“He says you’ll go with him.”
“Oh. Does he?”
“What ‘oh’?” His fingers in her hair grew still. “Was he wrong?”
“He assumed. I’ve never told him otherwise.”
A gentle tug on her braid. “Was he wrong?”
“Yes,” she said. “I won’t go home just yet. I don’t think I’ll stay here, either. I should. It’s an obvious place for a masterwork. It could write itself, practically, and I’ve already made good progress.”
Now Levi just looked confused. “But?”
“There’s something I’d like to do more.” An idea had formed in her mind, a seedling only, one she could not stop thinking about. She told him of it.
When she was finished, he grew thoughtful. “You can’t go alone. It’s too dangerous.”
“Maybe,” she said, carefully noncommittal. “I thought I could take Benjamin—”
“He’s your first choice?” He flipped her braid away. “Benjamin? He’s ten.”
“He’s helpful.” She smiled in the darkness. “No? What about Samuel? Hamish?”
Silence. A poke in the side had her giggling. She tipped her head to look at him. Levi’s kiss was sweet, though cut short, for a voice in the night—Lord Elias, of all people—barked, “Who’s out there?” Sending them both scrambling to their feet, laughter muffled, darting off in opposite directions.
* * *
When Ken-so next visited, he brought disquieting news. Early in the morning, the soldiers guarding Jian-so had been found unconscious at their post. Unhurt, but asleep. Jian-so was dead, floating face-down in a courtyard fountain. A trail of blood led from his bed to the fountain, and some wondered if he had crawled there on his hands and knees, pulled himself over the fountain rim, and drowned himself. The royal physician who had been tending Jian-so floated alongside him.
There is something I need to do as well. Reyna thought of Ana, feathers plucked, wings severed.
And said nothing.
* * *
A meal was served by the riverbank at midday. Pigs and rabbits roasted on spits while trout, freshly caught, sizzled in pans by the campfire. The men mingled freely with one another. Reyna and Blaise shared their meal alongside the Lunesian and del Marian crews. They sat on a fallen log, talking among themselves, until a voice called out, “Master Blaise.”
It was Levi who approached, a wooden box tucked under one arm. Asher was with him.
“What is he doing?” Blaise asked in an undertone. All eyes had turned her way, making her even more self-conscious.
“Go and see.” Smiling, Reyna took Blaise’s plate from her. She had been waiting days for this, ever since Levi had brought up the idea.
Ill at ease, Blaise stood. “Captain.”
Levi waited until those nearest had fallen silent. Smiling slightly, he said, “Someone once told me that if you pay peanuts, you get monkeys.” His smile touched on Reyna. “You get what you pay for. And it occurred to me that every crew member on the Truthsayer, including Lady Reyna, has been compensated for their work. Except you.”
Levi handed the box to Asher, who held it as his brother opened the lid.
Blaise stepped forward for a closer look. Levi reached in and produced five scrolls tied off with black ribbons. He said, “I’m told that the medical school in Caffa requires a letter of noble patronage before you may be considered for admission. Here are five. These were written by myself, Lady Reyna, Lord Elias, Lord Jaime, and Prince Asher. Each attesting to your skills, and to your good common sense under harrowing conditions. And this”—he indicated the box, tipped slightly by Prince Asher so that the silver coins could be more easily seen; the look on Blaise’s face had those nearby chuckling—“is for your room and board. I hope it will suffice. No?” he asked, because Blaise was shaking her head.
“It’s too much.” Blaise reached for the box, then stopped, as if afraid Asher would close the lid on her fingers. On her hopes and dreams.
“On the contrary.” Levi was no longer smiling. He understood what this meant to her. “You have kept my men in excellent health. And your kindness gave us friends when we sorely needed them.” Reyna had told him of Tori-si’s boil, and of her grandfather’s assistance. “Lord Elias will be sailing home; he’s offered to escort you to Caffa and vouch for these letters in person if need be. Once he returns to university, my brother will also be at your service.”
It was hard enough trying to blink back the tears. Reyna refused to blubber. What had Blaise said to her, in a time that now felt so long ago? There’s so much else I don’t know, and I want to know it. Now she had a chance.
