Chapter 15

114

Chapter 15

At first, Andala said escape was impossible now that Oriane was under stricter guard and could go nowhere unseen. But, Oriane explained, she did not need to go unseen.

She just needed to go uncaught.

Together, they went over the details of her idea in hushed tones, aware of Terault's presence outside the door. Then Andala rose to leave and share their plan with Kitt.

‘Do you think … We can trust Kitt, can't we?' Oriane asked, a tiny kernel of doubt unfurling as she paced the room. Her mood had been swinging wildly all afternoon: exhilaration, indignation, paralysing fear.

‘Yes,' Andala said simply.

Oriane believed so too – but what if he lost his nerve at the last minute and came clean to the king about what they planned to do?

‘How can you be sure?' she pressed.

‘Because,' Andala replied, ‘he knows he'll have me to answer to otherwise.'

And then she was gone, leaving Oriane alone to prepare.

115 It was almost daybreak. Oriane had barely slept; she was overwrought, unanchored, angry . Anger was a foreign feeling, one in whose company she had never spent much time. But the more she thought about her confinement, about the scheme Tomas must have had from the beginning to prevent her communicating with her father, the more potent the anger grew – overpowering her anxiety about what she planned to do, burning within her like a burgeoning flame.

Oriane tried to embrace it. She had not known who she was when she came here – still did not know who she was, if she was honest with herself – and unless she fled this place, she feared she might never get the chance to find out.

At last it came time to leave. To escape. The familiar sensation of the skylark waking stirred in her breast as she lay staring into the dark. That, at least, was something she knew, something she could cling to in the uncertain moments ahead.

‘Everything's ready,' Andala whispered when she came to fetch her. ‘East window, third from the back. Don't hesitate for a moment.'

They walked briskly to the audience hall, Terault at their heels. The usual crowd was there, as well as nobles whose faces Oriane had never seen, a new batch brought in to bear witness to the Messenger of Day. Kitt, looking tense, gave her an almost imperceptible nod as she entered. King Tomas was there, of course, and Hana, tucked towards the back of the crowd.

‘Oriane,' King Tomas greeted her, gracious and welcoming, as if he weren't keeping her prisoner here in his palace. Anger simmered beneath the song building in Oriane's chest, but she forced a smile. She did not want his suspicions roused for any reason. She wanted him to think she was compliant, unquestioning, docile.

Exactly as she'd been when she arrived. 116

With a final glance at Andala, Oriane ascended the stairs, taking her place on the platform. The warmth in her chest was growing stronger. The crowd chattered excitedly among themselves.

Oriane let herself become the Lady Lark, smiling down at them all. It was easy to do now. Too easy.

She closed her eyes as the transformation drew near. Some small, shameful part of her had become fond of the hush that fell over the crowd as she did, the sense of anticipation that hummed through the quiet room – the strange, inexplicable feeling of power that filled her as she felt every eye turn her way. Casting the shame aside, she capitalised on it now. If they were looking at her, they would not be looking at the east window, third from the back.

Warmth continued to blossom behind her breastbone. It was almost time. Almost, but not quite. She needed to wait for the sign. Oriane poured all her focus into her power, into the idea she'd spoken about with Kitt and Andala – the notion that she might simply think about transforming, and in the same instant, do so. She willed herself to believe she had power over herself, power over her power.

From the back of the hall came an almighty bang .

There was the sound of glass breaking, crashing to the floor. The crowd cried out. That was the sign. This was the moment.

Her body was not yet ready to change. Oriane gauged that it was still a minute or so away from doing so. But she did not have a minute. She needed to become the skylark now.

She needed to, she commanded herself to, and so she did.

While gasps and cries spilled through the air, while the king's voice boomed out words she could not clearly hear, Oriane transformed.

She opened her eyes as she did. Everyone still seemed to be focused on the back of the hall, where one of the enormous arched windows had shattered. Glass littered the floor below it in a shimmering 117 carpet. The hall's sparse candlelight glistened on the fragments, and to Oriane it was a beacon. Here is your way out.

She stretched her wings as they appeared feather by feather. They had never been more welcome. The king was still shouting, and she heard his words now: ‘Seize her! Do not let her fly!'

But it was too late. Oriane had been born to fly, and king or not, he would not stop her.

