Chapter Ten

I rubbed my eye with the heel of my hand and blinked, the fuzzed script coming in and out of focus. The letters balled so tight, they looked like raspberry vines creeping across the page.

… boring a hole in the cranium to relieve pain associated with subungual hematoma…

A fly tinked against a bottle of vinegar. Honey hardened in a mixing bowl. Wind creaked through the joists of the apothecary like old bones.

… should occur between the frontal and occipital tissue using a circular trephine to expose the dura mater…

Dura mater?

I placed my hands on my forehead, letting my fingers slide up my scalp.

This didn’t make sense. It stopped making sense an hour ago when I got to the part about concussive trauma and even then, the concept was hazy. It had started out simple enough—a story about an ancient king who fell off his horse, underwent a severe personality change, and ordered his husband beheaded. But instead of discussing what had actually cured the king, the author launched into a long and speculative argument about what might have helped. All procedures involved cutting or scraping and then…something, something, something.

I took another swig of coffee, black and bitter, and flipped several pages to read it again.

This author recommends attempting these procedures on the deceased before the living. The mind is a delicate organ, easily—

“Hey, Isy.”

I jumped, knocking a wooden spoon off the table with a clatter. “Shit.” I dropped to my knees. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

Stefan stood in the doorway, shoulders slouched. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his hair, too long, curled over his ears, more like a thief in the night than the other apprentice physician. He’d skipped two buttons on his shirt, and his cravat, a dusky red, hung at an awkward angle. “Nice to see you, too.”

Morning sun had burned the fog off the bluffs and streamed in through the windows, lighting blue-green tonic waters and the stems of marsh thistle propagating in the sill. The wood stove smoldered, pumping the heady scent of imported oak and hickory into the air.

I pushed myself up and slapped the dust off my skirts. “What happened to your cravat? You look like a—”

The reference book still lay flat on my worktable, open to the stippled drawing of a skull and a flat-edged knife. If Stefan found out I spent my free time searching for a cure, he’d start looking, too.

It was petty, it was. It shouldn’t matter who found the cure. But if Stefan found it first…

He dropped his shoulder bag and unloaded a leather box, a flask, and the seedy fennel bread he took for breakfast. “I look like a what?”

I angled myself between Stefan and the book. “A mess. You look like a mess.” I eyed the flask, silver and stamped with twin suns. “Drinking already?”

Stefan’s lips pulled into a line, and he shucked the paper off his bread. “It’s nothing. Jens-Kjeld had me on an errand.”

An errand.

Jens-Kjeld didn’t say anything about that. But… Jens-Kjeld hadn’t said much. His last letter to me had been brief—

Keep working. Don’t let the queen boss you around. Be back in two weeks.

Still. An errand.

Why hadn’t Jens-Kjeld asked me?

“That’s for you,” Stefan said, a little too cheery. He dropped a box into my lap. “They were cleaning out his space this morning, and I thought…well.” He propped himself on an elbow and his expression softened, his wide green eyes settling on me. “He’d want you to have it.”

I glanced at the box, brown leather embossed with HH.

HH . Hans Halstrup.

Acid pricked in the back of my throat, and I wanted to throw it across the room.

“Go on,” Stefan said.

I gritted my teeth and flicked the lid.

Letters. Two years’ worth. Letters tied up with a red string, letters from friends, letters from home, letters so folded and creased, they must have been read a thousand times. That was Hans, though—always reading, always writing.

I opened one and found the wobbly hand of his sister. The chicks are growing. They’re not so cute anymore. Another from his neighbor. I was surprised about what you said about Sonderjem. Are there really that many seabirds?

Lopsided conversations, fragmented like the metallic shells that scatter on the beach.

I tucked the papers back into the box and my knuckles grazed the supple skinned journal, dark leather tied with a waxy cord. I flipped through the pages, the sprawl of his words, thin and loose like water, his musings, his heart.

And Isy thinks—

I snapped the journal shut.

Stefan rubbed the scruff on his jaw. “Katrina told me about the funeral. Your letter. I can cover for you if you need a few days.”

“I’m fine.” I set a mixing bowl on top of the book, picked up a bundle of lavender, and knocked the buds off with the blunt of the knife. I should try to get him to leave again so I could put the book back. But…

“What was the errand Jens-Kjeld sent you on?”

“You could go home,” Stefan continued. “Spend time with your mother.”

“Answer my question.”

He sighed and pulled out a stool. “I can’t say, Isy. He asked me not to.”

