating a Toucher. The power of the Toucher is dependent on how long (and how many of) his ancestors were exposed to magic over time.

All this you knew, I’m sure, just like I did. What I didn’t know is that having noble titles, being bound to the land, the sacred ritual Grandfather was part of when he was made a Baron and given Rosetree—all of this is just smoke and mirrors. It means nothing.

Any child exposed long enough to the hotspot while in the womb has a chance of becoming a Toucher, as long as their family line also has been exposed to magic for a few generations. This naturally includes the servants who often pass down their positions to their children. The danger in this for the Crown is that if the lower classes ever figured out that they could have a mighty Toucher in the family just by hiding a pregnancy while working on an estate, the whole structure of power in Solan would crumble. The nobles could lose their land, wealth, monopoly on magic, and superiority.

It makes me ashamed to have my name carved on the Noble Wall as a Peer. Rosetree doesn’t really belong to us like I thought it did, and it feels like one more tie to home that’s been cut. It’s simply not—

Maree, it’s nearly midnight, the seal will go dormant at any moment. I was urgently called away from my writing—Erring is here. He followed us here.

The seal is fading, I can’t write more and its too late to run. I’ll have to send this now.

I’m sorry.

Tarisa