Readily Unready
Luvian wrote to Charon, demanding he look into who had sent the dead kitten – for that was what he’d identified it as, his pallor grey, his mouth a thin line – to Sorrow, given that it must have arrived at the Winter Palace first. Irris was convinced it was Mael, or at least Vespus on Mael’s behalf, and she’d written separately to Charon, suggesting it.
Sorrow had written to no one, still reeling from the fact someone could do something so unspeakably cruel to an animal, and also want her to receive it. Her own private guess was that it was Balthasar, or Meeren Vine, but she kept that thought to herself.
Charon replied, saying the box hadn’t come from the Winter Palace; he himself had overseen the dispatch of the trunks and letters to her, and there had been nothing else. He concluded it must have been added when the horses were changed on the journey, and he told her he’d look into it.
Luvian asked Sorrow if she was sure it was addressed to her, and Sorrow told him it wasn’t addressed to anyone, that it had simply been included with the rest of her mail. She brightened momentarily as she remembered that – perhaps it wasn’t supposed to be for her at all – but it didn’t appease Luvian. If anything, it seemed to make him more anxious. And it didn’t change the fact an innocent animal had been killed.
“Unless it was a joke,” she said, more to convince herself than Irris and Luvian. “Or intended as a pet?”
But the box had been sealed. Airtight. Even as she said it she knew she was clutching at straws.
“From now on, I open all your mail,” Luvian had seethed. “This won’t happen again.”
Days later, Sorrow remained shaken by it. Someone had deliberately set out to frighten her, or warn her. Someone who would hurt a kitten to do it. And as hard as she tried, she found she couldn’t stop thinking about it, especially at night. Couldn’t stop seeing the box, and imagining the pain and confusion of the poor creature. She tortured herself wondering if it had been alive when it was put in the box, or killed before.
Night after night she lay in bed, listening to the golden-haired monkeys that gambolled over the roof, calling to each other, only to fall into a doze and imagine they were cats, looking for their dead friend. Then she’d wake, staring into the dark, until the sun rose and it was time to get up.
Finally, the night before the presentation, Irris suggested she use the sleeping draught she’d once used on her father, and Sorrow had agreed, annoyed she hadn’t thought of it before. She couldn’t afford to be groggy or slow when she spoke.
When she woke, it took her a moment to understand it was still dark, that she shouldn’t be awake. Then she heard a sound, a scrabbling from above her, and she realized that was what had pulled her from her sleep. The monkeys.
There was a thud directly outside the balcony doors that led into her room, and Sorrow groaned softly. There were dozens of trees in the gardens, could they not play there instead of on her roof?
Then the door handle rattled lightly, and every hair on Sorrow’s body stood on end. That wasn’t the monkeys.
Someone was trying to get in.
For a single, impossible moment she thought it must be Rasmus, finally forgiving her, and that was enough to make her sit up, trying to blink away the fogginess from the sleeping potion. Her hand snaked out for the lamp by the bed, her fingers seeking the dial to light it.
She froze when she heard a chime of metal hitting tile, followed by an insistent rasping from the door.
The lock. They’d knocked the key out, and were trying to pick it.
Rasmus would have knocked.
Rasmus wouldn’t come at all, she reminded herself.
Then she remembered the dead kitten.
She lunged for the lamp, desperate for light, knocking it to the ground. The crash as the light clattered to the floor was like cannon fire, blasting apart the silence of the night. By the time Sorrow managed to cross the room and pull back the drapes, the balcony was empty and there was no sign of whoever had been there. The gardens below were dark, and Sorrow bent down and picked up the key, staring at it as though it might hold an answer.
She’d fitted it back in the door, about to turn it, when she realized whoever had been there might not be gone. If they’d come over the roof, they could have returned there… Could be waiting…
She dropped the curtain into place and took two steps back. Her foot nudged the lantern and she looked down to find it hadn’t shattered. She returned it to the bedside table, sitting on the bed and turning the dial enough to give a reassuring glow. Go and wake Luvian, she told herself. And Irris. Tell them about the intruder. Tell the guards at the entrance to the wing.
But she was so tired, the sleeping potion still thick in her veins, slowing her heart, tricking her into believing the danger had passed.
I’ll rest for five minutes, she decided, leaning back against the pillows. Just five minutes…
The next thing Sorrow knew, golden light was streaming in through the windows, and she was lying on the bed, a sheet tangled around her. She sat up slowly, trying to understand why she felt strange. A kind of tugging in her stomach told her there was something she was supposed to have done, and she racked her brains for it. Snatches of dreams came to her, sounds and sensations, and she found herself staring at the window. There had been someone there, hadn’t there? Or was it a dream?
She was saved from thinking too deeply about it by Irris knocking at her door. Irris kept up a stream of chatter as she poured them both cups of strong coffee, the mere smell making Sorrow feel alert. As the drink took effect, the memories of the night before became even hazier, like smoke drifting away from her, and when Irris began to reassure her briskly that she couldn’t be any more prepared for the debate, the knots that formed in her stomach made her forget about the night completely.
Later that day, Sorrow sat backstage, in what Luvian told her had once been a music hall, hastily whitewashed and swept in the days leading up to the presentation. There was a brown patch of damp on the ceiling, and Sorrow found her attention drawn to it, her mind making shapes in it: a rose, a turtle. A face.
The venue was in Prekara, a district Sorrow had never visited. Prekara was an archipelago, jutting out into the sea, divided by service canals that neatly carved up the territory.
