I grabbed a small tufted pouf hiding under the piano. “You should put your feet up, Morella. Mama had lots of problems with swelling during her pregnancies. She’d keep her feet elevated as much as she could.” I positioned the stool beneath her legs, trying to make her comfortable. “She also had a lotion made of kelp and linseed oil. We rubbed it into her ankles every morning before she got dressed.”
“Kelp and linseed oil,” she repeated, and offered a small smile of thanks.
I paused, sensing a way to both help her and make up for my outburst the morning after Eulalie’s funeral. “I could mix some up for you. It might help.”
“That would be very nice…. Has your gown arrived yet?”
It was the first time she’d shown any interest in what I was wearing to the ball. She was trying too, in her own way.
“Not yet. Camille and I have our final fittings on Wednesday. If you’re feeling up to it, maybe you’d like to come with us?”
Her eyes lit up. “I would enjoy that. We could get lunch in town, make a real afternoon of it. Remind me what color it is?”
“Sea green.”
She paused, thinking. “Your father mentioned something about a chest of Cecilia’s jewelry somewhere. Perhaps there would be something suitable for you. I remember seeing a portrait of her wearing green tourmalines.”
I knew exactly which painting she referred to. It hung in a study on the fourth floor where Mama had wedged a small writing desk into a sunny nook. On clear days, you could see all the way to the lighthouse. Papa hung the portrait there after her death.
“I would love something of hers for the ball. Camille would too, I’m certain.”
“And me!” Verity chimed in, eager to be included.
“Of course,” Morella said with a smile. “We’ll have to look through it.”
Mercy and Honor sprinted in, out of breath and sticky from their treats.
“Rosalie said the fairy shoes are here?” Mercy asked, immediately spotting the boxes.
We’d all taken to calling them fairy shoes. Though I knew they were only little leather slippers—beautifully dyed and styled leather slippers—we’d imbued them with a touch of magic. These shoes would be the beginning of our new start. Once we wore them, we couldn’t help but be different from who we were before.
Morella swatted at Mercy’s hands. “Wait for your father.”
“And me,” Camille said, bursting into the room with Papa.
We all piled around the sofa, giddy with anticipation.
“How do we know whom each box is for?” he asked.
“We each chose a different color,” Honor explained.
“Except us,” Rosalie said, speaking for the triplets. “Ours are a matching silver.”
“Well, shall we see if these fairy shoes were worth such a fuss?” Papa flipped the latch, and we all gasped as the box opened.
They were Camille’s, a sparkling rose gold. Metallic flecks were embossed into the pink leather, creating a shimmering luster. I’d never seen anything so exquisitely sophisticated.
Next were the triplets’ shoes. The leather glinted like Mama’s precious wedding silver. The ribbons were different shades of purple, matching the girls’ dresses. Ligeia’s were a soft lilac, Rosalie’s violet, and Lenore’s such a deep eggplant they looked nearly black.
Honor’s slippers were a dark navy twinkling with silver beads like the night sky.
Mercy had picked a frosty pink to match her favorite flower, sterling roses. She’d even asked the dressmakers to trim her gown with silk versions of them.
Morella had chosen a pair of gold slippers, glinting brighter than the sun. She beamed up at Papa as he presented them to her with a look of such tender admiration, I couldn’t help but smile.
Verity crept up to Papa as he brought out the smallest box. She leaned on his leg, pressing in to see her shoes the moment the box opened. As the lid came off, she clapped her hands with delight.
“What fine fairy shoes these are,” Papa praised, plucking out the purple slippers. Flecks of gold scattered across them like gilt trim.
“Oh, Verity! They’re beautiful!” Camille said. “They might be the prettiest of them all.”
Verity pulled off her boots and slipped them on, springing into a happy pirouette as we all applauded our tiny prima ballerina.
“These must be Annaleigh’s,” Lenore said, pulling out the last box.
