A candle, letter and magic seal [https://i.imgur.com/Dxx5rxJ.png]

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29 May

Beast Slayer

Prism Sound

Dear Tarisa,

There is light shining through the tiny cabin window, painting a picture on the floor so it hardly seems gritty or worn anymore—my soul is the same.

After I pressed the seal into my last letter and it vanished, I raised myself from the desk and went to the door, aching in every muscle. I didn’t wait for your reply. I was afraid of sympathy or censure and felt I could not tolerate either.

I was too tired to move quickly, and good thing too. I almost tripped over a sailor’s legs as I opened the door. Bending and squinting, I could just make out Trin’s face, slack in sleep. He was curled tensely on the boards outside my door, face pillowed on his hands.

It touched me somewhere deep, a part of me that was numb and cold. I wondered if he felt responsible somehow for the attack or my illness, if his vigil was spurred by penance or affection. Still, I didn’t know quite what to think of this odd, slumbering ambush, a headache pounding at my temples. I sidled past him. The corridors were dark and empty, and so was the galley. When my head rose above the decks, I saw no one save our lookout, a dot in the crow’s nest.

Above, the swirling heavens tilted as the Slayer drifted. As I said, we don’t have stars here, but great whirls of countless sparks that ripple slowly across the sky, sometimes a few bands at a time casting a faint light. It took me a moment to make out the peaceful scene pockmarked with violent memories.

The railings were still notched and battered but repairs were evident in new wood and splices. The quarterdeck railing was ripped clear away. As I climbed the stairs to take my place again at the helm, the openness on the port side was downright terrifying, just a few planks between myself and the mauve waves. What happened? Before I fainted the port railing had certainly still been there.

Should I wake Tory? I wasn’t sure. So I took the wheel, smiling when the nethership responded with a keen warmth that I basked in. From hull to crow’s nest, the Slayer shivered.

There was a cry from the nest, then a tolling bell. I didn’t know we had a bell.

“It’s all right!” I hollered up at the sailor, voice failing when I tried a second time, “It’s all ..ight!”

A storm of footsteps thundered on the stairs. Men boiled out onto the deck. Avoiding the gazes suddenly all on me I looked down at the wheel, rubbing my thumb over my mark out of habit. Frowning, I noticed something shimmering, my mouth falling open.

Someone had leafed my finch, my mark, with pure gold.

“Captain.”

Half the crew huddled on the main deck, hands held in front or behind, a few holding worn hats they’d actually removed. Among them was Trin, blinking the sleep from his eyes. He winked when I caught his gaze.

Tory, looking about as comfortable as a goose on a chopping block, said flatly, “We’re awaiting orders, sir.”

Mouth still open, I merely stared, too tired to understand. The thought flitted through my mind that perhaps this was a mutiny in disguise. I didn’t care if they mutinied. The ache in my heart radiated out like a poisonous sun, and seeing their scarred faces, a few with blood on their hands from treating wounds, what was left of me broke without a whimper.

“I’m sorry,” I said hoarsely. “I’m sorry we lost so many.”

Uri raised his hand like a schoolboy in class. Tory quirked an eyebrow at him. It was permission enough, not that anyone had before asked permission to speak. “Captain Finch, I’ve sailed the Nethersea for twenty-six years. The Sin Stinger sinks nigh every ship she gets her tentacles on, even with every officer a Toucher—”

I squinted. “The Sin Stinger?”

“That thread monster. Sin sinks a person one little thread at a time, see.” Uri seemed almost grandfatherly in that moment, rough voice gentling. “We can count the lost on two hands. We’re lucky to even have a soul left to keep count, Captain Finch.”

“Finch?”

“Goldfinch,” chirped up Bunt, who had been lurking at the edge of the deck, apparently afraid of getting sent on an errand away from the drama. “Like your crest on the wheel.”

Rex, dark-skinned and efficient, who had never said a word to me before, spoke up suddenly, “In Wasin, my country, if your leader fights to fainting for you, they are family.”

Tory waved this away with an edgy scowl. “Orders, Captain Finch?”

Something has happened, and I can’t quite breathe. “I don’t know what to order, Tory. I’m not even sure where we are, or our water stores—”

At the sight of their ever-so-slight wilting, I straightened my spine and pretended all sorts of zeal I didn’t feel. “That doesn’t mean we can’t figure it out. Been fishing, Uri?”

The innocent question was like throwing a stone into a pond covered in ducks. In relief, the men scattered, if not gracefully at least efficiently. Though I’d given no orders, most disappeared back into the ship—likely to care for wounded—while Tory grunted at a few to let loose the sheets and man different posts that had been left vacant by the injured.

