It takes me some time to fall asleep. First there is the reunion with my parents, and I realize that somewhere in the back of my mind, I wasn’t sure if I would look at Maman differently after I had walked in her footsteps through the tunnels. But when she holds out her arms, I rush into her warm embrace. I do see her differently, but not how I worried I might.
“I’m so glad you’re safe,” she murmurs, but I only nod and paint on a smile. She doesn’t need to know what I saw in the tunnels. Or maybe she already does.
Even though we are all together again, and the bed is warm and soft, I lie restless and awake. It isn’t as bad as the night at La Perl . . . but I can’t get the theater out of my head. For a while, I smell smoke, and I wonder if it’s my imagination, or something burning at the inn. When I finally slip from my bed and throw open the shutters, the night is quiet—there is nothing ablaze. I take a deep breath of the cool night air, sweetened with the scent of flowers blooming. Overhead, the sky is turning pink.
Does dawn break the same in Aquitan? Are there rumdal trees across the sea? Turning from the garden window, I see a white envelope on the floor. Someone must have slipped it under the door in the night.
Lifting it from the floor with shaking hands, I slide my finger beneath the flap. Carefully, I pull out the thick card, staring at the invitation with disbelieving eyes. The letters—black on white, like shadows on a scrim. I don’t have to read the words to know the story they are telling.
I must have made a sound, because Maman stirs and sits up in her bed, and though I never want to let go of the paper, hasn’t she earned this, just as much as I? So I pass it to her, and she wakes Papa, and both of them exclaim at the soft, heavy paper, tracing the gold scrollwork, breathing in the fresh ink, like perfume. Such a small thing, but we have traded so much for it.
Then I frown. Inside the envelope that held the invitation is something else: a thin sheet of paper, folded shut, the outside marked with only an L. Even through the page, I recognize the precise, delicate hand of La Fleur. This note is meant for Leo.
As Maman and Papa marvel over the invitation, I consider the letter. The temptation is there—there is no seal. But instead I tuck the paper, still folded, back into the now-empty envelope.
Murmuring an excuse to Maman about finding breakfast, I slip from the room and make my way into the front of the inn. It is too early to be crowded, but Siris is there, reading one of the many books from his shelf. For a moment, I am just another girl from Le Verdu, with muddy feet and a sun-faded wrap—well aware that we haven’t paid for his hospitality, and probably can’t afford it. But he looks up as I approach, tucking a faded ribbon between the pages and closing the book, as though to assure me I have his full attention. I lift my chin a little. “I’d like to send a letter to Luda.”
“Luda! There aren’t many people traveling that way—at least, not since Leo left.” He looks down at the envelope in my hand. “Isn’t that the letter you just received?”
“No . . . well. Yes. But there was a note inside for Leo as well.” I take a breath, trying to quash the sudden swell of strange emotion.
Siris only holds out his hand. “Would you like me to hold it? I can ask around. Find a rider. Though it may take a while.”
I open my mouth—I almost agree, but something stops me. I do not want this letter lost, for Leo to never know his sister sent it, for her not to know whether it reached him or if he’s just ignoring her again. Or maybe I just don’t want to let go of this last connection between Leo and me. We traveled so long together—and our good-bye was too rushed. And at the very least, I will see Theodora on the ship; I could return the letter to her instead. That’s what I tell myself as I stand in front of Siris, clutching the envelope. “No, merci,” I manage at last. Then I hesitate again; I can smell, very distantly, the scent of coffee—that rich dark brew the Audrinnes adored. “What’s the cost of breakfast here?”
Siris waves a hand. “Gratis, gratis. I’ll have it brought to your rooms.”
“Thank you,” I say, but he shakes his head.
“Thank Leo,” he says. “If you see him again.”
The words twist inside me like a knife, but I only nod and try to smile. Returning to my room, I tuck the letter into my bags next to my little booklet—the one full of souls. And when breakfast arrives, it looks so tempting that it almost brings my appetite back.
Cut ripe fruit like a pile of gems. An omelet so thin it’s nearly translucent, folded around thinly sliced pork and ribbons of green onion. Little fingers of fried dough dusted with real white sugar like tiny stars. And a whole pot of coffee, boiled with cardamom and lightened with cream, so sweet it makes my stomach ache.
Maman is eating heartily, but Papa too is only picking at the food. He holds a porcelain coffee cup, still full, as though it might explode. “I’ve been wondering what to do about Lani,” he says at last. “We’ll have to leave her behind.”
Tears spring to my eyes—but hadn’t I known that all along? And I know my father; I know what he’s thinking. “You want to give her to Siris.”
“If you both agree,” Papa says, looking at me and Maman. “His youngest daughter cares for the stable. She put her in a stall. Alongside all the fine horses. Lani might like it here.”
I nod, trying to smile, trying to ignore the fact that no one here has any reason to keep a water buffalo—that she’ll likely be sold, and we can only hope it will be for muscle and not for meat. “Wouldn’t anyone?” I say, picking up a piece of fried dough. Papa smiles, relieved; at last he starts to eat. But despite the sugar, there is a sour taste in my mouth.
After breakfast, we bathe again, dressing in the best of what remains. Then I spend some time repacking our bags; now that the rifles are gone, I can carry my fantouches again. I gather them up, running my hands over them as they shift and rustle: my old friends. They are all I have left. I want to be the one to carry them from here to there—the one to bear the weight of them on my back as we leave home behind for good.