It was a county of ruffians, smugglers and thieves. More people lived on boats than in houses, easy to move around if need be. And there was often a need – almost a third of all those imprisoned in Rhannish jails hailed from Prekara. The watery, labyrinthine streets bred criminals, and it was the seat of felonious dynasties like the Finches, the Monks and the Rathbones. It was hardly an obvious or illustrious choice for Sorrow to present her plans for Rhannon.
The Jedenvat had chosen the district, and the venue, and Sorrow didn’t know if it was a good thing or bad. Senator Kaspira held the district of Prekara, and she’d never warmed to Sorrow, or her grandmother either, and Irris had told her it was because Kaspira didn’t think a woman should be chancellor, which Sorrow found somewhat ironic, given Kaspira was one of the most powerful women in Rhannon. So while this was a chance to win over a crowd that might mostly mistrust her, thanks to Kaspira’s influence, she also felt vulnerable. For the third time since they’d arrived, Sorrow crossed the room to peer at her reflection in an old, half-silvered mirror still mounted on the wall, nodded, and returned to her seat beside Irris.
She was dressed in a deep-red tunic over dark blue trousers, and every time she looked down she was surprised by the colour, despite Luvian’s insistence she wear something bright every day so she’d get used to it. She wished she’d never told him what had happened when she’d put on the green dress; the man remembered everything.
Irris had swept Sorrow’s hair into a sleek knot at the base of her skull and lined her eyes with kohl, gifted to them by Ines, who’d got it through her contacts. Finally she’d added a coat of dusky red to Sorrow’s lips. The idea, she’d told her, was to make sure she’d be seen all the way at the back of the hall.
Sorrow, who barely recognized herself in the mirror, didn’t think anyone would miss her.
Luvian’s eyebrows had risen the tiniest fraction when she’d met him in the hallway before the journey. His poker face was legendary; squeezing any kind of uncontrolled expression from him felt like a victory, and she was glad she’d caught it, had almost missed it as she’d been concentrating on navigating the stairs in her new heeled boots. He’d quickly mastered his face, casting a cooler eye over her when she reached the bottom, before nodding. Now he and Irris were sitting either side of her, Irris stroking her hand, while Luvian sat going through a pile of papers, pausing occasionally to add a marking to them.
“How are you feeling?” Irris asked.
Whether it was the hours of preparation she’d put in, the mask the make-up offered, or simply that it was too late to be afraid, Sorrow was surprised to find she was calm. “All right,” she said truthfully.
On her other side, Luvian put down his papers and leant over, placing a hand on her arm. “Sorrow, you’re going to be fine.”
“I said I felt all right.” Sorrow frowned at him. “I honestly feel fine. I’m ready for this.”
“Now don’t be cocky,” he urged.
Sorrow couldn’t believe her ears. It was unnerving to hear Luvian – wry, droll Luvian – be cautious, and she realized then she might not be nervous, but he was.
She pulled her other hand from Irris, and patted him. “Luvian, when am I ever cocky? I’m saying I feel OK. We worked really hard and because of it I’m ready. And it’s very rich for you to warn me about being cocky.”
He smiled. “I’m not cocky, I’m rightly confident,” he said.
“So am I.”
Sorrow stood, making her way to the door, barely stepping back in time as it opened and a middle-aged woman in a floor-length tunic, entered.
“Miss Ventaxis, a pleasure to meet you. I’m Ellyra Bird, and I’ll be introducing you and your brother today.”
“What?” Sorrow, Luvian and Irris all spoke at the same time.
Luvian rose smoothly to his feet. “What do you mean, Sorrow ‘and her brother’?”
“Mr Ventaxis is here too…” She looked between them, frowning. “To deliver his plans…”
Sorrow stared at the woman. She was mistaken. She had to be. No one had said anything about her and Mael presenting on the same night. It was one thing to run against him the election, but to be pitted against him onstage… Her hands rose to her mouth and covered it.
“No,” Luvian said. “We knew nothing about this. We weren’t told he’d be presenting today too. This is unacceptable.”
“I’m afraid it’s out of my hands, Mr Fen.” Ellyra Bird took a step back. “I’m sorry. I’ll give you a moment to decide if you want to proceed.” She left swiftly, closing the door behind her.
Luvian crouched in front of Sorrow. “What do you want to do?”
Sorrow’s sense of calm vanished, leaving a high-pitched buzzing in her ears as fear swelled inside her, making it impossible to breathe.
Luvian placed his hands either side of her face and gently turned her to look at him.
“You can do this,” he said. “It doesn’t matter that he’s here. It changes nothing. In fact, this is a chance to show them all that you’re better than him. To show him you’re better than him. These are your people, and you love them. Remember that. Hey –” he shook her slightly as her eyes slid away from his “– nothing has changed. You’re still as prepared. OK?”
Sorrow nodded obediently.
It wasn’t enough for Luvian, who leant in until his forehead was touching hers. “Say: ‘I did not put on this excellent outfit and get my hair done nicely to hide backstage from that upstart.’ Say: ‘I lied earlier, I am cocky, because I’m going to blow them all away out there.’ Say: ‘My name is Sorrow Ventaxis and I am going to be the next chancellor, deal with it.’ Come on, Sorrow. Say it.”
She didn’t know how he’d done it, but some of her fear had seeped away, enough for her to say, “I’m ready.”
“Close enough,” Luvian smiled, leaning back. “But, yes, you are.”
“I’m going first,” Sorrow said. “Tell them. I want to go first.”
Luvian’s smile widened. “Atta girl.”