Chapter Twenty-Six

I pulled open the door to our room at Rose & Thistle Inn, half expecting to find Signey splashing her face in the washbasin or rummaging through her packs or lounging on the bed in the long undershirt and leggings she wore to sleep.

Instead, the room was empty and still. She’d left the windows open, the air turned bitter and cold. A faint smattering of starlight cast everything in shades of white and gray, despite the golden lights that twinkled in the distance. The notes of a fiddle twisted in the wind.

It could have been the song that played earlier when Helene pulled Erik onto the dance floor, when she wrapped her arms around his neck, when she kissed him…

I pressed the heel of my palm against my eye. The kiss didn’t matter. Erik could kiss whomever he wanted, and I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t care about the way he ran his hand up her back or the way she tangled her fingers through his wheat-blond hair or the way they seemed to fit together so perfectly. None of that mattered. It didn’t . I should focus on the task at hand—open the box, steal the weapon, then leave.

Open. Steal. Leave.

Helene’s cousin had indeed been willing to help, a burly man with heavy arms and a heavy gaze. It had taken him nearly two hours to heat his forge, another half hour to smelt the iron, pour the key, file the flashings so the finished product would fit in the lock.

Two and a half hours filled with the hiss of bellows, the strike of anvil against metal. Two and a half hours of Helene entertaining Signey and the others at the Merchant’s Market.

They should have been back by now.

Except they weren’t.

Aalto’s star is shining bright, the whaler had said. Means Vega hasn’t found him. It’s bad luck.

But maybe luck was on my side after all.

I pulled the laces on Signey’s packs one by one, searched through the folds of fur and fabric until I found the box, the black metal stamped with the lattice of knots and falling crows. I smoothed my thumb over the keyhole.

Bad luck.

A sailor’s superstition.

I pressed the key into the lock. It fit like a hand sliding into a glove. The lock snicked and I lifted the lid to reveal a smaller box wrapped in a dish cloth.

Interesting. A box in a box.

I let the dish cloth fall away, the smaller box painted linen nailed to wood, whirls of rosettes and heath-spotted orchids rendered in chippy, abstract pinks, and I knew— knew —with a sudden sense of immutable certainty that I was holding something old, something ancient. My blood buzzed, a hum that vibrated from the top of my head down to my feet.

Love me , it said. Use me.

A call, a pull, and I never wanted to let it go.

I flipped the lid open, the latch a flimsy metal thing and prepared to face whatever was in there, but the box was empty, only padded linen and a tab pull where a board in the lid could detach to reveal a mirror.

I removed the tab, the top sliding away to reveal my reflection—dark hair, high cheekbones, narrow chin.

Love me . The call a scrape on my senses. Use me.

I touched my cheek. A jewelry box. An ordinary jewelry box. Why—

Outside, a thud and a thunk . The door swung open and Signey stumbled in, her hand braced against the doorframe, locks of white-blonde hair falling from her braid.

I stuffed a pillow over both boxes and leaned forward on the bed. Her bed. Which meant she could shove me off at any minute, move the pillow, find the boxes. I inched my hand under the pillow, the quilt rough against my palm. Maybe I could slip everything—the metal chest, the jewelry box, the tabbed insert—into my bag…

“ Wait, wait, wait .” Signey swayed, her nails biting the wood. Dark blood dribbled from her nose, crusting in a blackish ring above her upper lip. Her clothes reeked of salt and stomach acid. “Do you hear it?”

Beneath the pillow, my fingertips skimmed the edge of the tabbed insert, the cold rim of the box. “Hear what?” The bag was too far away.

“Honor beads.”

“Honor, what?”

“ Shh . I have,” she frowned at her fingers, “I have… Waitwait… I have one.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Drinking.” She hiccuped. Her teeth were stained purple, lips swollen. “But I don’tgit drunk.”

Okay. New plan. Move everything into my pocket and fix the jewelry box in the hall. Then I’d return the black box and all its contents to Signey’s bag when she was asleep.

Good plan.

I eyed her. Kohl smudged her left eye, blood flaked her chin. She’d probably pass out with her boots on. But was she drunk enough to miss the rattle of the lid when I pulled the box out from under the pillow? Or would she hear that? And if she asked, how would I explain what I was doing?