Uri rose to stand beside me, smiling. I hadn’t really seen Uri smile before. It felt like entering a different dimension. “I’ve been fishing, aye. Though we’ve been drifting, it’s been mostly in the right direction. Current flows to Neth after all, and the Sound is narrow enough that we couldn’t go too wrong.”

I could nearly taste my own relief on my tongue. “Good. Tory!”

Tory came running—running—up the steps. “Aye, Captain?”

I blinked at him, shaking my head. The purple water was less strange than this. “Stores? How are they? And how did you survive the attack once I—we didn’t have that much oil, did we?”

Tory and Uri exchanged a look. They’d never been friendly before. I felt like begging everyone to behave normally as Uri answered the question for Tory. “After you slapped one tentacle with magic, it was Nim’s idea to make eel-oil torches and scorch certain tentacles at a time, rather than all at once.”

“So none of them could make much headway!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Was it enough?”

Tory frowned. “No.”

“Then how…?”

We all lurched as the sails caught wind and the Beast Slayer was set in motion. Though I wasn’t holding the wheel, I felt her pleasure through my boots. I tilted my head to port instinctively, feeling the wind wasn’t quite at the right angle for the sails. To my astonishment, the wheel turned port. So did the ship.

The three of us stood in silence, myself open-mouthed, Tory and Uri sober and wide-eyed. I looked at them, then at my empty hands, not wanting to speak my mind. Wondering if I were a little insane still, a little Touched.

Tory cleared his throat. “That, Captain, is how we made it.”

“‘That?’”

“After you passed out, Sawl was afraid to move you, afraid your connection to the Slayer was keeping you breathing. So he stayed at the wheel through most of the battle with you, lashing you down after the railing was torn away. You—you tossed and turned, and every toss turned the wheel. It kept the tentacles from tightening. It’s like…like you felt them.”

At that Tory turned away, shouting something about shoddy knots to a sailor, leaving me with Uri despite the questions he’d left unanswered. He should have waited to be dismissed, but old habits still held sway.

“Tory’s afraid of me,” I said quietly. I think I was a little Touched still, to be so open with Uri.

The old fisherman took his time answering. We both rocked on our feet to the rhythm of the waves, spray cast up from the Slayer’s sides as she picked up speed before he spoke. “Aye, reckon he is.”

It was strange, Tarisa, feeling as if for the first time, a wall had dropped between myself and men like Uri, those I’d lived beside for months and months but never been equal to. I dared speak to him as I would a friend, taking the risk with gut churning. “Are the rest of the crew afraid of me too?”

“Some are.”

Taking a few steps, I slumped against the wheel, trying to appear as if I were simply thinking and not exhausted.

Uri made a show of retying his boots, muttering under his mustache, “You have to understand something, lass.”

I didn’t object to the informality. I didn’t have it in me to object.

“You aren’t from the sea, let alone the Nethersea. Take it from an old seadog, Captain Finch. I’ve never seen a captain shift a ship without touching the wheel. Reckon no one else aboard has either.”

This sounded worse all the while.

Uri shrugged grimly. “We’ll run out of water before Neth harbor. We’re not even halfway through a Sound full of monsters. A murderer is still loose and the ship is damaged, in places beyond what we can fix, slowing us down.”

I closed my eyes, then jumped when Uri elbowed me. He tugged his cap firmly back on. “But that’s all right. If our captain can steer a ship in her sleep, what’s to worry about?”

I stared at him as he turned to leave, also without a dismissal. Halfway down the steps, Uri froze, as I did, at the ice in a very familiar voice. “Captain!”

“Sawl,” I croaked, even as the man himself swept up to the quarterdeck.

“You need sleep, Captain,” he said quietly, but his shoulders were tense. He stood feet apart, braced against the waves.

“We’re in trouble, Sawl.”

He said nothing, oozing sternness.

I wet my lips. “I’m not moving.”

“Respectfully, Captain, reconsider.”

I stepped away from the wheel, squinting tiredly. “How long can I steer safely?”

“No time at all, Captain. It takes weeks to recover from a draining like you just experienced.”

“We don’t have weeks of fresh water in our barrels, Sawlbones.”

Sawl looked towards the bustling crew members close by, each apparently oblivious to a conversation they couldn’t help but hear. Harral untied and retied a knot at the stern over and over until he caught us watching and moved away.

I turned back to the wheel. “I’m staying.”

