Soulstar

by C. L. Polk

  Birdie smiled at my expression. “Your wife knows already. Ask her.”

  Zelind turned to me, kher face going chalky as khe saw the expression I couldn’t hide. “What did she do? Robin. You look like you’re going to faint.”

  I licked my lips. Swallowed. “There was already an application processed for the hotel,” I said. “She prevented it from being awarded protected status.”

  “How?” Zelind’s voice shook. “How could she have known?”

  “Minerva said Birdie wanted the land a long time ago,” I said. “It might have been that. Did you bribe them?”

  “Oh, Miss Thorpe,” Birdie said, the rim of her cup balanced between her fingers. “There’s a bylaw on the books. If five different charges of prostitution happen at the same address, that address is considered a locus of criminality and not worthy of consideration for protected status.”

  “That’s a load of garbage,” Zelind said. “It’s a hotel. Find me a hotel anywhere in Kingston that hasn’t had its share of vice arrests—”

  “You can’t save the hotel,” I said. “She’s blocked our only play. Zelind.”

  “No,” Zelind said. “There has to be something we can do.”

  “There is, my child,” Birdie said. “But I know you’ll just dig your heels in if you don’t see the truth for yourself. Go. Take today and tomorrow to find a way out. But after that—I’ll have the maid clean a selection of suites for your return. You can choose one.”

  “You want us to live with you?” Zelind asked, kher tone unbelieving.

  “Miss Thorpe is not welcome,” Birdie said. “I’ll send an advocate around with a divorce agreement.”

  Zelind backed up a step. Khe squeezed my hand and pulled me close. “No. She’s my wife. You can’t just wave your hand and make her disappear.”

  “If you want your friends to keep their playhouse, I can,” Birdie said. “Miss Thorpe. I know you’re more practical than khe is. What choice does khe have?”

  “This won’t make kher happy,” I said. “It won’t make you happy either.”

  “But we’ll be unhappy together,” Birdie said. “And I will have what I want.”

  “I won’t do it.”

  “You will,” Birdie said, and in the morning sunlight, Birdie’s eyes were dull and tired, ringed with deep shadows.

  Zelind was stiff as a board beside me. “I will hate you.”

  “You will,” Birdie said. “You’ll hate me, and you’ll rebel against me, and you’ll spend your every breath defying me—but I will have my child back. Go. Return on the morning of the third day, and I will spare the Princess Mary. I’ll have Cook make your favorites.”

  Birdie rang a bell next to her plate, and a man in a formal black suit came to lead us away.

  * * *

  We coasted down King Philip Hill and pedaled home in silence. Zelind avoided the stairs to our room, stopping instead at the second parlor, where Zola was inconsolable.

  “Ahoy,” Zelind said, and edged into the room. “Rosabelle. Do you mind if I—”

  “She’s miserable with teething,” Rosabelle said.

  “We’ll be a pair, then.” Zelind stretched out kher arms and took the squalling baby, letting her yell in one ear as khe stroked her back. Khe shushed her, gave her a finger to squeeze, and picked up her teething toy when she threw it to the floor and howled.

  “We’re going for a walk,” Zelind said, and took Zola’s yelling to the back of the house.

  “Not you, Robin,” Bernice said. “Something happened.”

  The carpet was worn in tracks around settees and chairs. It had been time to get a new one for years and let this one rest—

  “Robin.”

  I looked up.

  “Birdie happened,” I said. “We went to talk to Birdie this morning.”

  “No wonder you’re upset. Was she horrible to you?”

  “She was worse,” I said. “She was gloating.”

  Bernice’s head came up. She turned her gaze to the back of the house, where Zola’s crying came from, and then to me.

  “Are you going to let her win, then?” Bernice asked.

  “She’s won, Aunt Bernie.” I swept my hand across my throbbing brow. “She was already three steps ahead.”

  “She can’t do anything to us,” Bernice said. “You didn’t back down when she put Jarom up against you. What did she do?”