Nestled on a bed of navy velvet were my shoes. I’d selected a jade leather, and the cobbler had added glittering seafoam and silver bits, concentrated heavily at the toes and fading as they swept across the slipper. They would match my gown perfectly.
Papa smiled as he handed them over to me. “I don’t think these are fairy shoes at all. They look fit for a sea princess.”
Verity frowned. “Mermaids can’t wear shoes, Papa.”
“Silly me!” he said, tapping her nose. “Are we all satisfied?”
Everyone chimed in with our happiness, and Morella grasped his hand. “With shoes like these, no one will be able to tear their eyes away from our girls. They’ll be dancing out of the house before we know it, Ortun.”
Camille stiffened. “Out of the house? What do you mean?”
Morella blinked once. “Only that you’ll be off and married, of course. Running your own households, just like me.”
Papa frowned.
“This is my household.” A bite crept into Camille’s voice.
“Until you’re married,” Morella filled in. Met with Camille’s stony face, her smile began to wane. “Isn’t that right?” Morella looked over to Papa, seeking clarification.
“As the Thaumas heir, Camille will stay at Highmoor, even once she’s married. I know it’s a nasty bit of business to think over, my love, but when I die, she inherits the estate.”
Morella tugged on one of her pearl drop earrings. “Only until…” She trailed off, holding her stomach as her face grew flushed. “Surely you girls ought to be somewhere else?”
The Graces all stood to leave, but Camille grabbed Mercy’s arm, stopping her. “This concerns them too. We should all stay to hear it.”
Papa looked uncomfortable. He turned toward Morella, trying to create a more intimate conversation. “You thought any sons we may have together would inherit Highmoor?”
Morella nodded. “That’s common practice.”
“It works that way on the mainland,” he allowed. “But on the islands, estates are passed to the eldest child, regardless of sex. Many strong women have ruled over the Salann Islands. My grandmother inherited Highmoor when her father passed away. She doubled the size of the Vasa shipyard and tripled the profits.”
Morella’s lips pressed together into an unhappy line. Her eyes raced over us, counting. “So our son would be ninth in line, even though he’s a boy? You never mentioned anything about this.”
His eyebrows furrowed. “I didn’t realize I needed to.”
His voice held a stern note of warning, and immediately Morella shook her head, backing down. “I’m not upset, Ortun, only surprised. I assumed Salann followed the same traditions as the rest of Arcannia, lands and family titles passed from father to son.” Her forced smile wavered. “I should have known you islanders would be different.”
Papa stood abruptly. He was proud of our seafaring heritage, and it hurt him when others thought less of us for living so far from the capital.
“You’re an islander now too,” he reminded her before stalking out of the room and leaving us with our pile of shoes.
I winced as the corset’s laces were pulled in and dug into the center of my waist.
The shop assistant made an apologetic noise in the back of her throat. “One more deep breath, please, my lady.”
The new stays pressed into my hip bones, and my face twisted into a grimace.
The assistant motioned for me to hold my arms up so she could slip the pale green silk over my head. As the full skirt settled around my waist, Camille peeked around a fabric screen and clapped her hands.
“Oh, Annaleigh, you look lovely!”
“You as well,” I half said, half gasped. The rose gold brought out bronze shimmers in her hair, and her cheeks flushed with radiance.
“I can’t wait for the first dance.”
“Do you really think you’ll meet someone?”
“Papa did invite every naval officer he knows.”
I blanched. “And all those dukes.”
Her smile widened. “And all those dukes.”
Papa had promised to invite a number of possible suitors to the ball. After seeing a portrait of Robin Briord, the young Duke of Foresia, Camille had taken an uncommon interest in learning all she could about the wooded province. She spun around the shop, no doubt daydreaming of him.
I wondered about the handsome stranger from Selkirk. Cassius had certainly carried himself like a grand lord. Papa had sent out so many invitations, perhaps he’d be among them. I briefly entertained the thought of us twirling through the room, lit with hundreds of candles, his hand clasped around mine. He’d spin me closer, and just before the music ended, he’d lean in to kiss me….