Sawl looked up at the swirling, dark sky, closing his eyes. For a moment, I saw the lines on his face and etched around his eyes were deeper, making him look truly old. I’m guessing he was so tired he had to gather his argument one thread at a time. Exhausted from caring for me, and everyone else.

An idea struck me like a bolt of soft lightning. “I’ll sleep, Sawl.”

He didn’t relax even a fraction. Sawl was smarter than that. “When?”

“Right now. On deck.” I snapped my fingers, afraid my voice was about to give out again. “Bunt!”

“Why don’t she use that soul-splitting whistle of hers?” muttered Uri, who lingered at the bottom of the steps. He shouted on my behalf, “Bunt, lad!”

“Aye!” A head popped up at the stern. Bunt’s fair hair was askew, his face squinty. Obviously, he’d decided to nap on deck now that we were underway again, falling asleep at once as some boys do so well.

“Quit lagging, the captain has orders for ye!”

Bunt brought a blanket and pillow up to the bridge. As I laid myself down on the boards, I squirmed under sneaky gazes, sailors watching who had never seen a captain in such a bizarrely vulnerable position. Mostly, the stares felt curious. But the hairs raising on my neck warned me of lecherous glances as well, men who saw sleeping women much differently.

I ignored them all, turning my face into the pillow and grimacing. The cushion wasn’t mine and smelled like it hadn’t been washed since the Trifay-Solan ceasefire twenty-six years ago. I should have given Bunt more specific orders.

Sawl’s boots scuffled as he knelt on the boards. “Captain, this still isn’t wise.”

“Unwise is worth the risk. Stop me at suicidal, please.”

“At some point, you’ll have to sleep in a proper bed. This isn’t true rest.”

“Won’t I just steer from my cabin?”

“Not at all. Your connection didn’t work that far away from the wheel. When I took you below near the end of the battle, the Slayer started to drift.”

“Better than nothing.” I squeezed my eyes shut. “Don’t leave me alone up here, Sawl.”

“I would never, Captain.”

I believed him, Tarisa, as I fell asleep. I believe him still. There is iron in his words that scares and comforts me.

My sleep-steering isn’t perfect, T. It’s about as effective as sleeping in the saddle, the horse taking you home to the stable by memory. The horse won’t take the most direct path home, but rather wanders this way and that, munching on grass here or getting a drink at a puddle there. It is curious, the Slayer seems to know where we’re going like the horse would. She’s just not particular on getting there on time.

The ship isn’t controlling me, quite the opposite. Something happened during that battle. I feel the pressure of the waves and water on the hull always now, even when I’m not thinking about it. When that pressure gets uncomfortable, the ship at a bad angle to the crests, it’s almost like an itch I feel on my skin. The turning is me trying to scratch it.

The problem with this is sometimes you need to go along the waves at a poorer angle. It’s how you stay on course. So while the Slayer is still taking us forward, and closer to Neth, sometimes those ‘itches’ lead us far to the east or west, losing almost as much time as we gain.

I try to make up for these sidetracks when I’m awake, sometimes giving the crew a rough ride as we roll sideways along the waves or tack in giant zigzags across the lavender crests.

I took a moment to visit the wounded sailors, who all looked at me with transparent awe as if royalty were visiting. Obviously, tales of my sleep-sailing had been carried to them, no doubt grossly exaggerated. They brushed off my apologies. “Reckon we’re lucky to be alive, Captain Finch. Just glad the sea monster gave up and not you.”

Sawl stays with me almost the entire time if I’m sleeping, leaving only to care for the wounded. At those times, he summons Uri to watch over me. Since Uri is mostly in charge of maintaining equipment, nets, sails, and lines, his work is more sporadic and it doesn’t interfere with our motion for him to stand guard. Still, I find it a little chilling that Sawl has watched me closely enough to know I trust Uri more than anyone else on board, choosing him without even asking me.

Yet it’s always Sawl who wakes me without even a shake, setting his hand on my back. “Come, Captain.”

I asked him once, how he knows when to wake me. He answered shortly, “Your movements get weaker.”

Tarisa, I almost missed writing this letter. I’m so sorry, but the days run together so. I barely eat because I feel the ship’s timbers more than my own bones, more than my own hunger. I told Bunt to start announcing meal time, and he is sometimes annoying in his punctuality, watching the hourglass and reminding me exactly thrice a day to eat.

I don’t even know what to think of Sawl anymore. He keeps the crew away from me (except for Tory) with alarming ease, maintaining my need for rest. Trin finds ways to maintain our friendship despite this and I haven’t forgotten him—somehow, I can always tell when he’s watching me or near. I’ll catch his gaze and he’ll shoot me a wink. I’ve taken to accepting those winks like gold coins thrown at a wedding.