She shot straight up, towards the back of the hall. She was too fast and too high for any grabbing hands—

Or so she had thought. All of a sudden there was a whoosh behind her, and something rushed past her back. It could not be a person, not this high – had they thrown something to try to stop her? A net?

Whatever it was, Oriane did not look back. In another breath she was level with the broken window. It had been thoroughly obliterated, the glass smashed inward, open to the predawn darkness beyond. She soared into the dying night, leaving the palace and the crowd and the still-shouting king behind her. How had she not missed this? Flying outside, where she was meant to be, feeling the wind through her feathers and watching the dawn as she sang it into life? For so many days she had winged her way around an audience hall, content to be confined so long as she had the applause of strangers. It sent shame washing through her anew.

The sun had fully risen now. For some reason, it was Andala's face in her mind as she ascended – Andala who stirred some faint ember of regret in her breast as she wheeled east, towards the sun, and then north, towards home.

She sang louder, more joyously. I'm coming, Papa, her song said. I'm on my way home.

118 Oriane flew true and did not pause, and before long she was in familiar territory. She knew these treetops. She knew the gentle glint of that river winding through the woods. And finally, there it was: the gap in the trees that signified home.

It was a glorious day, the sky a fierce blue and the golden light strong. Oriane had stopped singing, but a dozen other birds brought the woods alive with a morning chorus that welcomed her back. She could see the cottage now, the vegetable patch and the fruit trees, dear old Snowpea dozing in the yard.

She dropped into a dive. A few feet from the ground she transformed, landing mid-stride on the well-worn path to the back door. Startled, the chickens pecking at the grass scattered in a flutter of feathers. Oriane ignored them and tore towards the house. ‘Papa?' she called as she ran. ‘Papa!'

She burst through the back door. The house was dark, silent, a stark contrast to the morning light and life outside. ‘Papa?' Oriane called again. Was he out collecting water? Had he gone to stock up on supplies?

She moved further into the cottage. There was a musty smell in the air, as if the place had been closed up and undusted for a while. Her father was not in the library, or in the kitchen making porridge. Oriane's fears, the ones that had seemed dark but distant at the palace, now loomed large as monsters in her mind. What if something had happened? What if he was—

‘Papa,' she called again, louder, as she charged towards the staircase. Perhaps he was still in bed. Yes, that was it, she thought, ignoring the persistent voice that reminded her he had got up with the sun, like Oriane, for as long as she could remember. Today he was tired, and still asleep.

Her heart hammered as she reached the top of the stairs. Her feet 119 thumped on the rug as she stormed towards the bedroom at the end of the hall. The door was closed, but he would be in there, she knew it—

‘Oriane?'

She gasped, her whole body wrenching in the direction of the voice. Her father's voice.

Relief rushed through her so quickly it made her dizzy. The sound had come from the right – not from his bedroom, but from hers. Oriane backtracked and put a hand to the door. It creaked open, and there he was.

He sat in a chair beside her empty bed. It looked as if he had slept there. He seemed stiff and hunched over, his face shadowed beside the curtained window. Even in the semi-darkness he looked old, older than Oriane had ever known him to look. But it was him. Her father was here.

‘Papa,' she whispered, her voice breaking.

Weakly, he half rose from his chair, not seeming to believe it was really her. Oriane rushed to him. She threw her arms around him, choking back a sob. He felt like a stranger – too thin; cold, despite the warm summer morning. But after a moment, he seemed to gather his strength and return her embrace, and he was back: her father, her protector, her sole companion. With a shock, Oriane realised he was weeping. She could not remember ever having seen him cry.

‘My girl,' he kept saying. ‘I thought I'd lost you. I thought you'd gone.'

Oriane drew back, face wet with tears. ‘Papa,' she began, ‘I don't … I'm so—'

‘It's all right,' Arthur interrupted. His voice sounded rough and hoarse, as if he had not used it in a long time, but he was making a visible effort to pull himself together. He held Oriane at arm's length and studied her. ‘Are you all right?' 120

Oriane's throat felt tight. Guilt barrelled through her, hot and shameful. She was perfectly fine, of course. She had been fed and cared for and fawned over. Arthur, on the other hand … Her father looked lost, like a sailor run ashore on an unfamiliar island. She had done this to him. She did not know how to explain, how to apologise, not yet.

‘Yes,' she said instead. ‘I'm all right.'