I will carve out your heart. She was drunk, maybe, but she wasn’t stupid.

Signey tugged at one of her white-blonde locks falling loose just above her shoulder. “I braid it into my hair… leke dis.” Another frown.

I needed to mask the rattle of the lid when I scooted it from under the pillow. And beads. I closed my eyes. “Erik has beads, too. On his necklace.”

Scrape, rattle. I scooted the box into the folds of my skirt.

Signey pushed the door closed and stumbled into the room, the stench of her growing stronger. Cold wind pricked the back of my arms, blew in from the open window. “Don’t talk about Erik, nnkay? Erik’snot important.”

I pushed myself off the bed, the metal chest clanking. A wince, a pause. She apparently hadn’t heard it, staring slack-faced at her lock of hair and the single bead braided there.

The metal chest rattled as I moved across the room. My pocket bulged, the fabric pulling open like a maw to reveal the glossy lid. She’d see it right away if she were sober. She might still see it if I wasn’t fast.

Keep her talking. Deep breaths. Steady hands. Hands. Hans. Hans dead. And now I was stealing from the woman who killed him. Another breath. Just keep her talking. “Erik’s not important, hmm?”

I expected her to make some sort of retort, but Signey’s expression slacked and she stood there, a lost child, a wayward daughter, her eyes red-rimmed and deep set, hands loose at her sides.

Because no. Erik was the general’s son, his second. And Signey…what did that make her?

Are we not enough for you?

“I have to go,” I said, grabbing my bag and letting myself out.

Moonlight puddled at the end of the hall, bright and silver, glinting off white walls and wood beams. The faint scents of lavender and beeswax filled the air and—

Erik.

He sat on the ground outside his door, chin tipped toward the ceiling, lips parted, chest rising and falling, rising and falling. He’d shucked off his jacket and it lay discarded next to him. A package sat by his hip, a box the length of my forearm, wrapped with brown paper, tied with a ribbon.

I angled my bag away from him and slipped the box inside. “Where’s Helene?”

“Gone.” The beginnings of a bruise reddened his cheek.

“You drunk, too?”

“Not drunk. Just…tired.” The answer was soft, a little husky. “I think Helene’s downstairs.”

“Thanks.” I stepped around his outstretched legs. I’d have to ask Helene what had given Signey a bloody nose and Erik that bruise.

“Wait,” Erik said, the word no more than a rasp. The top buttons on his shirt were open, his throat bare against the white fabric. His chest continued to rise and fall. “Is Signey in there?”

“Yes.”

“She doing okay?”

“She’ll be fine.”

He nodded, his eyes fluttering closed.

“Did the two of you…?”

“Someone said he didn’t like her hair, and I kept her from ripping out his throat. The present is for you.”

My heart kicked. “For me?”

“Try not to sound so excited.”

I edged closer to the box, waiting for it to explode or crumple to dust or spring at my face like a snake.

It didn’t.

I lifted the lid. A knife sat nestled against a bed of creamy silk, the hilt a polished wood, whorled the deepest red and burnt-honey brown. It reflected the light.

I wanted to reach out to touch it, to trace my thumb along the knots, to feel the smoothness of the handle.

I snapped the lid shut. “I have a knife.”

“Stop lying, Isabel. You’re not good at it.”

“Why’d you buy this?”

He shrugged, one-shouldered, kept his face toward the ceiling.

And maybe that should have been the end. Maybe I should have found Helene and told her about the jewelry box, but there was something else—

“Why did you give me the map?” The question left my lips, whole and formed. I hadn’t been planning on asking, but…hadn’t I wondered?

Gray noise and light scudded against the window glass.

“You seemed unhappy. I know…what it’s like to be unhappy.” He was watching me, his head turned just enough that the glint of his eye shone through the darkness.

My mind crawled back to that night, the fear, the anger, the feelings that threatened to eat and eat and eat me whole. “I was fine.”

“If you say.”

There. Another opportunity to leave. Another opportunity to find Helene and show her the box. But there was another question tugging at the back of my brain, and I wanted to know… “Why’d you become your father’s Second?” Why did he pick you over Signey?