Smiling, Asher closed the lid and offered the box to Blaise. “Take this, please. It’s getting heavy.”
“To Master Blaise,” Samuel called out. Words echoed again and again by those who had sailed with her.
Overwhelmed, Blaise took the box. Levi reached for the cup Reyna held out to him. He raised it up and said, “To Master Blaise.”
* * *
When the rescue fleet arrived, too late for an actual rescue, many of the ships departed almost immediately. They would transport the stranded men back to the nearest large port, where they would then find one of their own ships to take them the rest of the way home. A few carried letters from Levi and Lord Ken-so. Several had refused Ken-so’s letter. An Oslawn captain who had lost half his men to Jian-so was one of them. He had spat at Ken-so’s feet, vowing retribution.
Lord Elias would leave tomorrow, as would Blaise. Jaime had decided not to go with them.
“I think I’ll stay,” Jaime said to Reyna as they strolled around the campsite at dusk.
“What?” Reyna said, surprised. “Why?”
Jaime shrugged. “Why not? I need to start thinking about my masterwork, and this one fell into my lap. You’re sure you don’t want it?”
“I’m sure. How long will you stay?”
“At least a year, I think. Stay away from Lady Beatrice’s husband a while longer. And I want to survey the city before too many people get here. Start painting the buildings Lunesian blue or something horrible like that. You know it won’t look the same in a few years.”
“No,” Reyna acknowledged.
They walked for a time, each lost in thought as the camp fires were lit around them.
“Reyna?”
“Hmm?”
“Those notes you’ve written already. I was thinking, if you’re not going to use them . . .”
She stopped. His meaning became clear. “You want me to give you my notes? For your masterwork?”
“Seems like a good way to save time.” Jaime did not have the grace to look the least bit sheepish. “And since you’re not using them . . .”
Reyna laughed and, shaking her head, walked off.
“Is that a yes?” Jaime called out.
“You’re the worst,” she said. And went to find her notebook, to give Jaime.
Thirty
“ARE YOU READY?” Levi asked.
“I’m ready.” Reyna grabbed her pack from the boat and strapped it onto her back. It held everything she would need for their journey. An adventure, through the jungle and up the mountain, to the sailing ship in the sky.
Levi helped Samuel and Benjamin pull the boat onto the bank. There was no dock here. Only thick, overgrown vegetation and trees that listed sharply toward the water. The small boat with its one sail and two oars would serve as a marker for the Truthsayer when it made its return journey from Lunes to bring them home.
But that was not for some time yet. For now, it was just the four of them in the early morning light. The aftermath of Miramar was for others to worry over. They had done what they had set out to do. Reunited Ana and Mei. Seen their loved ones safely off.
Samuel slapped his neck and wondered ominously what other biting insects lay in wait for them. Levi strapped on his pack and rolled his shoulders, testing its weight. He smiled at her, held out his hand.
She reached for it. Every inch
of her churned with excitement. With curiosity for what lay ahead. With a burning ambition she held close to her heart.
She would be eighteen by the time she returned home to del Mar. And that, she thought, looking up at the mountain with its magnificent, mysterious ship, that was going to be her masterwork.
Acknowledgments
Although Isle of Blood and Stone and Song of the Abyss are works of fiction, I relied heavily on my public library when it came to details on mapmaking, shipping, and the Middle Ages. For those interested in further reading, I highly recommend:
The Golden Age of Maritime Maps: When Europe Discovered the World by Catherine Hofmann and Helene Richard
The Young Oxford Companion to Maps and Mapmaking by Rebecca Stefoff
Cities of the World by Stephan Füssel and Rem Koolhaas
Daily Life in Medieval Times by Frances Gies and Joseph Gies
Ship: The Epic Story of Maritime Adventure by Brian Lavery
Sea Monsters: A Voyage Around the World’s Most Beguiling Map by Joseph Nigg
There are so many people who have worked tirelessly on these books, not only by whipping manuscripts into shape, but by ensuring they make it into the hands of readers. As always, thank you to my agent, Suzie Townsend, as well as Cassandra Baim and the entire team at New Leaf Literary & Media. At HMH Books for Young Readers, I am grateful to my wonderful editor, Nicole Sclama, and to Emma Gordon, Tara Sonin, Sharismar Rodriguez, Karen Sherman, Amanda Acevedo, and Kiffin Steurer.