“I don’t even know what I’d say to a duke,” I muttered, pushing the fantasy aside.
“You’ll be fine. You only have to be yourself, and lines of suitors will ask Papa for his blessing.”
Lines of suitors. I couldn’t imagine a more mortifying scenario.
My greatest hope was finding someone with the same shade of hair as the lock from Eulalie’s pocket watch. I’d been carrying it with me everywhere, studying every blond man I came across, searching for a match.
Morella and Mrs. Drexel, the shop owner, entered the room.
The designer brought her hands to her mouth with theatrical charm before spinning me about in a circle. “Oh, darling! Never have I made such a dress for such a girl. You look just like the ocean waves on a warm summer day! I wouldn’t be surprised if Pontus came out of the Brine to claim you as his bride.”
“That’s the water one, right?” Morella asked.
The rest of us in the room nodded uneasily. There was no quicker way to spot a mainlander than to bring up religion. Other parts of Arcannia worshipped various combinations of gods: Vaipany, lord of sky and sun; Seland, ruler of earth; Versia, queen of the night; and Arina, goddess of love. There were dozens of other deities—Harbingers and Tricksters—who ruled over other aspects of life, but for the People of the Salt, Pontus, king of the sea, was the only god we needed.
“What do you think of the dress?” Mrs. Drexel asked, changing the subject with practiced tact.
I studied my reflection. Intricate embroidery flowed like waves across the silk bodice. My shoulders were completely bare, save for little decorative sleeves scalloped across my arms. Dozens of lengths of gossamer silk and tulle made up the skirt. The top layers were different shades of light green—mint and beryl—with flashes of darker emerald and verdigris peeking from the bottom.
“I feel just like a water nymph.” I traced my hand over the metallic embroidery and beadwork of the generous neckline. “A very naked nymph.”
The other women laughed.
I tugged at the edging, trying to pull it higher. “Could we add something here? A band of silk or some lace perhaps? I just feel so…exposed.”
Morella pushed my hand aside, revealing my bared skin. “Oh, Annaleigh, you’re a grown woman now. You can’t cover yourself up like a little girl. How will this Pontus ever see your best assets?”
Mrs. Drexel frowned at Morella’s flippant mention of Pontus but nodded nonetheless. With a quick glance about the shop, she lowered her voice to a furtive whisper. “I shouldn’t tell you this, but the other day I had a client come in—a very special client. She saw your gown hanging on the rack and demanded I make her one just like it.”
“Who was it?” Morella leaned in with wide eyes, hungry for gossip.
Mrs. Drexel beamed with pleasure, keenly aware of how much we all wanted to know. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly say. But she’s a dear customer. A truly lovely creature. Her only request was that I make her gown the most passionate pink I could find. Something to truly strike the heart of any man, mortal or…otherwise.”
“Arina!” Camille gasped. “You design dresses for the goddess of beauty?” She looked around the tiny shop as if expecting Arina to pop out from behind an embroidered screen and surprise us all.
“Truly?” Morella said, her mouth falling open.
The twist of Mrs. Drexel’s lips gave everything away, but she raised her shoulders in a dramatic shrug. “I’m not allowed to say.” She threw in a wink for good measure. “But that’s all to say that this gown is perfectly in style. Modest even, compared to some.” She tilted her head toward the triplets’ gowns, and I hid a smirk.
“I think you look perfect,” Camille said. “Just like Mama.”
“I remember her,” Mrs. Drexel said as she knelt down to pin my skirt to the proper length. “Such a kind soul. She came here once for something to wear to one of your father’s ship christenings.”
“It was red, wasn’t it? With a wide sash over the shoulder?” Camille pantomimed the dress. “I came with her for the final fitting! She loved that gown.”
“You were the little girl? Oh, how time passes! I’d wager your next visit here will be for a bridal dress.”
Camille flushed. “I certainly hope you’re right!”
“Do you have a beau?” Mrs. Drexel asked around a mouthful of pins.