  “Clan Cage,” I said. I closed my eyes. “She’ll have the Princess Mary torn down if Zelind doesn’t come home.”

  The second parlor was quiet. Zola wailed on, screaming her pain and rage against something she couldn’t stop.

  Bernice didn’t touch her knitting. “So she’s won.”

  My voice broke. I couldn’t stop it. “What choice do we have? She’ll destroy the clan. Zelind couldn’t live with that—I couldn’t live with that.”

  “But you can live without each other.”

  It put a rock in my chest. “We have to.”

  The parlor was silent of everything but Zola’s cries.

  “You never stepped out with anyone,” Bernice said. “Never even once in all those years you lived without kher. You were strong. So strong, my girl. And void curse Bellina Lee Bay for forcing you to be strong again.”

  I couldn’t breathe right. I tried to, but I just couldn’t fill my lungs. My ribs wouldn’t expand. And it hurt— Oh Solace shelter me, it hurt everywhere.

  I would have to be strong again.

  “I need to—” I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. “I need to talk to Zelind.”

  I turned. I walked, my footsteps barely a thump. Hundreds of Thorpes gazed at me from the walls—from photographs, and silver prints, and miniatures. All my family. All my clan. Centuries of ancestors who walked this hall and slept under this roof and married and had babies who grew up and moved through time to meet me here, where I would soon be alone.

  Zola wailed. Maybe she would tire out soon. Maybe she would fall into an exhausted, helpless sleep. She was too small to know how to live with pain.

  I opened the door to the back parlor, where the drafts and chill ruled. Zelind was trying to get Zola to bite on a flannel soaked in cold water, but she turned her head and kept screaming.

  “My poor lamb,” khe said. “It’s all right to cry. It’s all right to be angry. It hurts, and there’s nothing you can do to stop it.”

  I closed the door again, quietly, and took the back stairs up to my rooms.

  I missed tea. I skipped dinner. I curled up in my bed and read Saria Green and the Secret of Blackstone Hall, immersing myself in the story of a plucky young science-minded girl investigating a haunted academy. I finished it and picked up the next one, where Saria looked for hidden treasure on the black sand beaches of Stormtide Island. I was just at the part where she found a cave full of glowing skeletons when the door creaked open.

  Zelind slipped inside, closing the door behind kher. Khe reached for the dial for the gaslights, kher look asking my permission.

  I slipped a bookmark in between the pages and nodded, and khe dialed the little room into darkness. The shape of kher sidled closer, then sat on the edge of my bed, kher features lined in the faint glow of ten thousand twinkling stars, the night of kher eyes a pinpoint shine.

  The shadow of kher hand rose, sliding toward my face—gentle and tender as it slid on my cheek, trailing to my temple to slide across my brow and stop just at the point between my eyebrows, so faint I had to close my eyes to feel it.

  Khe didn’t say a word. Khe let kher finger trace down the bridge of my nose, tickle over the upper curve of my lip—pause there, to trace the full outline of my mouth—and then continued, light as a rose petal, down the tip of my chin.

  “Is this all right?” khe whispered, and I let out a breath I’d been holding for twenty years.

  “Yes.”

  Khe bent over me in the dark, and I reached up to pull kher down.

  TWENTY

  Too Many Alibis

  I kn
ew before I opened my eyes that Zelind was gone. Most of kher borrowed clothes sat in neat, folded piles, ready to be returned to the cupboards where they had waited for someone to shoot up tall enough to need them, but khe had taken the clan sweater with kher.

  The paper had a raft of opinions in letters to the editor, arguing whether witches were safe, whether open democracy was a threat or a menace, and complaints about how nothing was being done about aether.

  “You shouldn’t read the news while eating,” Jedrus said. “It’ll give you indigestion.”

  “Mm-hmm.” I finished a letter that suggested Zelind’s invention be manufactured immediately, and recognized the name from my volunteer pool.

  “And we just want to say how sorry we are that—”

  I held up one hand, palm out. “Don’t.”

  Cousin Jedrus, mercifully, left me alone.

