A vicious winter settled in shortly after Saul’s departure. The coldest folk remembered in many years, the temperatures sank so low that water in the wells throughout Port Needle froze solid for days on end. Even the salt water of the harbor froze, preventing ferries and merchant barges from entering port.
The season dragged on and the chill started to wear upon Lilia. Her job had quickly lost any sense of newness. Despite her resolve to make a fresh start in Port Needle she began to wonder at her decision to leave Shingle Ford. She may have felt stifled in her village but her life there, working the patchwork of fields behind her family home with her parents, had given her some free time at least. Her new employers worked her hard—some nights she crawled into bed wondering how she would summon the energy to rise the next morning.
Her job wasn’t the only thing that bothered Lilia.
Meeting Saul had also unsettled her. She wore the hag stone close to her breast, under her clothes. She never took it off; she even slept with it. The charm gave her a certain comfort—a reminder that meeting him had been real. She had not dreamed him up.
Yet the charm stone weighed upon her thoughts strangely.
During the day, she found herself checking that it still hung around her neck. When no one was looking, she would draw it out and gaze upon the odd, multi-hued surface. It was plain, and yet oddly beautiful.
Then something odd happened.
It occurred on a day so cold the snow had frozen in great drifts over the streets of Port Needle, making it perilous to walk anywhere. Even the roaring hearth in the common room, and the stove in the kitchen could not keep the bone numbing chill entirely at bay.
It was just after the noon meal, and Lilia sat upon a stool in the kitchen, warming her hands before the stove. She could feel the chill from the flagstones beneath her feet emanating up through the soles of her boots.
As she sat there, her thoughts turning inward, as they often did when she had a moment of quiet, something caught her attention out of the corner of her eye.
Her shadow was dancing.
At first, she thought it was merely a trick of the light. She imagined it was the glow from the flames inside the stove. Or maybe it was the flickering lanterns that hung from the walls. As she watched it, she realized that was not the case. Her shadow, which she usually never noticed indoors, had stretched long over the flagstones. The darkened outline moved of its own accord. She recognized her shape—the swell of her bosom, the indentation of her waist and the flare of her skirts underneath—but her silhouette swayed and jiggled as if dancing at the Midsummer Feast.
Dread pinned Lilia to her stool.
She stared at her shadow and watched it expand and grow smaller. The arms rose above its head, as it appeared to pirouette.
Lilia shot to her feet, heart pounding. Her shadow froze, and she watched it a moment before daring to take a step forward. Her silhouette followed her, shadowing her movements as it usually did.
I must have imagined it?
Then her silhouette raised its hand and waved at her.
The cold weather drew out, holding the Isle of Orin in its cruel grip. And then, suddenly, the first signs of spring arrived. Snowdrops and Bluebells pushed up from the rocky sides of the cliffs, their bright green stalks and delicate white and blue bonnets stark against the patches of frozen snow. Shortly after, the first crocuses and daffodils appeared and the chill started to subside.
One afternoon, Lilia went for a walk down to the quay. It felt good to be outdoors with the sea breeze in her face. Her nerves felt in shreds. Ever since her shadow had started behaving strangely, the slightest noise sent her into a flood of panic.
Some days her shadow paid her no heed, while on others it danced, swayed and jumped. Sometimes it appeared to mock her, waving and mimicking her like a mummer.
She’d told no one about her shadow—in fear they’d think her mad. However, her fear increased daily, and she was starting to wonder if she should go and see Moira, the healer who lived in the town’s West Terraces.
Lilia inhaled the pungent odor of smoking herrings as she walked along the wooden quay. It was also a relief to be away from that stuffy kitchen. Neasa was in a crabby mood and had complained that the roast mutton Lilia had served for the noon meal had been overcooked. Despite her sweet, round face and small stature, Neasa was intimidating when riled.
Upon the quayside there was plenty to distract Lilia from her worries. Men wearing salt-encrusted oilskins pulled nets full of wriggling sardines onto the pier, while others stood over crates of oysters, cockles and mussels, hailing passersby to sample their wares.
A few women mingled with the crowd on the quayside; girls with their hair unbound, their cheeks rouged and lips stained red. They dressed lightly for the weather, their bodices partially unlaced, their arms bare. The women moved at a leisurely pace, boldly making eye contact with men and stopping to flirt.
