Someone tsked, and Lila’s head snapped up. How long had Alucard been standing at her back?
“Please tell me you didn’t just try to exert your will on the ocean,” he said, offering her a kerchief.
“I almost did it,” she insisted, holding the cloth to her face. It smelled like him. His magic, a strange mixture of sea air and honey, silver and spice.
“Not that I doubt your potential, Bard, but that’s not possible.”
“Maybe not for you,” she jabbed, even though in truth she was still unnerved by what she’d seen him do back in the tavern.
“Not for anyone,” said Alucard, slipping into his teacher’s voice. “I’ve told you: when you control an element, your will has to be able to encompass it. It has to be able to reach, to surround. That’s how you shape an element, and that’s how you command it. No one can stretch their mind around an ocean. Not without tearing. Next time, aim sma—”
He cut off as a clod of icy slush struck the shoulder of his coat. “Agh!” he said, as bits slipped down his collar. “I know where you sleep, Bard.”
She smirked. “Then you know I sleep with knives.”
His smile faltered. “Still?”
She shrugged and turned back to the water. “The way they treat me—”
“I’ve made my orders very clear,” he said, obviously assuming she’d been misused. But that wasn’t it.
“—like I’m one of them,” she finished.
Alucard blinked, confused. “Why shouldn’t they? You’re part of the crew.”
Lila cringed. Crew. The very word referred to more than one. But belonging meant caring, and caring was a dangerous thing. At best, it complicated everything. At worst, it got people killed. People like Barron.
“Would you rather they try to knife you in the dark?” asked the captain. “Toss you overboard and pretend it was an accident?”
“Of course not,” said Lila. But at least then she’d know how to react. Fights she recognized. Friendship? She didn’t know what to do with that. “They’re probably too scared to try it.”
“Some of them may fear you, but all of them respect you. And don’t let on,” he added, nudging her shoulder with his, “but a few may even like you.”
Lila groaned, and Alucard chuckled.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“I’m Delilah Bard,” she said calmly. “The best thief aboard the Night Spire.”
Normally Alucard left it at that, but not tonight. “But who was Delilah Bard before she came aboard my ship?”
Lila kept her eyes on the water. “Someone else,” she said. “And she’ll be someone else again when she leaves.”
Alucard blew out a puff of air, and the two stood there, side by side on deck, staring out into the fog. It sat above the water, blurring the line between sea and sky, but it wasn’t entirely still. It shifted and twisted and curled, the motions as faint and fluid as the rocking of the water.
The sailors called it scrying fog—supposedly, if you stared at it long enough, you began to see things. Whether they were visions or just a trick of the eye depended on who you asked.
Lila squinted at the coiling mist, expecting nothing—she’d never had a particularly vivid imagination—but after a moment she thought she saw the fog began to shift, begin to change. The effect was strangely entrancing, and Lila found she couldn’t look away as tendrils of ghostly mist became fingers, and then a hand, reaching toward her through the dark.
“So.” Alucard’s voice was like a rock crashing through the vision. “London.”
She exhaled, the cloud of breath devouring the view. “What about it?”
“I thought you’d be happy. Or sad. Or angry. In truth, I thought you’d be something.”
Lila cocked her head. “And why would you think that?”
“It’s been four months. I figured you left for a reason.”
She gave him a hard look. “Why did you leave?”
A pause, the briefest shadow, and then he shrugged. “To see the world.”
Lila shrugged. “Me, too.”
They were both lies, or at best, partial truths, but for once, neither challenged the other, and they turned away from the water and crossed the deck in silence, guarding their secrets against the cold.
V
WHITE LONDON
Even the stars burned in color now.
What he’d always taken for white had become an icy blue, and the night sky, once black, now registered as a velvet purple, the deepest edge of a bruise.
Holland sat on the throne, gazing up past the vaulting walls at the wide expanse of sky, straining to pick out the colors of his world. Had they always been there, buried beneath the film of failing magic, or were they new? Forest-green vines crept, dark and luscious, around the pale stone pillars that circled the throne room, their emerald leaves reaching toward silver moonlight as their roots trailed across the floor and into the still, black surface of the scrying pool.