By the by, I’ve decided the murderer isn’t Sawl because if it is I’d be too scared to sleep and no one will survive then. His instincts for my limits are good—I can already feel you worrying about me, from the future—and I don’t get so fizzy or out of control anymore, now that I can sleep longer without slowing us down so much.

Still, I should stop writing now. I can’t afford the time. Yet I wanted to thank you for your letter. I know I haven’t discussed it at all, in fact have spoken little of my own feelings about the battle. Like the tentacle wounds that refuse to stop bleeding, the deaths of the men, my men, and my part in that just won’t stop hurting. The scab over it is so thin that at the slightest thought the loss starts to hemorrhage all over again.

I put your letter in my bodice band and have been risking discovery walking around with it, feeling it crinkle every time I bend or twist at the wheel. I didn’t accept what you said, about forgiving and guilt and my supposed goodness, but somehow having the words close eases the ache. I’m starting to believe them a little, leaving room to hope you’re right.

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As for the letter before that, I am so relieved you managed to leave Rosetree safely! And I laughed out loud at your description of wearing trousers. It took me some getting used to, that’s for certain.

But reading about your difficulties with Mr. Quinn Arran, at the risk of angering you all over again, I have to point out how you once more underestimated his affection for our family and misjudged him. I’m not trying to bash you over the head with that, only I keep seeing how dangerous it’s been for you to keep Arran on the outside. Besides that, I think false pride is a rotten reason to lose an old friend, especially one that’s even now turning his life upside down to help us.

I think you might not have thought much about what he has faced in Solan as a half-Trifayan gentleman. What Quinn’s position in our home has put him through. There’s a reason some with Trifayan blood who live in Solan wear wigs to hide that tell-tale metallic glint in their hair. I think you wouldn’t be asking why Arran’s such a sphinx if you knew why he’s had to turn to stone.

I know I already thanked you for your letter about the battle, but those words look small and petty on the page. Truly, Ree, I don’t know what I’d do without you, without these letters. I don’t want to lose you either, ever. So please, write. And write and write.

Maree

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29 of Marz

Yoren Hall

Solan

Captain Goldfinch,

Your letter found me humbled. You’re teaching a lesson after the test has come and gone, and I believe I failed it. Mr. Arran’s difficulties as a half-Trifayan man are not only clearer now, but have taken center stage in a bizarre pageant, the members of this house party all playing roles in the farce.

I’m determined to grow up, Maree. I thought I was grown up but I’m quite sure your confidence in me and my ability to find allies was just loving bias. Still I’m glad beyond words that I could bring you some comfort, that there is someone there to protect you as you sleep, that you are making your way to safe harbor.

To tell you everything about the past eight days would take a book, and honestly, just describing Yoren Hall could fill several on its own. The Hall must be one of the most enchanted homes in the world. From its odd circular shape (built around a crystal clear, perfect pond) to its musical waterspouts and people in portraits aging before your eyes, the Hall is the outrageous result of ten generations of Touchers all trying to outdo their predecessors.

The ballroom ceiling is covered by a living jungle painting, paint strokes on the leaves shifting in an unfelt breeze. During the viscountess’ tour, I watched a black panther stalk and chase a spotted pig around the chandelier and out of sight.

At her guests’ apparent shock, our hostess chirped, “Oh, don’t worry. The panther will be back tomorrow, with or without the pig.”

Viscount Warren and his wife, Lady Matilda Warren, are even stranger than the ceiling. The viscountess has gray in her chestnut hair, an oval face, and one can always count on her to say the worst thing in the best way. The Viscount himself has no hair, no social graces, and is often found reading a book at his wife’s side (the last one was about garden slugs.)

I believe the only reason they haven’t been cut from good society entirely is because of how coveted an invitation to this home is. Other than myself and Camden, I believe curiosity drew every other guest to this house party. I’ve discovered that none of them were really acquainted with our hosts beforehand.

I’ve written descriptions of each person, with a little sketch. I hope you forgive the quality, hardly my best but I’m hatching these out in a hurry:

A collection of portrait sketches [https://i.imgur.com/bKpDiRv.jpg]

Professor Waxley: Silver-haired, stodgily dressed, with spectacles and a dry, long face, the Professor is the personification of boredom and civility—at least, until he opens his mouth.

Mrs. Tarai: You know this one.

Lord Orlon: Too quiet for good manners, dark, handsome, and bitter as a stagnant well.