“Not exactly. There is someone I’m hoping to meet at the ball, though.”
“She’s been practicing her Foresian for weeks!” Morella confided with a chuckle.
Mrs. Drexel smiled. “I’m sure he’ll be impressed. Now, I will put the final touches on these two tonight and can bring them to Highmoor tomorrow.”
“That would be most kind, thank you,” Morella said. “It seems our to-do list keeps growing longer and longer. Only one day left now.”
* * *
Crossing the street, I spotted him.
Eulalie’s Edgar.
He was down the sidewalk from us, chatting with a trio of men, and dressed head to toe in black. Our eyes met, and I nodded. His face turned pale, and he sputtered something to his companions before rushing to leave.
“Mr. Morris!” I called out.
He froze in his tracks, his shoulders dipped with resignation—caught and unable to escape.
“Mr. Morris?” I repeated.
He turned, eyes wild with panic. They swept over me, then fell to the hem of my cloak.
“Miss Thaumas, good day. Forgive me, I hadn’t expected you to look so…fresh.”
His judgment struck me as sharp as a slap. I’d grown accustomed to the frenzied glee now infusing Highmoor. Sunlight poured in through open windows and fresh-cut flowers were everywhere. New dresses arrived daily and our armoires were riots of colors.
All traces of mourning were gone. The black shrouds from every mirror and glass plate had been gathered into a big pile on the north lawn. Bombazine wreaths and ribbons, crepe hangings, and all of our dark clothes had been set ablaze, fueling a bonfire that burned three nights long.
I glanced down at my blue gabardine uneasily, rubbing my thumb over the pads of my fingers. “There have been several…changes at Highmoor.”
He took in the colorful clothes, my uncovered face. “I’ve heard. I’m so sorry, I must be going, I—”
“How…how have you been?” I asked, unable to stop the words from tumbling from my mouth. His dark, appraising eyes turned me into a stammering mess. “We’ve not seen you since…” I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence and grabbed on to th
e first topic that came to mind. “We’ve heard it’s been a good fall. For fishing! Out on…well, the water, of course. A good fall for fishing.”
Edgar blinked once, confusion written across his face. “I don’t fish, actually. I’m an apprentice at the clockmaker’s shop.”
My cheeks burned. “Oh, that’s right. Eulalie told us that….”
“How is Mr. Averson these days?” Camille swept in, skillfully saving me.
His eyes grew hard with scorn, taking in her pink organza before answering. “He’s well, thank you.” He jangled one knee back and forth beneath his dark frock coat, clearly ready for the conversation to be over.
Camille seemed oblivious of his discomfort. “We have a grandfather clock he repaired last spring. Perhaps you remember it?”
Edgar adjusted his spectacles, dismay etched across his features. “Yes. With the Thaumas octopus as a pendulum and the tentacles carved on the weights?”
She nodded. “The very one. As the hours pass, the arms lower on its prey.”
He twisted his fingers, knuckles sharp and white.
She smiled, apparently done with pleasantries. “I was just tracking down my sister. Our stepmother is waiting for us.”
“Of course, of course.” He bobbed his head, edging away even before removing his hat to say goodbye. As he did, the sunlight gleamed across his head.
His head of very fine pale blond hair.
“Wait!” I called after him, but he’d slipped through the crowds, all but fleeing from us.
Camille linked her arm through mine, pulling us toward the tea shop. “Such an odd little man.”
My heart rose with hope. “You thought so too?”
“It was as though he couldn’t get away from us fast enough.” Her laughter rang out over the marketplace. “But of course, not everyone is as keen to talk about the fall fishing as you are, Annaleigh.”
I trudged up the stairs, exhausted from the long afternoon on Astrea. After lunch, I’d wanted to race home and ask Papa if Edgar had ever approached him about an interest in Eulalie, but Morella had other plans. She whisked us from shop to shop, appraising the wares like a magpie in search of treasure.
House of Salt and Sorrows Page 6