I can’t imagine what my author photos would look like without Jenny Bowles, who is an excellent photographer and an even better friend.
Sometimes choosing a name for a main character is a tricky business. This wasn’t the case for Song of the Abyss. I wanted a name that was beautiful and unique and strong, much like the character herself. So I named her Reyna, after a cousin who shared in countless childhood adventures. I hope this makes up for that big fight we had in elementary school, Rey. I love you.
Last but not least, much love and appreciation to my two favorite people: my husband, Chris, and my daughter, Mia, who manages my Instagram account during her school lunch breaks. Thanks, baby.
Chapter One
* * *
Saturday, September 21, 1918
In the coming weeks, I would wish that I had done things differently. Thrown my arms around my brother, perhaps, and said, I love you, Jack. Words I hadn’t spoken in years. Or held on a little tighter to Lucy and said, Thank you. Thank you for watching over me, when my own mother could not. But the distance between hindsight and foresight is as vast as the Pacific. And on my family’s last evening in the city, my attention was fixed not on gratitude, certainly, but on myself. My sad, sorry, unambitious self.
Famous American Women: Vignettes from the Past and Present. Curled up on the settee, I read the book from first page to last, hoping inspiration would strike and put an end to my misery. This! This is who you were meant to be, Cleo Berry. Go now and live your life.
So far no luck.
I reviewed. Abigail Burgess Grant, lighthouse keeper at Matinicus Rock, Maine. I tried to picture it: the windswept coast, the salty air, the nearest neighbor miles away. No, I thought. Too lonely. I turned the page. Isabella Marie Boyd, wartime spy. Too dangerous. Geraldine Farrar, opera singer. Not nearly enough talent. I lingered over the entry for Eleanor Dumont, first female blackjack player, otherwise known as Madame Mustache. My spirits lifted a little as I imagined my brother’s expression.
Lucy sat across from me, dressed for dinner and muttering over her itinerary. Jack stood near the parlor’s window, pouring whiskey into a glass. His tie had been pulled loose, a navy suit jacket tossed onto the piano bench. We both favored our father, Jack and I, with gray eyes, hair black as pitch, and, to my sibling’s everlasting embarrassment, dimples deep enough to launch a boat in. He glanced over, caught my eye, and tipped his glass in my direction. A friendly offer. Sixteen years my senior, my brother practiced an unorthodox form of guardianship: tolerant in some ways, overbearing in others. Whiskey was allowed. Young men were not.
I shook my head, then asked, “What does an ornithologist do?”
Jack placed the stopper into the decanter. “An ornithologist? Someone who studies birds, I believe.”
Disappointed, I looked down. Florence Augusta Merriam Bailey, ornithologist. No, too boring. This was impossible.
“Do drink that behind a curtain, Jackson,” Lucy said, looking out the window to where Mrs. Pike could be seen entering her home across the street. Mrs. Pike, the only neighbor we knew who took the Oregon Prohibition laws seriously. “That woman would have us sent to Australia if she could. Cleo as well.”
“I don’t think they ship criminals to Australia anymore, darlin’.” But Jack obliged, moving out of sight.
Lucy frowned at me. “Are you sure you’ll be all right while we’re away?” She paused, careful not to look at her husband. “You do know you can always come with us.”
Jack cleared his throat, not even attempting to mask a pained expression, and I couldn’t help but smile. Tomorrow he and Lucy would be on a train to San Francisco to celebrate their thirteenth wedding anniversary. It was to be an extended vacation, with some business thrown in on Jack’s part. They would be gone for six weeks.
“No one wants their sister around on an anniversary trip,” I said. “It’s the opposite of romantic.”
“Thank you, Cleo,” Jack said. Lucy looked ready to argue.
“I’ll be fine. Truly,” I added, knowing the real reason she worried. “We’re too far west for the influenza. Everyone has said so.”