  The silence was awkward. I didn’t care. I read the paper, ate jam toast with one hand, and barely looked up as Amos scrambled to meet the mail carrier at the door with the morning post.

  “This is for Aunt Robin,” he said, handing over a gray envelope, my name and address written in eerily perfect, flourished script. The return address was the seal of the Chancellor, with the words “Government House” written under it.

  A stiff card slid out, reading,

  You are invited to meet with Dame Grace Hensley at ten o’clock in the morning regarding your concern.

  It was stamped with the Chancellor’s seal, the paper raised and pierced by the mark.

  An engraved invitation. She had probably sent it to get me past security. What did she mean, “your concern”? What did she want, and why couldn’t it wait until Winnie’s gathering tonight?

  It had to be too urgent or too private to wait.

  “Grace Hensley wants to see me,” I said. “I may not be back in time for lunch.”

  I walked my bike up the steep slope of Main Street. Joy floated beside me, trying to distract me with all the gossip she’d collected just barging in wherever she pleased. Honestly, she was as knowledgeable as Carlotta Brown. I turned my face away from the sparkling windows of Bayview with an ache in my chest. Was Zelind inside, sharing a bitter breakfast across from kher mother? Ignoring Jarom’s attempts at reconciliation? Pacing the limits of kher cage, imprisoned so a clan would be free?

  It hurt to think about. It hurt to lose kher. I had only just gotten kher back, and I couldn’t let Birdie win. There had to be something I could do. There had to be a way to beat her.

  Once at the top of the hill, I put Bayview behind me and pedaled across downtown to the palace complex, parking in front of Government House. A guard started down the stairs, headed right for me, and Grace’s under-typist, James, rushed down the stairs to meet me.

  “I am here to escort the Chancellor’s guest to her office,” he announced to the guard.

  “She instigated a riot,” the guard protested. “One of our own was nearly killed.”

  “You mean the guard I rescued?” I asked. “I am here by invitation. You may confirm it with the Chancellor, if you wish.”

  I held out the card, stamped by the Chancellor’s seal, and snatched it back when the guard tried to take it from me.

  “I’d prefer to keep it, thank you.”

  The corners of the guard’s mouth turned down, his angry gaze hot enough to warm my face. “If this is a forgery, you’ll be arrested.”

  “Fair,” I said. “Lead the way.”

  The guard preferred to walk behind me, however. Probably easier to drag me off to prison that way. James headed our little parade, and swung the door open to announce, “She’s here.”

  “Oh good,” Onora said. “Please go in, Mrs. Thorpe. You’re sorely needed.”

  Quick, heavy footsteps paced back and forth on the other side of the door. I pulled it open. Grace was wearing a hole in the expensive silk carpet, pacing from her sitting room hearth to a loop around her desk.

  I’d never seen her like this. “What’s wrong?”

  “Shut the door,” Grace said. I was sorely needed, her secretary had said. Music started the moment the bolt clicked shut. “Tea’s over there.”

  I moved over to the cart and poured some, admiring the reddish tint against the sides of the cup. “Do you want one too?”

  “I’d just smash the glass,” Grace said. “I can’t believe it! I’m so stupid. I knew he couldn’t be trusted, I knew it, and I didn’t do anything—”

  “Grace,” I said. “Slow down and tell me what’s going on.”

  Grace faced the windows and hurled her hands out in front of her. Outside, a gust of wind sent powdery snow flying into the air, and Grace glared at it until a tiny cyclone swirled in the garden outside her office. She directed it, and blew snow off the ornamental paths, scouring them down to the paving stones.

  It wasn’t the flailing rage of thrown dishes and smashed valuables. Grace’s anger whirled in that funnel of wind, but she contained it, controlled it, set it to a task that had some use. I understood it as the same urge that came over me to wash the dishes or beat the dust out of the rugs—anything that would make my anger useful.

  She let the cyclone fall apart. The snow fell back to earth. Grace turned back to me, breathing like she’d just sprinted to the finish line. “Sorry. I’m just so angry.”

