Chapter Nine

I woke in a cold sweat—mouth dry, quilt tangled around my legs, the fizzy images of the dream still popping and bursting behind my eyelids. Red water, pink foam, vacant eyes. The press of his chest beneath my palm.

Pump, pump. Wait.

Pump, pump. Wait.

Pump, pump—

I leaned over the edge of the bed and vomited.

Moonlit fog spilled through the open window, spinning beams of white across the floor and obscuring the shapes of a dozen sleeping girls. Loose hair spilled over pillows, sheets tangled around legs, chests rising and falling. Someone snored.

I rested my cheek against the bedpost. Breathe. It was a dream. Not real.

But my heart still thumped in the back of my throat, and the images still popped, bulging and bright. Brown curls. Swollen skin. A sand fly’s wings quivering in the breeze and—

I slipped out of bed, the floorboards cool and smooth and real. This was real. Here was real, the rumple of sheets, the winter wool so neatly folded. Real.

The roar of waves seemed to grow louder, or maybe it was the ringing in my ears. Too hot. This room was too hot and the ceiling too low and—

Pop, burst. Water lapped over my hands. Pop, burst . Seagulls screeched.

I pulled the door open and stumbled into the corridor. Mice vanished and spiders skittered. The air here still too hot, too thick.

My knuckles knocked the edge of the banister. I grabbed it, nails biting into the wood, and jammed my shoulder against the wall to stop the shaking.

Shaking.

I didn’t realize I was shaking.

Water. I needed water. A glass. A drink. Something.

The fog had rinsed away most of the kitchen’s food smells, yeast and clams, the sour funk of cheese, leaving nothing but air so thick, the droplets seemed to gather at the tip of my nose.

In a few hours, the cooks would be up, husking crabs, chopping mushrooms, and creaming spinach, but for now, everything was quiet, everything was still.

I stepped over the boxes of old vegetables—cabbages and leeks, a crate of apples with mold dappling the peel—and found a silver drinking bucket in the corner by the hearth.

My reflection stared back at me, rippled and clear.

I ladled some water into a cup, took one sip, then another.

Morning dew had crept in through the windows, beading along the latches, rolling down in pear-shaped streaks.

I let the ladle clatter back into the bucket, pressed my forehead against a pane of glass and let the coolness seep into my bones, let breath after breath fill my lungs. Okay. I was okay. Tomorrow, I’d wake and tend to the queen, boil linen for bandages, and scavenge for wild garlic along the bluffs. I’d push myself on and up, on and up because I couldn’t stop.

There was a rustle from the other side of the kitchen.

I paused, squinting through the rolling fog. Another shift, another rustle, and someone was sitting at the long table, the one where the staff ate their meals. Was it one of the stable hands?

I took a step closer, then another, lithe as the tabby that lived in the pantry.

No.

It was the king’s cherub-cheeked minister of trade, wearing a floor-length nightshirt and a cotton cap, snoring softly. A plate of crumbs rested on the table in front of him, and a glass of something sat near his wrist. Honey wine, probably—everyone knew that was his favorite.

My foot knocked a bucket of oyster shells and the minister startled. His eyes fluttered open. “Ingrid,” he slurred. “I, uh…dinnya hear you come in.”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you.” I ducked my head. “I’ll grab a maid. She can help you with…whatever.”

I didn’t want anyone to see me like this.

That thought, followed by something deeper: I didn’t want to be alone.

The minister tried to rest his cheek on his fist, but ended up punching his cap halfway off his head. “You were friends with the, uh…pigeon boy? Whawas his name? Henrik? Hurr— Hurr— Hurrrman?”

“Hans.”

“Sorry ’bout…the inquest. It wasn’t what I wanted, but you know. He was just assistant postmaster. Inquests? They’re…they ruh…” He gave a vague wave of his hand. “S’pensive.”

I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. The inquest. I wanted to be angry about that, I did. I wanted to rage and cry and shout. But… I understood. That was the worst part about it. The cold, hard weight of understanding. Hans was just the assistant postmaster, a nobody. Inquests were expensive, and why would you spend the time and energy trying to figure out what happened to a nobody when the queen was dying and the king was streaking naked and the Volds were doing who knows what on the beach? But I wasn’t sure I could tell the minister that without crying, so I pushed aside that gnarled thing and turned toward the set of stairs. “It’s fine. It happens.”

It happens.

As if people are casually murdered.

It happens.

Because if you’re small, nobody cares. If you’re staff, nobody cares. I was small, and I was hurting, and this wasn’t about me—it wasn’t—but I was alone, so alone, and I just wanted someone to see me.

See me.

Morning mist billowed from open windows, the world beyond mirrored in shades of pearl and pewter, the hedges bending like waves in a choppy sea.

The minister nodded, solemn, at his glass of wine. “It’s been a rough night for me, too.”

I glanced down at my hands, clenched so hard they shook. My nails cut half-moon indents into my palms, and this was a mistake. I couldn’t be here. I turned toward the bottom step. “Goodnight.”

He continued staring into his wine. “Can I ask’yew something? You’re uh…a smart girl.”

“The alcohol’s making your cheeks worse.”

“Not that. Well…” the back of his hand grazed his cheek, “that?”

“Absolutely.”

He knocked the glass back and finished the contents with a hiccupy burp.

“Goodnight,” I said again.

“Wait. Waaaaait .” He wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “If someone powerful asks’yew to do something important. But the thing you don’t…you can’t…you…?” The minister frowned. “ Aren’t sure if you can give it to them. But the powerful person promises to protect you and says it’s the only way. Do you say yes?”

“Huh?”

“If someone powerful asks for something important—”

“I heard that. It’s just—was that an actual question?”

The minister reached for the wine bottle but overshot the distance, bumping the green neck. Pale liquid glugged across the wood, shimmering like rainwater. He frowned and tried to grab it, but knocked the cup over. “If someone powerful asks’yew for something important—”

“I heard you. I’d decline.”

I’d decline.

The obvious answer, but no, that wasn’t right. If someone powerful wanted something important… “I’d be clever,” I amended. “Give them all of it or a piece, mince words, play tricks, ask for something in return.”

Everyone wants something. Hans’s words.

What do you want?

I shook my head and pressed away the memory of him, the feelings that lurked—too big, too raw. “ Can you ask for something in return?”

The minister let out a burbled “ I dunno,” and traced a heart through the liquid. “If we ask too much, they cou’just take it.”

“All the reason to be clever.”

“I suppose so.”

A hum and pause, broken only by the chime of the clocktower marking two in the morning.

The minister downed the rest of his bottle, and I left him alone in the dark.