Amma pulls me to her. Now, closer, I smell the animal blood on her, but it doesn’t matter—she’s land, and I’m drowning. Sobs rack me again, echoing down the narrow alley, until I’m too exhausted to cry any more. Amma keeps her arms around me, holding me up, as the village gradually grows dark around us.
“What does he mean, about Everless and the Queen?” she says at length.
I wipe my eyes.
“He never liked her, or the Gerlings.” And for good reason—we wouldn’t be destitute if not for Liam. But the letter in my hand weighs heavy, screaming something more. “Still, danger . . . I don’t know what he means.”
The truth of it tears at me—I don’t know, I don’t know.
Amma is quiet for a moment. Then: “Jules, maybe you shouldn’t go back.”
I shudder. “No. I don’t have a choice.” It’s half true. The thought of Everless, its warm kitchen and roaring fires, is a comfort, but the idea of the Gerlings and the Queen inside is poison. Danger, in my father’s words. Yet if I leave now, I’ll never know why.
Amma nudges the bag of blood-iron at my belt. “This looks like a choice to me.”
Her words hang in the air before us. Suddenly, the bag of coins feels much heavier as they take on a new meaning—a new future, perhaps. What could I do with the years inside?
“You don’t have to go back,” Amma says. Her face glows with possibility. “Alia wrote to me that she wants to come home. She hates it there. She’s made enough money for us to get by a few months.” She pauses, her voice full. I wonder if Alia is still afraid of the Alchemist’s spirit chasing her through Everless’s halls, or if it’s something else. “I was wrong, Jules—Everless isn’t worth it. What good are the years, if you have to spend them like that?”
Possibilities float through my mind too, their shine dulled by grief. I could return to Crofton, rent a new cottage, use the money to get a little farm running. I could go back to the schoolhouse and learn a trade. I could travel, try my fortunes in one of the prosperous cities on Sempera’s shores, finally see the ocean.
Or—I could return to Everless. Work as hard as I can, all while listening in the halls like Roan and I used to do, and hope that something can lead me to the truth in Papa’s letter. After Lady Gold is married, the Queen will retreat to her palace by the sea. If I don’t act now, I’ll lose my chance.
The cottage would be empty and worthless without Papa. The whole village would be. And I can’t imagine traveling anywhere without turning over the question of Papa’s last actions. I need to know why he did what he did, and what he meant by warning me away from the Queen. In fact—a chill dances down my spine as I realize I already know the first step. Replace Addie in the Queen’s retinue. And if I’m banished too—well, I’ve survived it before.
“I don’t have to go back,” I say, my voice a quiet rasp. “But I want to.” I detach the bag of blood-irons from my belt, take out a handful to slip in my pocket, and hold out the rest to Amma.
Immediately, her eyes turn hard. “Jules, no.”
“I don’t need it anymore,” I say. “Take it for Alia, if you won’t take it for you.”
This is what makes her accept the money. I know Amma well enough to know that she’s like me—proud, but not too proud to do what is right for her family.
My family is gone. Hers is not.
Amma closes her eyes, letting the tears spill down her cheeks. “Thank you,” she breathes, burying her face in the crook of my shoulder. “Thank you, Jules.”
I rest my head gently against hers. I wish so badly that this were enough, that I could do as Papa wished. Let the questions buried between the flagstones of Everless stay there, or fly away like a scrap of silk in the wind. I could go on with my life here, with our cottage and garden, the schoolhouse, my friend.
But the mystery of Papa’s warning, his stained hands and his death, would drive me mad.
I’ll go back. I must.
I have business with the Queen.
12
When Tam and I reach Everless’s gates, he drops me by the stables with a brown paper package of hard honey sweets from the baker’s.
The dormitories are empty except for one woman in her bed by the far wall wrapped in a blanket and breathing lightly—she must be sick, else Lora would be down here herself, shaking her awake. It takes all my will not to crawl under my thin blanket and shut out the world. The enormity of Papa’s secrets are dragging at me, overwhelming me. Short of banging down the Queen’s door and demanding an answer, I have no idea what to do. My only choice is to try to pass her silly test, if I even can get an audience with her. If I do, maybe I’ll be allowed to serve her.
But this day off from the kitchen is a gift. If I want to learn anything about the Queen before approaching her, I have to start now.
I put on my nicest dress—blue wool, with long sleeves, instead of the brown knee-length dresses we wear in the kitchen. Paired with my servant’s cap, I hope it will allow me to pass for a maid. I swipe an apron and dusting rag from the supply closet in the hall and set off toward the library. I know if I’m found there without permission I could be beaten. Or worse.
I tell myself that if I’m lucky, no one will notice me; I try not to think about the fact that I have never been lucky.
When Papa and I lived at Everless, he had permission to use the library—he’d told them he needed to research blacksmithing techniques, and instead snuck me inside at night to read storybooks by candlelight. It was one of my favorite rooms—the shelves towering two stories high, the floor of dark, shining wood inlaid with tracings of gold, the blissful quiet punctuated only by turning pages and my whispers of wonder.
It’s nearly empty now, the room lit in long rays and longer shadows from the sunset outside the west-facing window. A few nobles sit scattered at the tables and armchairs, reading or writing letters. One large man is dozing in an overstuffed leather armchair. Unlike when I was a girl, the silence holds no promise of stories waiting to be told, no crackle of magic in the air, effervescent as mist in the sun after rain.
But, thankfully, the layout is still familiar. The large, open main space is surrounded by entrances to aisles and nooks, their contents proclaimed by brass plates over the doorways. I scan them, realizing as I do that I have no idea where to start. In our schoolhouse in Crofton, we only ever heard worshipful things about the Queen—her great beauty, her vanquishing of invaders, her wisdom on the throne. Nothing that could explain why Papa would fear her.
I scan the plates—Popular Fables, The Everless Estate, Economics—until I see History across the library. It seems as good a place to start as any. I skirt the room, trying to look like I have a purpose while still remaining inconspicuous, and slip down the aisle.