She has never heard anyone talk this way before. Of stars and of loss. How can the man who sculpted such meticulous objects out of ivory, who speaks so rhapsodically about the night sky, be the same man who rudely knocked her to the floor when he first saw her—the man who deeply insulted her kingdom and its people?
She never spent much time thinking about the personalities of the Aubinian princes. Most of her and Aurora’s gossip had been about their looks and reputations. But she’s beginning to feel that William is contradictory and strange. With his velvet cloak. With his smell of lime. With his swaying-tree voice and his slamming-door laugh. But he has a heart—he must, for he seems moved by her desire to save Aurora. Moved enough to help.
“So you’ll come with me to Deluce, and you’ll help me establish the alliance,” Isbe says carefully.
“I will. But there are conditions,” he adds.
“Which are?”
“We need your oil.”
His statement lands heavy as a boulder. So it isn’t empathy that’s convinced him. His decision is tactical: he wants Delucian oil for his fancy cannon design.
Anticipating her next question, he goes on: “Like I said, we’re an efficient country. We’ve spent all of our money on warships, not on whaling vessels. We could accrue our own sources of oil—but not as quickly as we would need, if we are to implement these weapons in time.”
Isbe swallows. She imagines the narwhal that narrowly freed itself from the harpoon, spinning through the darkness of the North Sea, its tusk pointing the way like a glowing sword, the bloody wound in its shoulder reddening the waters as it dives. And she knows there are far larger, far greater beasts of the sea that have died and must die in order to provide all of Deluce’s oil.
But then she thinks of Gil, promising his luck away to Binks for information. For her.
“What’s your answer, then?” the prince asks. “Shall we stand on the same side of this war?”
Isbe takes a breath, then holds out her hand for him to shake. “You have a deal.”
She had almost forgotten what it feels like to enter or exit through an actual door. Isbe turns her face to the sun now, blinking, taking in its distant warmth. The new cloak William gave her smells fresh and clean, like the winter air that whispers along the bare part of her neck as she allows the prince to lead her, arm in arm, through the palace gates.
When William told her over a breakfast of warm bread, salted fish, and bubbling, runny eggs, that it would be a danger to travel under his banner—that he’d be a moving target after the death of his brothers—she suggested they dress as peasants and journey as husband and wife.
But the prince dismissed the idea. “The ports are still closed. If I issue an order to reopen them, it will draw attention to our departure. We must take the land route, which is easily a week’s journey. And what with fears of the sickness, it’s likely no inn will accept us along the way. Luckily—”
“I have an idea,” they both said at the same time.
He let her go first.
Isbe’s idea was to travel by way of the trade route along the river, and then cross the South Sea at the land bridge, using the convent at Isolé as a safe haven before making the rest of the journey through Deluce. She didn’t mention to him why she thought of Isolé—that it was the very place to which the Delucian council had planned to send her on the eve of Aurora’s wedding. She knows nothing about it other than that it must be trusted by the council and therefore is likely safe.
As for William’s idea, he mentioned only that last night the ideal mode of travel occurred to him, and that he would show her in person.
Now, as he leads her across the palace grounds and into the castle village, a church bell gongs six times. They move past the church, where she hears the whinnying of two horses, and the shuffle of leather straps and buckles. A carriage.
Surely he isn’t suggesting they take a royal carriage! She turns to him and he explains. “I was thinking about the death of Edward and Philip. That’s what gave me the idea to travel as they did.”
“But they were killed!” Isbe blurts out.
“Exactly,” William says.
There’s a silence while Isbe tries to make out what he is telling her. Pigeons flutter out of the bell tower above them, cooing. “Travel as they did . . . ,” she says slowly, and then swallows, putting it together. “In a . . .”
William puts his hand on her back, a kind of affirmative pat. “Hearse,” he finishes.
She has to admit, he’s clever. No one will think to interfere with the small wooden construct, its horses draped in black, a casket in place of a passenger seat behind the driver’s perch.
Then again, it means they are going to have to lie down together in a coffin.
“We’ll make preparations, and leave tomorrow,” he says.
The next day the wind carries an angry bite to it. Isbe shivers as she and William make their way back to the church at sunset. The old, gravel-voiced wagoner—one whom the prince claims they can trust with their lives—greets them gruffly and without fanfare. It’s clear from his tone that he thinks what they’re doing is a terrible idea. Isbe wonders just how much William has offered him to take this risk. Or perhaps he has no choice.
It takes a few minutes to get into position in the contained space, and Isbe almost laughs when William has to get out and try again with his cloak untangled. Luckily the coffin is lined in velvet and is, of course, as yet unused. There is no smell of death and decay, only cedar and pine. It is like a small enclosed bed, and not altogether uncomfortable, although it is nearly impossible to shift around without jostling each other. The driver leaves the lid open a few fingers’ width. It’s enough to allow for a thin strip of moonlight and fresh air without anyone seeing in.
Isbe hears the driver whip his horses, and soon they are trotting along the pitted road. After only a few minutes of their heads banging together on the small velvet pillow, William suggests Isbe slide down somewhat so that her face is near his chest.
And then, the very long and very awkward silence begins.
“I think we’re at the river road,” the prince mutters into her ear sometime later, startling Isbe, who had been nearly asleep. “The road feels bumpier here.”
She scrunches her brow for a moment. “No, not yet.”
“No, I think we are. I hear the current.”
Isbe shakes her head, which causes her cheek to brush William’s doublet. “That’s a loose terret. The reins are rubbing against one of the horses’ harnesses.”
“How can you—” he begins to ask, but stops himself.
“I’ll let you know when we’re near the river,” Isbe assures him. She’ll smell it.
William fidgets and shifts. It must make him uneasy, not being able to see where they’re headed. A thought strikes her, and she accidentally snorts.
“Are you laughing at me, Isabelle?” he asks. “I confess I’m not an expert on the susurrus of loose carriage gear.”
Now Isbe actually does laugh. She’s never heard anyone use the word susurrus. “No, I just had a thought that amused me.”