Outside the haven of Le Livre, the whole city is out in force—the celebration has been going since noon at least. The streets are full, boisterous. Tumblers and ribbon dancers perform in pockets carved out from the surging masses. Vendors careen through the crowds, selling delicacies out of wheelbarrows: candied fruit and coconut, sizzling scallion pancakes, pillowy pork buns. Firecrackers pop in the muggy air, scaring away the drifting vana.
But there are more soldiers in the streets, their hands on their rifles, and no one is allowed to stand in one place too long, not that we want to. I keep my head down, my hair falling over my face. Despite the heat, I keep the silk scrap tight around my shoulders. I am just one Chakran girl among hundreds, thousands, but I don’t want to give the soldiers an excuse to look too long at my face.
Thankfully, it’s just a short walk from the inn to the docks, but the closer we get, the more the celebration edges toward a riot. There is a frantic energy in the air, a frisson of hysteria, something more like fear than festivity.
The north side of the dock is bordered with a wishing wall. It might have once enclosed a livestock pen, but the yard beyond it is empty now. Instead, the bamboo fence holds messages for those left behind—the missing, the dead. Amulets and ribbons, scraps of paper and cloth, some with writing, some with pictures, and some too faded to tell. Miss you, love you, waiting down the road . . . And lining the base of the wall are oranges and other offerings. Tiny spirits cluster around the tributes. The decorations almost cover the peeling posters beneath: VICTOIRE over a dashing profile of General Legarde.
I’ve seen walls like this, in other towns we’ve passed, but never one so large. There’s even a bit of industry grown up around it: women with lap desks and ink-stained fingers selling transcriptions for those who cannot write, five étoiles for mulberry paper, ten for a strip of silk. I wish I could leave one for Akra, but the crowd sweeps us past too quickly, and over their heads, I finally catch a glimpse of the ship.
It’s the largest I’ve ever seen—far bigger than the little riverboats with their small gods, far bigger even than the sugar ships that carry cargo to the capital—and she is not built for transport, but pleasure. Le Rêve is painted gold and lucky red; her sails are silk and embroidered with scales, and in the center of the ship, steam curls from a stack shaped like the fearsome head of a dragon. Just like my own dragon puppet, strapped in my pack. The rail is decorated with pennants and strings of flowers—chrysanthemum and jasmine, orchid and rumdal. And there are porters trotting up and down the gangplank, loading crates of champagne—nothing is rationed for the king.
We approach the wharf, slipping in behind a group of men dressed in servants’ livery, carrying one of the crates. They push through the crowd until we reach a cordon of soldiers protecting the pier—a line of pressed green uniforms against the motley local dress of revelers and refugees. An officer waves the servants past, but when we try to follow, he shoves us back with a look. Is it recognition? No . . . it is a glare he gives to all the riffraff who come too near to the king’s ship. But once he sees our invitation, his fierce expression softens. An invitation from La Fleur sets us apart from the rest.
Just past the cordon, the dock is clear, and I can breathe again. I do, deeply, until my lungs ache with the sweet scent of the vast sapphire ocean. The river mouth opens up right into it—the Hundred Days Sea, a boundless blue. The same color as the waters of Les Chanceux. But here the rolling waves stretch to the horizon and beyond.
If someone had told me it went on forever, I would not have doubted them. How far is the distant shore? I know it’s not a hundred days’ journey—not truly. Troupes saving up for tours say it takes a week, maybe two. But the miles and miles between my future and my past have never looked so long.
My hands are shaking; suddenly, I cannot move my feet. But behind us, a man shouts at the officer who just let us through. “Why them?” he says, pointing. “Why them and not me?”
At his question, rage flares. Does he know what we’ve lost? Does he know what I’ve done? I turn to ask, the question like a shard of glass on my tongue, but when I see his face, I recognize him—not the man, but the look. Haggard and hollow. I swallow my question; of course he knows. The lines may be different, but our stories are the same. The officer only curses the man, dropping his hand to the butt of his gun. “Move back,” he roars. “Or I’ll send you floating downriver, but not in a boat!”
Shames twists in my heart like a worm into fruit as I duck my head and force my feet to move. I can’t stop now. It’s the culmination of all our travel—the end of the road. The journey has been so hard. Why are these last few steps harder still? I try to gather my courage around me, the way an Aquitan woman might gather her wide ruffled skirts. We wait at the gangway until the servants and their crate are clear. Then we hand the gold-edged letter to a crewman. “Bien,” he says, gesturing toward the ship. “Welcome aboard.”
Papa nods, and Maman sighs. I take the handrail and climb the wooden stairs with my eyes shut tight. And instead of thinking of what lies across the sea, I am remembering the long roads we traveled in the roulotte. The whisper of wind through the scrollwork. The smell of smoke and rouge. Even Lani, as eager to work as she was to eat. And my brother, his brow furrowed as he polished the sandalwood face of the spirit maiden we’d left in the theater in Luda. My heart clenches tight around the memories, like a fist around any precious thing.
But I step from the dock to the deck, and just like that, I’ve walked off the edge of my world. Nothing is the same. Nothing will ever be the same again.