I had heard of the Spanish influenza. Who had not? A particularly fierce strain of flu, it had made its way down the eastern seaboard, sending entire families to the hospitals, crippling the military training bases. The newspapers were filled with gruesome tales from Boston, Philadelphia, and New York. Cities so far away, they could have been part of another country. But that was the extent of it. We were safe here in Oregon. In Portland. The Spanish flu had no interest in the northwestern states.
“Very well,” Lucy said, defeated. “But here, this is for you.” She handed me her itinerary. I looked it over. It contained their train arrival and departure information, as well as the names of friends located the entire length of the Pacific coast whom I could call on for assistance should I need it. Also, a reminder that they would be returning on November third, a Sunday, and would stop directly at St. Helen’s Hall to bring me home.
The same old complaint lodged on the tip of my tongue, and I bit down, hard. I didn’t want to spoil their last evening by showing how unhappy I was. They knew already. But inside, I wanted to kick something.
Many of my schoolmates had homes outside the city, traveling in from towns such as Coos Bay, Eugene, Bend, and Sisters. Others hailed from farther out: Juneau, Coeur d’Alene, Walla Walla, even Honolulu. Some lived in the student dormitories during the week and spent weekends with their families. Others traveled home only during the holidays.
I was a day student. Jack drove me to school each morning on the way to his office, and I walked home in the afternoon. Or rode the streetcar. But while Jack and Lucy were away, the house was to be closed up. Our housekeeper, Mrs. Foster, given leave. She would also be traveling tomorrow, by steamboat, to visit her son in Hood River.
I had begged to be allowed to remain at home on my own, not liking one bit the thought of six weeks in the dormitories—away from my comfortable bedroom, away from any hope of privacy. My brother was unsympathetic. He had boarded throughout his own school years. He said it built character. And that I shouldn’t grumble, because no matter how awful a girls’ dormitory might be, a boys’ residence was a thousand times worse.
I skimmed the rest of Lucy’s notes. I was to telephone the Fairmont San Francisco once a week, each Saturday, to confirm I remained in the land of the living. Good grief, I thought.
“Good Lord,” Jack said at the same time, peering over my shoulder.
“Lucy, she’s seventeen, not seven.”
Lucy gave him a look, then proceeded to guide me through every part of their schedule. I resisted the urge to close my eyes. The smell of roasting potatoes drifted from the kitchen, and I remembered Mrs. Foster was preparing a salmon for our last supper. Beyond Lucy, the luggage was piled high in the front hall, enough trunks and suitcases and hatboxes to send six people off in style.
Trying to be discreet, I lifted a corner of the itinerary and peeked at my book. Maria Mitchell, first American woman astronomer, director of the observatory at Vassar College. Kate Furbish, botanical artist. Harriet Boyd Hawes, pioneering archaeologist. My head fell back against the cushions, and I sighed, long and tortured.
“Who has let in the bear?” Lucy exclaimed.
I straightened. While I’d been woolgathering, Jack had settled beside Lucy, his glass cradled in one hand, his other arm flung across the back of the settee. Two pairs of eyes regarded me with amused exasperation.
“All this heavy breathing,” Lucy continued. “What is troubling you, Cleo?”
Well, what harm could come from telling them? They might be able to help.
“It’s only September,” Lucy said, after I explained my dilemma. “There are nine months left of school.”
“You can’t be the only one trying to figure things out,” Jack added. “I wouldn’t feel like a chump just yet.”
“But I do. I do feel like a chump.” I counted my friends on my hand. “Louisa is getting married in July.” I ticked off one finger. “Her fiancé is almost thirty and has already lost most of his hair. But he’s very rich, and her papa thinks he’s very handsome.”
Jack snorted. Lucy laughed, smoothing the skirt of her sapphire-blue dress. My sister-in-law was small and fair-haired and pretty, with eyes more amber than brown. No one was ever surprised to learn she had been born in Paris. She looked French and carried herself in a way that made me feel like a baby giraffe in comparison. Tall and gangling, with Mrs. Foster constantly having to let out my skirt hems.
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