Lilia observed the harlots, forgetting her dancing shadow and viper-tongued employer for a moment. She wondered at what had made them choose such a life—or if it had been a choice at all. Even if the quay could be seedy, she enjoyed her visits here; it was full of life.
A few yards away, the ferry that travelled four times a day from Port Needle across The Wash to Idriss had just docked, disgorging a tide of passengers. The Seahorse showed her years; her oaken hull encrusted with barnacles, her once whitewashed boards cracked and dry from the sea-air.
Lilia paused a moment, enjoying the feel of the spring sun on her skin. How she’d like to get on that ferry and sail away. Somewhere, across the water, was Saul. Months had passed since his departure, and she was beginning to accept that he wasn’t coming back. She still wore his charm but had long since stopped dreaming about his return—she’d been a fool to believe him.
Now, with her shadow acting so strangely, she had more important things to think about.
Her gaze shifted from the bobbing ferry back to the quay. She stood before the shabby façade of the dockside tavern. The Barnacle—she recognized the name before remembering that Dain had mentioned it. This was where he came to fight.
The thought of Dain made Lilia frown. Turning away from the tavern, she continued her path down the pier. He barely spoke to her these days, his teasing and boyish charm had disappeared, replaced with aloof politeness. He hadn’t been the same since Saul’s visit. She’d clearly offended him in some way. Although Lilia hadn’t welcomed Dain’s interest, she’d enjoyed his banter and his cheerful greetings whenever he entered the kitchen. Apart from Ryana—who’d not returned since her visit at Winter Blood—he’d been the only friend she’d made here.
Never had Lilia felt so isolated.
She reached the end of the peer, melancholy pressing down upon her despite the warm spring sun and the lively crowd. Here, an elderly scribe sat upon a stool, a board on his knee and a basket of parchment scrolls at his feet. Next to him, a row of goshawks perched on a stand, their feathers ruffling in the sea breeze. Goshawks were the preferred means of transporting urgent messages throughout the Four Kingdoms.
The old man glanced up and caught Lilia’s eye, his expression hopeful. However, she answered with an apologetic smile—what need did she have of a scribe?
A few yards away from the scribe, a girl clutched a huge wicker basket of spring flowers: daffodils, crocuses and jonquils. The lass spotted Lilia eyeing her wares and grinned. “Spring flowers for you, miss!”
Lilia found herself smiling back. The daffodils were lovely—willowy green stems with creamy yellow trumpets. She bought a bunch to cheer herself up and inhaled the sweet scent. However, she’d lingered on her walk long enough. An afternoon of work awaited her at The Grey Anchor, although she was in no mood to return to it.
She turned and began her journey home, leaving the quayside behind and starting the steep climb up Harbor Way toward the inn.
She was halfway up the hill when a voice crooned in her ear. “Lilia.”
Startled, she stopped and turned. There was no one around. Further down the street, an old woman beat a rug outside her door but she was not close enough to have spoken.
Lilia drew her mantle close, clutching her daffodils to her breast, and hurried on. She had walked another five yards when the voice spoke once more. “Greetings, Lilia—it’s time we were properly introduced.”
Heart hammering, Lilia spun round. Her gaze shifted to where her shadow stretched behind her. It gave her a lazy wave.
Lilia’s breathing hitched. Then she turned and fled up the hill as if pursued by a gang of thieves. Fear gave her feet wings. She sprinted up the incline, past two women who were gossiping outside the butcher’s, and up the last stretch to the inn.
She flung open the front door and barged into the common room, colliding with Dain, who had been in the process of exiting. They hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, Lilia’s daffodils crushing between them.
“Gods, Lily,” Dain wheezed from underneath her.
“Sorry,” she muttered, clambering off him. “I’m late.”
A feminine laugh rang out from across the common room. Lilia looked up to see Ryana sitting by the fire, cup of ale in hand. “Good day, Lilia—I’m glad to see you’re keeping Dain in his place.”
Lilia rose to her feet, struggling to keep her composure. She’d been looking forward to seeing the scop again, but her shadow had spooked her badly. She glanced down at her bedraggled-looking daffodils and tried to stem the panic that still bubbled within her.
“I’m late,” she repeated before fleeing to the kitchen.