A secret errand?

I kept my eyes fixed on the bundle of lavender, the velvet buds, bruising blue around the calyx, blurring in and out of focus like rain on a window.

I shouldn’t cry. It was petty. This wasn’t worth crying over. Don’t cry, don’t cry.

Stefan’s shoulders softened and he smiled, something that didn’t quite touch the corners of his eyes. “What can I do to help?” The words were so gentle, the way he spoke to a spooked horse or a scared child. “Do you need me to steep bran? Is that a yes? Hmm? I think that’s a yes.” He tweaked my chin.

But I was tired—so absurdly tired—and maybe Stefan was better. Maybe it didn’t matter that he was always taking off or leaving dirty bowls in the bin or forgetting to press the bandages. That was the worst part about it because I’d tried, I’d given this job everything.

He set a kettle on the wood-burning stove and measured out a handful of grain. “You know,” he said, “I bet your mother would love to see you again. And your Aunt Louise? They’re probably getting ready for—”

I wheeled on him. “What are you trying to do?”

“Shit, Isy. Put the knife down.”

I glanced at the blade I’d been using to chop lavender, still clenched in my fist.

It clattered to the table.

Stefan raked a hand through his hair. “I know you miss Hans, but there are better ways to cope than pulling a knife on your friend. Katrina was right. The letters were a mistake.” He gathered up the journal.

“Don’t.” My voice cracked. Pathetic. “I’m fine. Really. Give it back. Please .”

He reached for the letters. “You need to settle down. Grieve. Maybe in a few months—”

I snatched the journal out of his hands and cradled it like a dragon. “I’m fine.”

Something white and hot snapped between us.

Stefan blinked, then dove forward, hooking his arm around mine, trying to wrestle the journal back.

“You’re unwell,” he said, latching hold of it. “I actually think these will make it worse. I’ll give them back when you’ve settled down.”

“I am settled.” The response stuck in my throat, and I tried to wrench the journal free. Stefan’s fingers dug into the soft skin right above my hip, harder, harder. Tears pricked my eyes.

“Stefan!” I rasped. “Stef—Stop. You’re hurting me.”

He continued to press his hand, his other clawing at the journal and—

Someone’s elbow caught the box of letters. It tumbled to the floor, scattering papers and powdered inks, scraps of ribbon cut from the spool. A wax stamp hit the table leg with a soft thunk.

“Shit,” I said, dropping to my knees. My hip throbbed from where Stefan had been holding it.

Stefan began gathering, too.

Letters on card paper, perfumed, pressed flowers, bits of twine. I shoved them into the box.

“Isy.” Stefan offered me a thick paper with cream and silver-gray stripes. “You need to read this.”

“It’s just…” I shook my head. “Put it back.” Pathetic .

“It’s not about you. Here.” He extended a paper clutched between two fingers.

I took it. The edges were brittle and curled from the spray of the sea, the writing sprawled and elegant, blooming across the page like a garland of flowers. It smelled of peonies and pipe smoke, of lemons and dried ink.

Dated almost a week ago—

If you didn’t want to be gutted, you shouldn’t have let the wolf into the henhouse. Perhaps I wasn’t clear. The answer is no.

P.S. If Volgaard truly intends to attack Larland, we are more defensible from our own shores.

Signed with a red rose, petals flayed to fit around a stylized W .

Stefan’s lips twitched. “If you didn’t want to be gutted…”

“That’s Larland’s royal seal.”

“I think I saw another.” Stefan picked through the scatter of letters.

He found two more from the pile on the floor, the same cream- and silver-striped paper, the same elegant hand.

This one dated before the other—

We have received your plea for aid. Unfortunately, there are many who are still bitter about Sanokes’ independence. I empathize with your situation, truly, but given the situation in my court, I fear rushing to your rescue would be unwise.

Signed again with the flayed red rose.

The kettle let out a low whistle, a blister of steam fogging the window.

“What does this even mean?” I asked, holding out the letter.

Stefan took the kettle off the heat and poured it into the bran bowl. “Think about it, Isy. The Vold ships? Their camp? They’re not whalers. They’re not merchants.”

“Twenty ships isn’t enough to take Larland.”

“Twenty ships is enough to take us.”

If you didn’t want to be gutted —

“But why would Hans—a nobody from the Sanok Isles—be corresponding with the king of Larland?”

But… That wasn’t right.

I’m basically the assistant secret keeper.

“You think the Volds killed him because of these?” I asked.