  I exchanged a glance with Joy. “Tell me why.”

  “He’s won,” Grace said. “I turned my back. I let him have the run of the palace, and he’s got Severin in his grip.”

  I had a guess, but Grace needed to talk. “Who?”

  Grace took the seat at my right elbow with a sigh. “My father. He’s got his hooks in Severin, and I didn’t move to counter him—I was so concerned with getting Avia out of his clutches that I left Severin behind. I should have known better.”

  This was bad news. Worse than I had imagined on the day I had seen the man with my own eyes, walking the palace as he pleased. “No one can do everything or see every possibility. What is it?”

  “Severin is a power-hungry Chancellor’s dream,” Grace said. “He takes on any opinion you offer him. I thought I would be of most use to you at the King’s side, guiding him to embrace reforms. I had breakfast with him this morning to speak to him about the Free Government. When I reached the table, Father was there.”

  And Sir Christopher doesn’t care for us. “Oh no.”

  “He hates you, and all of Solidarity. And Severin—” Grace shook her head, resting the weight of it on her steepled fingertips. “It was like those living doll shows. I could almost see Father’s hand moving Severin’s mouth.”

  I shifted in my seat. “Chilling.”

  “‘The rabble will not stop until they have trampled the Crown under their heels,’” Grace said, deepening her voice to imitate Severin’s. “It was Severin’s voice, but they were Father’s words.”

  “Rabble,” I said. “That’s pleasant.”

  “I should have known,” Grace said. “Father’s been treating Severin like a son since he was a small child. Severin’s been going to him for advice all along, and he does everything Father wants.”

  “And your father wants our movement suppressed.”

  “Completely,” Grace said. “I tried to convince him to meet with you, to hear what concerned the people the most, and he said, ‘A king does not bow to the mob.’ Just like that.” Grace pitched forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “I should have put him back in that cell. I should have pushed for the tribunals to begin.”

  Grace’s stomach must be in knots. Did she want my advice, or my understanding? I wasn’t sure what path to choose. What would Miles say? I knew what he would say to a patient, but what would Miles say to a friend? “You’re asking much of yourself. For one thing, it’s no small act, pushing your father to the gallows.”

  Grace looked down at her clasped hands. “I know.”

  “For another, I don’t see how you could have out-influenced your father, if he’s been working on Severin for
so long.”

  Grace’s shoulders bunched up. “There was a way. But I turned my back on it.”

  “How?”

  Grace glanced at the window. “Severin proposed to me.”

  The floor fell six inches. “And you said no?”

  “Of course I did.”

  I didn’t say anything for a moment, as all the words had scattered at her statement. “If you had married him, you would have the run of the country.”

  “And you wouldn’t be sitting here right now,” Grace said. “You wouldn’t have become someone I can talk to. Miles might have understood why I did it, and he’d still love me. But he, you, Avia—even if I reformed this country top to bottom, I would have done it alone.”

  Grace Hensley had turned down all the power in Aeland to have a real family, a real sweetheart, the chance to make a real friend. She hadn’t called me here to speak of policy. She’d wanted a confidante. Someone to share her burden.

  She’d come to me.

  I sat up, slapping my palms on my bent knees. “So. If you can’t influence the King, what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.” Grace bit the corner of her lip. “I’m not doing any good here. I don’t have Severin’s ear. I don’t want to have to silence my own opinions just to keep the office.”

  I knew that ambivalence. I knew what lay underneath it, and that a friend would help dig it up. “What do you want to do?”

  “I want to feel like I’m doing the right thing,” Grace said. “I thought I knew what that was, and I was wrong.”

  Gently, carefully, I brushed away another layer. “What does doing the right thing mean to you?”

  “Fighting on your side,” Grace said. “Aeland can afford all the things the Solidarity movement is fighting for. We can. We’re just too greedy to do it.”

  “So you want to quit.”

  “Yes,” Grace said. “Or get fired in the most spectacular way possible.”

  She grinned at that, and I smiled back. “They both have the same outcome,” I said. “So which one would be more fun?”