Mr. Frincel: A friend of Orlon’s (you know Frincel, don’t you? He’s your age I think). A spoiled second son, he’s a noxious flirt that I think isn’t as stupid as he tries to seem.

Lady Hanath: Do you remember the Hanaths? Her husband is the twenty-sixth Baron of Sarkon, an absurdly ancient title. Only, their estate’s magical hotspot faded to nothing, so there’s no magic in their blood anymore. I think that’s why she clings so much to her family’s most cherished inheritance: snobbery.

Miss Charlette Hanath: I’d never been acquainted with Charlette before, but she’s shy as a violet and just as likable. Bucking the odds of genetics I suppose.

Lady Havers: Duke Havers’ daughter, who lacks the use of her legs and must be moved about in a wheelchair by a stern looking fellow. She dresses fabulously, says little, but everything she says feels laced with a thousand meanings.

Mr. Rewel: I was tremendously confused when Mr. Rewel insulted Mr. Jankin’s father, since they appear as identical twins. Then I discovered they’re actually cousins whose fathers are twins. Mr. Rewel in a passionate loyalist to the Crown.

Mr: Jankin: Like Mr. Rewel in every respect but politics. He fights with his cousin constantly.

Viscount Will Camden: Oh, my heart.

I have to include Mr. Arran in the count of guests, because Viscountess Warren took an instant and extremely unfortunate liking to him. The first night, after finding Mr. Arran bedraggled and stomping rain off his boots in the kitchen, Lady Matilda Warren took Arran and the whole party upstairs at once. Before our stunned faces she gave him one of her best rooms painted in deep indigo, walls decorated with faint etchings of the heavens and stars. “This should do. You strike me as the scholarly type. Most stewards are.”

“Thank you, madam.” Mr. Arran stepped inside, smiling boyishly when his clothes and hair instantly dried, though everything was still mussed. He reached out and touched a constellation above a candle sconce. “The Lightbringer’s Torch. Fitting.”

“Ah, a scholar indeed.” The Viscountess giggled. “I’m rarely wrong.

Though Arran’s seldom-seen grin was charming, I winced; people may think that I demanded a servant be given a room above his station. Really, that would have been of little consequence, but she has invited him to everything since and well…you’ll see how that turned out.

The third day, our host and hostess led us into a maze on the grounds, insisting Arran come despite his protests and the iciness of the other members. Frincel and Orlon in particular reacted badly to his presence, Orlon glaring at Arran in his characteristic silence. I soon found out why—they know each other. In fact, Frincel served Arran a pointed jab on the way out to the gardens. “I suppose after your struggles at university you would be pleased, Arran, to have risen to steward.”

The maze itself is horrendous; the paths move and split up participants on purpose. I was the last one out because apparently the enchantment’s rule is that to escape the maze, you must simply give up. Viscount Warren came to fetch me and explain the trick of it, kindly enough, and Mr. Arran was waiting for me at the entrance.

Warren pointed to him, the gray-suited man holding his hat. “Your steward told me if the trick to leaving was admitting defeat, you’d be in there until doomsday.”

On the fourth day, just before Camden arrived, the Viscountess suggested an outing to the sea. I think that is as good a way as any to introduce you to the rest of the party.

Piling into a hay cart filled with soft seats, we rattled our way through fields, then dunes covered with hip-high, silvery grass. When we finally reached the sea, my heart lifted in my chest at the sharp smell of tidal pools, transfixed by the motion of glittering waves caressing the soft shore. It felt almost like home.

Lady Warren brought bowls but changed the rules. Teams took turns shaping the sand of the lane after they bowled, trying to disadvantage the team following them. I was on a team with Tarai, Warren, Frincel and Orlon. Frincel flirted ridiculously, calling me ‘eagle-eye’ and ‘angel of spheres’ which I was too tired to either enjoy or parry (I’d had one of Mama’s beastly migraines the day before). I tried to get a better sense of the two young men as we played. At first glance, they are perfect society boys, faithful to their facades.

There was a shell-collecting contest. Mrs. Hanath cooly refused to join. Her daughter Charlette watched wistfully as the party members picked among the gray sand, exclaiming over their finds.

Mrs. Tarai won, nodding serenely as the group politely applauded, the Professor slapping his hands together like she’d saved a child from a burning building. His unflagging enthusiasm, plus the Viscountess’ guileless and pleasantly rude manners, kept what was a radically dissimilar group harmonious as the sun glimmered lower and lower over the retreating waves, the retreating tide exposing cold-water anemones and dark sea stars.

