Chapter Twenty-Seven

Gray-green water slapped against the crumbling retaining wall that separated the city from the sea. Seaweed and trash swished in the eddies, and from somewhere, a bell tolled.

I shut the door to the Rose & Thistle Inn with a gentle thud and set out into the morning, the letter to the minister already in my pocket.

They’re scouting for a place to launch ships . Also, Erik was hiding ships on the journey to the Sanokes. Maybe some sort of naval attack? This means the weapon must either be effective at a distance—cannons, maybe?—or small enough to carry ashore.

It wasn’t enough, but it had to be. The Volds were attacking as soon as we came back, and we were running out of time. Maybe the minister could puzzle it together with something else they’d found.

I’d sketched the jewelry box on the other side, the rosettes and heath orchids, the little tabbed insert for the mirror.

I’m not sure what this is, but they have it locked in another box.

A seabird looped overhead. Reflections of shops rippled in the waterway, blackberry, cornflower, lobelia. A dress shop, a flower shop, a church. The post station should be just up ahead past the pub, and there it was, a steep-A frame roof, the word POST painted in black letters.

I gathered my skirts, trudged across the street, and tried the handle. Locked.

I cupped my hand to the window and tried to peer through the glass. The room warped and bowed, softened from the rain. A seabird skeleton perched on the counter, rows of parcel shelves lined the wall.

I’d heard somewhere that you could slip a message and a coin under the door and the postmaster would mail it for you but…I wanted to pick up the minister’s letter to me.

I rasped on the glass. “Hello?”

No answer, no movement. The inside remained silent and still.

I rasped again. “Hello?”

Nothing.

I took a step into the street and peered at the upper windows, black and dark. Sometimes the shopkeepers lived in little apartments above their stores. It was possible that he was up there.

I picked a pebble and tossed it at the windows. It plinked against the glass and fell back into the dirt.

A light flared. Wood scraped against glass.

A man poked his head outside, a beard shadowing his jaw, a nightcap crammed on his head. “What the hell are you doing?”

I held up the letter and forced a smile.

The postmaster scratched something in his ledger book. “Name?”

“Isabel Moller.”

“Parcel or letter?”

“Just the letter.”

He jotted the note, his strokes thick and curt. He had the set of a gremlin, thick brows that furrowed over his face and a mouth pinched into a scowl. The lamp reflected the bald spot on his scalp, creating a soft halo on the top of his head.

I glanced at the counter. A single piece of dust quivered.

Would the minister tell me if they’d found anything?

“Where to?”

My head snapped up. “Oh…um. Karlsborn Castle.”

“Pigeon or coach?”

“Which is faster?”

He set the pen down. “You know you could slip the letter under the door.”

“I wanted to see if you had anything for me.”

He shuffled toward the card shelves in the back of the room. “Or at least have the decency to wait until we’re open. You said Isabel Moller?”

“Or Isy.”

He removed two envelopes and slid them across the counter.

I tore open the first, expecting to find the minister of trade’s seal—two scales and a rose compass. Instead, my eyes found Stefan’s familiar hand.

Dated three days ago—

I hope you have good news for me, because I don’t have any for you. More Vold ships showed up the day after you left, dozens of them. They have an army now.

But that’s not the worst of it.

The minister of trade. He’s dead.

A lump rose in the back of my throat. I forced myself to keep reading.

They called me to check the body, and there was blood everywhere—the floors, the ceiling. They stuck a letter opener through his eye, cut off his hand and stuffed it in his mouth. It was not a kind death. I wish I’m glad you weren’t here to see it.

Stefan.

The minister of trade, dead. For a moment, I could see it. Blood painting the walls, the ceiling, glittering red like cherries, reflecting the room, reflecting his dismembered body. I wrapped my arms around myself and tried to breathe because—

Murder.

He’d been murdered.

We hadn’t been close, but the minister had been a good person—one who liked honey wine and raisins and always wore blue. Now he was dead. What did this mean for Stefan? What did this mean for me?

I tore open the second letter.

Dated yesterday—

King Christian and Queen Margarethe have been placed under arrest. Queen Margarethe is in her rooms (they couldn’t get her out of bed), and King Christian in the dungeons. The Vold king arrived on yet another fleet of ships and declared the Sanok Isles a territory of Volgaard. He says he owns us now, that he can do with us what he pleases.

And, Isy, I’m worried about our king. He’s getting worse. I’m told he spent most of yesterday crouched naked on a bucket. He’s afraid, and he doesn’t understand what’s going on. Queen Margarethe tries to issue edicts from her bed, but the Volds take them before they ever reach the hall.

Some of the staff have talked about rallying the men in the surrounding villages, but if they fight, they’ll be slaughtered. They’re farmers, not fighters. Some barely know how to hold a sword, and there are too many Volds, not enough of us.

If the Sanok Isles are to remain free, we need Larland’s help. Katrina and some others started helping me search for the weapon. That’s right. Katrina. I knew you’d like that.

Anyway, I hope you have some good news for me. We’ve had no luck on our side, and if we can’t secure Larland’s aid soon, the Sanok Isles will collapse.

Stefan.

I read the last sentence a second time, a third. Things had gotten worse. So much worse.

And Katrina…involved.

Stefan was wrong. I didn’t like it. If the Volds killed Hans, if they’d killed the minister, it meant they were willing to kill anyone. Did Katrina realize how much danger she was in?

Blood.

On the rocks.

In the rain.

Her dismembered body mangled and tossed aside, crumbled like a napkin. There would be her bun and there would be her slippers, lilac and felted wool, one kicked off because she fought them—of course she fought them—and they’ll be her favorite shoes and now she was going to die, and I was in another town on the other side of the island, making friends with the Volds, and there was nothing I could do to stop it, and I had to remember that they were a job, a job, a job.

Erik was a job, and if he was anything more—a friend, maybe—there would be blood. Stefan’s. Katrina’s. It would paint the streets and—

Failure.

Bright and burning, staining everything it touched. Wild, uncontrolled, a bonfire in raging reds and scorching oranges and—

Failure.

A sea of it, violent and deep. Choppy waves, a hungry tide. Saltwater flooding my ears, my mouth, and I was drowning, dying, and it was all too big, too vast, and there was nothing I could do, and I was small, and I was sand, and I missed Hans and—

I swallowed it.

Ate the feelings.

Chewed them down.

I couldn’t fail.

The postmaster watched me, his hand stretched out, grizzled brows furrowed.

“What?” I asked.

“Your letter. The one you woke me to mail. Two gyllis.”

A draft caught the papers, made them flutter. If the Volds were in control of Karlsborn Castle, I couldn’t send the letter I’d written. It would implicate them.

But did Katrina realize how much danger she was in?

I shoved the old letter in my pocket and wrote a new one.

Kitty,

Don’t work with Stefan. Don’t search for the we Don’t search. Trust me. Please.

I miss you.

I miss him too .

I’m sorry .