“I think someone killed him,” Stefan replied. “Volgaard makes the most sense. You know what they did to our ambassador, our merchants.” He shuffled around the papers. “Wasn’t there another letter?”

There was. The same blooming handwriting, the same strokes, long against the gray and cream.

We’ve heard rumors that Volgaard is in possession of a new weapon, something more terrible and deadly than anything we’ve seen before. Perhaps you are correct. Given Larland’s proximity to the Sanok Isles, it may be wise to help our young friend. I’ll make you a deal: find the weapon, deliver it to us, and we will send a thousand ships to your aid .

Dated the day before Hans died. The red rose at the bottom smudged like a blot of blood.

Heat flared through my body, and I read the letter again, slower this time. Find the weapon. Deliver it to us. Ships to your aid.

“Hans didn’t tell you about these?” Stefan asked.

“He…” The words I wanted to say stuffed into my throat, one after the other. He didn’t. But… Maybe he’d tried? Maybe I didn’t listen? Maybe I’d pushed him away?

I dredged the day before he died out of my memory, turned over the details like a shell. Hans standing in the doorway of one of the castle bedrooms while I changed the sheets. Sunlight gilded his curls, a letter in his hand. The paper… The paper…

It was cream, wasn’t it? It had to be cream, and I hadn’t thought too much about it but now it tumbled from my mind and it was cream, cream, it had to be cream.

You probably shouldn’t be doing this alone.

The Volds. They’re dangerous.

Why else would he be trying to show me something dated the day before he died? Was his death my fault?

Then I was searching through the letters, tearing them open with blind ferocity.

Gormark’s debt to the Sanokes has been repaid. We will not offer support.

And—

Council voted no. Prince-Regent of Forelsket sends his regrets.

And—

Although Nysklland harbors only the best intentions toward our littlest neighbor, sending the men you request would leave us vulnerable. This is Larland’s battle. If they have given you a negative answer, I suggest you ask again.

I shoved the papers at Stefan.

He flipped through them, the corners of his mouth tugging into a frown. “No surprise about Forelsket. The others? I would’ve thought they’d send something. They’re supposed to be our allies.” He traced the crinkled edge of Nysklland’s correspondence. “Ask Larland again. I suppose that’s what they did.”

Hans was assistant postmaster. The Volds must have found out that he’d been acting as an intermediary between someone at Karlsborn Castle and the foreign nations and killed him for it. Used his murder to send a message of their own: do not cross us. After all, no one would notice a dead assistant postmaster—no one except the people he’d been working with. There was no other reason to kill him, Hans, so easy, so kind. Nothing else made sense. And the Volds?

Gray eyes. Sneer. The scatter of ruby shadows across the ceiling as a dagger twisted and twisted and twisted.

I couldn’t breathe.

Stefan gathered the letters in a neat stack and placed them on the table. “I’ll ask around, see if anyone’s heard anything. Maybe we can figure out who Hans was—wait! Where are you going?”

My chest pounded. My pulse raced.

I needed to think, needed to breathe.

I needed space.

I hiked up to the spot where we’d tried to see the ships. Wind snatched my hair, tangled the grasses, caused tears to pick the corners of my eyes, and it hurt to breathe, hurt to be. And he should have told me. He should have tried harder, shouldn’t have stood in the doorway and fingered that letter with so much reserve. Hans, who’d chased the coach barefoot down the lane. Hans, who wouldn’t stop until he found a job at Karlsborn Castle. Hans, who always fought for what he wanted.

But no, that wasn’t right.

What do you want?

A fishing boat.

Out at sea, the bob of boats cut through the water, lazed and steady, but below, the ocean, wild and breaking, sucked like a mouth, a spray of cauldron and froth and storm.

I screamed at the wind.

The wind screamed back.

I screamed again and again. It tore at my throat, bleeding and raw.

The wind snickered and howled, fluttered the letters in my fist.

Weapon. Delivery. Ships.

Weapon. Delivery. Ships.

Weapon. Delivery—

I wanted to rip them up, to tear them with my teeth, to hurl them, scattering, to the sea. I wanted to bury them deep in the damp earth, to stuff them into a bottle, to let sand and time dissolve them until they were nothing but pulp and powder.

I wanted to find a candle.

It wasn’t for the letters.

Instead of doing any of that, I swiped the tears from my cheeks.

I wasn’t sure why Hans got involved, but I knew he wasn’t acting alone. And after last night, I had a pretty good idea who was helping him.