I can feel you wondering about Mr. Arran after all my hints of trouble. I will tell you all on the condition that you offer no advice or censure. I know I was disloyal, and you would have known what to say in my place, but I feel I’m swimming in deep waters, with no guiding horizon in sight.

It is as if an invisible wall sprang up between Arran and the other guests to alleviate the social mismatch of his presence. He spoke to almost no one except the professor and the Viscountess, declining to join the games but assisting when necessary. The party ignores him in turn, though I noticed Lady Havers tried to start a conversation with him more than once, without success.

When white sheets were laid out and supper served to us all as we sat on the sand, the tenuous peace I’d been enjoying crashed down. Mr. Arran ate quickly then excused himself, disappearing down the shore, gray hat in hand, head bowed.

“You are magnanimous to a fault, Viscountess, to include him,” Orlon said, his voice a deep bass. He twirled a bit of grass between his fingers, eyes on Mr. Arran’s retreating back. “Stray dogs can bite, you know.”

Our hostess, strawberry in hand, laughed. “What can you mean? Not that Trifayan nonsense again?”

“He’s a half-breed,” said Orlon, tossing the grass away.

“A fighter and troublemaker at the university,” Frincel said, squinting at the sun sadly. “Never truly acclimated.”

“If war is declared, what side do you think he’d fight on?” said Mr. Rewel with a glower.

“War?” The word snapped me out of my dumb shock. “Who is speaking of war?”

The group fell silent, a few watching me guardedly.

“You have been away from Solis too long, Miss Naman,” said Lady Havers quietly, but not at all softly.

“Didn’t you hear, miss?” Mr. Rewel demanded. “A ship from the royal navy was sunk two weeks past by Trifayan vigilantes.”

“We don’t know that for certain,” said Miss Hanath, voice so quiet I believe I’m the only one who heard her.

“Some foreign hotheads aren’t worth starting a bloodbath over,” Mr. Jankin argued.

Mrs. Hanath waved a hand. “Again, can we please dispense with the politics? We ladies would prefer to leave such matters to the courts and kings. Yet I must say, Matilda, why did you invite the Trifayan servant to join us for a house party? He’s such a big brute too.”

I felt as if I’d been elbowed in the gut, mouth open.

The Viscountess laughed. I was beginning to hate that sound. Did she take nothing seriously? “He’s a polite man, Lord Camden was delayed so our numbers felt uneven—but really why ask me? Ask Miss Naman why her brother trusted Mr. Arran to accompany her.”

Every eye turned to me and I froze. It felt like my debut again, rows of girls who looked just like me sashaying around the ballroom, analyzing me for weaknesses, hoping for my failure.The Naman name was already sullied—now this?

“Oh, Mr. Arran is competent enough with numbers and such,” I found myself saying. “We’ve never had any trouble with him. Rosetree doesn’t require much managing.”

“And you?” asked Lady Havers suddenly. “Do you need managing?”

“I don’t know what you mean.” I rose, dusting sand off my skirts. “Please excuse me, I could use a bit of a stroll. I feel my headache returning.”

“I’ll escort you,” said Mr. Frincel, rising easily to his feet. “The shore can be dangerous.”

“No, thank you, sir.” I moved towards the grassy slope. “I’ll stay away from the water.”

I escaped into the tall grass, blades crushed beneath my feet, releasing a bittersweet scent that soaked my skirts. I started to run, moving south along the line of the shore, the beach falling away as the hills grew higher. I stopped as my headache spiked, wading through the grass until I could see the foam of the surf again.

Farther south, I caught sight of Quinn, standing barefoot on rocks a way into the surf, his trousers rolled up to his knees. I watched him untie his queue, the strands that marked the Trifayan blood in him glinting in the dying light. By the time I crept near enough to make out the weave of his shirt, he took off his best coat, holding it before him.

With a bone-chilling yell that was half hawk, half stallion, he ripped the coat and tossed it to the waves. I looked away, realizing he was unbuttoning his shirt until it flapped freely. Had he lost his mind?

Tapping his shoulder, then his temple, Quinn saluted the sunset.

In that instant, I remembered: his father. Arran’s father passed away around this time, eleven years past. This must be a Trifayan custom, something for the anniversary of the man’s death; I didn’t think Arran even had Trifayan customs.

I slipped away as Arran started to button up his shirt and sleeves again. I swiped at my cheeks but quickly regained control—tears are criminal things in a society situation—and by the time I returned, they were packing up.

Arran appeared as the last dish was put away, his hair back in its tidy queue. Yet he wore no jacket.

“I lost it,” he said simply when Orlon demanded to know why he was not fully dressed in the ladies’ presence.