He knocked his head back and gave a dry laugh. “So many personal questions.”

“Most people like to talk about themselves. I’m surprised you don’t.”

“It’s not that. It’s just, no one’s ever—” He rubbed a thumb over his palm. “Never mind.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

A beat, a pause, a wait for a breath.

“No.” The word was so soft, I almost missed it, but behind it, an ache, a longing, a wave so strong it nearly swept me under.

You are valuable for one thing.

Oh yeah, keep that up. That’s the only thing you’re good at.

He’s better at reykr than Signey. Better than everyone.

What would it be like to be so good at something that it’s all people could see?

I see you, I wanted to say. I see all of you.

“Okay.” I slid against the wall opposite him. We faced each other. Our legs touched. “What’s your favorite color?”

A faint smile pulled at his lip. “Blue.”

“Your favorite food?”

“Honey.”

“Sweet tooth, huh?”

The smile deepened, bringing out the dimple. “Mmm, maybe.”

“If your favorite food is honey— straight honey —then you definitely have a sweet tooth. Your favorite season?”

“Summer.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why summer?”

He laughed, light and beautiful, and there was something so shy about it. “Because there’s no snow. In Volgaard, every other season has snow.”

“What’s wrong with snow?”

“What isn’t wrong with snow?”

“You like warm, sweet things. Remind me to introduce you to cinnamon buns.”

“I don’t know who cinnamon bun is, but I would love to meet her.”

“Who’s your hero?”

He thought for a moment. “Baldar Landvik. Ancient explorer. House Skall.”

“Your favorite animal?”

“Puffins.”

“ Puffins? I thought you’d say wolves or bears or something scary.”

“Puffins do a courtship dance when they reunite with their spouse. It’s cute.”

“Puffins don’t get married.”

Erik flashed a grin. “They mate for life, and that’s better. It’s true they separate for a few months out of the year to fish and feed, but they always find their way back to each other. And then they dance.”

“Okay, fine. That is adorable.” I adjusted my legs. “What about the silliest thing you can imagine?”

“Hair on a seagull.”

“Didn’t Kaspar show that to Signey?”

In response, a seagull flitted down from the rafters, a full head of dark brown hair and bangs—

Wait.

That hair.

My hair.

Erik watched me, his eyes bright, shoulders shaking.

“You’re ridiculous,” I said, kicking him with my boot. “Just as bad as your men.”

“I’m worse,” he said between laughs. “Way worse.”

I kicked him again. “Alright, next question. If you could change anything about yourself?”

The seagull collapsed in a stream of smoke.

Erik rubbed his hand. “You…wanted to know why Lothgar picked me to become his Second?”

“Yeah.”

He uncurled his fist. A pony sat in his palm, its body white as the waves, its tail trailing mist. This time there was no revelry in it, no joy.

The pony collapsed into itself, and the mist slipped between his fingers.

Reykr. Of course.

“Why’d you become an apprentice physician?” His gray eyes were watching me now, his cheek angled so that moonlight slatted half his face.

“My father. I…always imagined I’d apprentice under him.”

“He missed out. You have a gift.”

Something thick rose in the back of my throat and I swallowed. “You don’t know what it means. To hear that.”

“It means you’re going to beat Stefan.”

“I forgot I told you about that.”

The corner of his lip quirked. “You screamed it. Right after you screamed you’d peed—”

“Ahh, okay.” I shoved my hand over his mouth. “We don’t repeat secrets outside of the screaming thing.”

He smiled against my palm, full and slow.

Again, I realized how close we were, my hand over his mouth, his fingers splayed beside my knee. His nubbed one curled against the fabric of my skirt, almost as if he’d tucked it there to keep it safe.

I pulled my hand away and there was his dimple, his lips…

The smile fell, replaced by a pinch of the brows, a question.

His breath hitched.

Below, a bell tinkled, and a man’s voice filtered up from the floorboards.

Erik sighed and tipped his head toward the ceiling. “You should get some sleep.”

I wouldn’t get much sleep. I needed to return the box, then wake up early to mail the letter. But I didn’t say that. Instead, I stood and said, “Goodnight, Erik.”

A pause so long I wondered if he’d heard it. Then—

“Goodnight, Isabel.”