My eyes pricked again and I blinked the emotion away. Lost it. Lost his father.

I thought this would make me feel better, Maree, but I feel worse. Mr. Arran should never have come. I never dreamed the Viscountess would invite him to join the party, that Arran would consent to attend or that his presence would be so divisive. I can’t believe how quickly the political climate has changed; when you left, war was rarely mentioned in the city let along the country. Now, it’s all anyone wants to discuss, and Mr. Arran’s silent presence never lets them forget it.

A churning in my gut warned me (correctly, as it turned out) that the climate for Mr. Arran would only deteriorate as the party went on. When we returned that evening, I caught him on the way inside, whispering, “I’m safe enough, now. Would you like to go home?”

He didn’t even break stride, sweeping his hat off as he stepped inside.

“Quinn?”

“I’ll go when you go.”

The rest of the guests dressed for dinner and washed, but I read your letter and wrote to you instead, throwing on a new gown with sand still in my stockings as I left my room, already late. Though a servant had confirmed that Camden arrived while the party was still at the seaside, I didn’t see him until I stepped into the dining hall. The Warrens abandon protocol at their meals, urging guests to just pick a seat, yet the battle fronts of the afternoon, pacifist or loyalist, were still apparent in which side of the table each guest chose.

Only, if the afternoon had reflected the tension of an army awaiting attack, dinner felt like the battlefield itself, the pressure so tight I could scarcely breathe, the guests ominously silent. Only the Professor and Lady Havers remarked on the room or the settings in soft murmurs.

I ignored them all, looking for and finding my love. Camden looked splendid in dark blue with a grey waistcoat setting off his eyes. He’d had a haircut, which I didn’t like—his sandy hair doesn’t curl as much that way. Camden stared at me as if he could never look long enough, hand lifting as if in greeting. He hid the motion by resting his hands on the table, pretending to examine the black stain on the wood. If only I could have greeted him properly. Or improperly, frankly.

It was obvious that Camden had already been introduced to the others, and he must have made our ‘acquaintance’ known since no one offered to introduce me to him. The terrible quiet held, but to be in the same room as Camden at long last… I smiled, managing to fill my lungs with air again.

Drifting to a chair of my own, I tried to discern what was so wrong with everyone. Standing beside Miss Hanath, who I’ve found is neutral ground of sorts, my eyes skimmed over the walls that were covered in tapestries.

I jumped when I saw the tapestries were familiar—they were of us, as if an army of artisans had spent the past few hours recreating the day in cloth. There was Orlon lounging in the sand, looking regal as he peered off to the sunset, with strokes of green thread for the grass between his fingers. Mrs. Tarai and the Professor discussing her shells. The Viscountess laughing, vivid red threads sketching the strawberry in her fingers, her husband looking on indulgently, and—

Mr. Arran, coatless, silhouetted against the burning horizon with his shirt flapping open, hand raised in a foreign salute, hair loose and glinting with copper threads.

Maree, he looked splendid. Powerful. Free. Treasonous.

“Gracious stars,” I whispered. Only Charlette heard me, and I felt her stare for a moment. My face must have been a sight.

I began to panic, with Rewel’s derisive voice in my head, Which side do you think he’d fight on? I looked to Mr. Arran, and my fists clenched. He was pale as the sand, more statue than man, eyes forward like a soldier’s. Little did he know that only made him look more lethal, not less.

The Viscountess arrived at last. As I said, one can count on her to always say the worst thing in the best way. “Ah, Mr. Arran, you went for a swim. How scandalous! The tapestries always do love a good sunset, I’ve noticed.”

With that, the air thawed. The first course was brought out amid stilted conversation. I don’t even remember the food. I’ve never had my mind so divided.

Mr. Rewel glared openly at Mr. Arran all through dinner. By contrast Mrs. Hanath avoided looking at Arran so persistently that it was awkward for everyone, since she sat directly opposite. Even the Viscount lost his unflappable good humor, fingers steepled before him as he surveyed the table. No one dared speak of the obvious, good manners somehow holding on by a tenterhook.

Too far away to converse with him, I wanted to soak Camden in. He was a bit tan—from surveying his new estate no doubt—and the blue signaled he was out of true mourning, but did he struggle with the change of his brother’s death still? Watching him was like nibbling on a cake before the party, hoping no one would notice some of the frosting gone.

As the last course was taken away, Camden started to fiddle with his cravat, tightening it a hair.

I understood. After dinner, just before the men were to rejoin us in the sitting room, I slipped out. No sooner was I in the hall than I found myself caught up in Camden’s arms. He pulled us closer to the stairs, away from the light. His fingers spread across the small of my back as if he were holding something precious, afraid it would break.

Listless from shock for a moment, I spoke before I could think. “You’ve never…”

Camden didn’t say anything, but his hold tightened and so did mine. I’m afraid I squeezed him too hard; might have mussed his coat. A lonely place in me cried out in gratitude, relaxing into his solid warmth.

For once, I thought of propriety first and pulled away.

Camden stepped back. It was too dark for me to make out his face.

“What kept you?”

“Business in Solis. Talk of war has complicated our merchant connections.”

“Are you all right?”

“I am well only…Viscount Warren just suggested all the men leave on a hunting trip tomorrow morning.”

“So soon?”

Camden didn’t answer, just squeezed my wrists and disappeared back into the house, his soft-soled boots thankfully making barely a sound. Turns out his hearing was better than mine. The door behind me opened before the darkness had fully swallowed him, revealing Miss Hanath outlined in candlelight.

“Oh, I hoped you were back, Miss Naman. They’re about to play Darts. Would you be my partner? Otherwise, I’m with…” She bit her lip like a little girl afraid of the dark.

“Who?”

“Beg pardon.”

I smiled. “Please tell me.”

“Mrs. Tarai.”

My smile widened.“She’s a darling. Truly. Like a moth, quiet and soft and not at all dangerous.”

“Forgive me, Miss Naman.”

“Tarisa,” I said on instinct. “May I call you Charlette?”

Just like that, Charlette Hanath and I, unbelievably, became friends. Of all my imagined allies, somehow the daughter of one of society’s staunchest snobs was not my first guess. Yet that’s about the last good thing that happened, Maree.

That night, I asked to have every newspaper that delivers this far away from Solis delivered to my room, determined to hear the worst. Since Viscount Warren wanted to read them after me (there are a few editions he doesn’t regularly pay for) I can’t send the clippings to you. Just know that King Rinlind is seriously considering declaring war and restarting the Eternal Conflict; the nobles’ council is split over it.

Tensions continue to rise. Since the ship sinking, Solish civilians living on the Trifay islands have had livestock driven off. On Trifay’s main island, Trione, the Solish embassy was splattered with red paint. Here a visiting Trifayan gentleman was attacked without cause in downtown Solis by a shopkeeper.

I can’t believe anyone would consider inciting violence after barely a generation of peace. Nonetheless, if war is declared, it is likely netherships will be told to stay off-world; you’re too tempting a target for privateers. Which means if the world is on fire again you can’t come home.

Of course, neither can I. Every night I go to sleep wondering if a legion will be banging down Warren’s door looking for me the next morning. I cannot believe that Erring hasn’t figured out where I am. For three days the men have been gone, all except for Mr. Arran, who took the opportunity to travel to Eimouth. Arran left before dawn, effectively avoiding me and everyone else, paying out of his own pocket to rent a room in town. All the men are set to return late tonight, after I send this letter.

The tapestry in the dining hall has since changed to a pleasant view of the gardens, and none of the women have spoken of Arran at all except Mrs. Hanath, who has only ill to say and isn’t above grilling me for details about our steward’s history only to poisonously disapprove of even the simplest facts.

This letter is far too long already. I’ll close simply by asking you to tell me everything you know about the guests I listed. You of an age, especially in Orlon, Frincel, and Havers’ case, to know more of their characters (not that I fancy forming a friendship with any of them, especially that bully Orlon).

After a week at Yoren Hall, my original plan to try and recruit powerful friends so the king will leave us alone now seems laughable. No one here seems like the sort to be sympathetic to our plight, especially if they knew the truth about your disappearance.

Almost no one, I suppose. I have made one friend in Charlette, but I’m not sure she counts as an ally; she is governed by her mother in nearly everything. In two more weeks, the party will be over and I’ll return to Rosetree with Erring waiting, spiderish, for my return. If he doesn’t see through our deception before then and come after me, that is.

In the meantime, if you can think of a way for me to get Arran away from here for his sake, please do. You were always such chums, and I’ll admit it now, he baffles me with his silences and distant ways. I’m not sure I know him at all as I thought I did.

One last thing…I have an eerie sense, sometimes, when I return to my room that something isn’t right. The pincushion on the toilet table seems just a little off-kilter. The curtain doesn’t seem to fall the same—I don’t know, am I paranoid? It seems like there’s no good reason for me to feel afraid.

It feels like a useless plea, but be careful, M. The last life you seem intent on preserving is your own, and it has me sweating.

Tarisa