I frowned. If he wasn’t at the balls and he wasn’t with Hanna, where was he spending all his time?
Hanna ran a hand down my back, smoothing out the bodice. “But I forget he’s not a little boy anymore.” She patted my cheek once. “Your mother was lucky to have so many girls. Morella ought to pray Pontus gives her daughters instead.”
* * *
“You’re home! You’re home!”
Verity, Mercy, and Rosalie raced down the stairs and straight into Papa’s arms, tumbling over each other.
“Can we use the catboat today?” Rosalie asked without preamble.
“Not in this soup. Haven’t you been outside?” He paused, looking Rosalie over. “You’re still in your nightgown.” He turned to me. “Is she sick?”
I opened my mouth but froze. I was terrible at lying.
“Just had a bit of a slow start this morning,” Rosalie filled in.
“This morning? It’s after three. At least you two are dressed,” he replied, picking up the little girls by their sashes as they squealed and giggled. “What do you need the cat for?”
Rosalie blanched. “We need to go into town for…supplies.”
“Supplies?”
“Shoes!” Mercy gasped, shrieking as he swung her.
He set them down, as out of breath as they were. “Shoes? For who?”
“All of us!” Verity spun down the hall, her excitement too big to be contained by a body so small. Mercy and Rosalie were fast on her heels, leaving echoes of laughter in their wake.
I glanced up at my father’s profile, pleased it was finally just the two of us. “Papa, there’s something I wanted to speak to you about.”
He seemed surprised to see me still beside him. “Surely you don’t need shoes too?”
My toes squirmed barefoot against the mosaic tiles. “I do, but that’s not what— It’s about Eulalie….”
Papa’s face hardened. I’d have to tread carefully. This wasn’t something he’d want to hear about.
“What about her?”
My fingernails dug sharply into my palms. I needed to come out and say it. “It’s about her suitors.”
“Welcome home, Papa!” Camille said, emerging from the Blue Room as though she’d been practicing at the piano for hours and had not just raced out of bed.
“Just a minute, Camille. Papa and I were talking about—”
“I just wanted to say hello.” She stood on tiptoe to give him a hug. “How was the trip? How is the King? Did you—”
“Camille!” I exclaimed.
Papa held up his hands, stopping the quarrel before it could start. “The trip was fine. King Alderon hopes you’ll join our next council meeting, Camille. I’ll fill you in on the details once I’m settled.”
She beamed, pleased to have gotten her way.
He turned back to me. “What’s this about suitors, Annaleigh?”
Camille’s smile faded. “Suitors? For whom?”
“Eulalie,” Papa said, his tone darkening.
The weight of their gazes fell heavily on me.
“Is this about that watchmaker? I told you it was just some stupid fantasy he made up to—”
“Watchmaker?” Papa interrupted.
“It’s not about Edgar, and please, Camille, will you leave us alone?” I pleaded, raising my voice to be heard above them.
Though she stalked into the Blue Room, a bit of her skirt protruded from the archway. She was obviously eavesdropping.
“I keep wondering about Eulalie,” I said, turning to Papa. “I think someone was with her on the cliff walk that night.”
Papa sighed. “When someone dies unexpectedly, it’s normal to want to find someone to blame.”
“That’s not— This isn’t just grief, Papa. I truly think someone hurt Eulalie. On purpose.” I gathered my courage, and the story flowed out in a rush. “Eulalie was running away from home that night. She was going to elope with Edgar, the clockmaker’s apprentice, but someone else was waiting for her.”
Papa stifled a laugh, and my heart sank.
“Edgar Morris? That little man with the spectacles?” His lips twitched in amusement. “He wouldn’t have the gumption to pick up a copper florette left in the cobblestones, let alone elope with my eldest daughter.”
He breezed into the Blue Room, joining my sisters.
“Papa, listen to me, please!” I cried, running after him. “Edgar proposed—he gave Eulalie the locket she was buried in, the one with the anchor and the poem inside. He said when he arrived to take her away, he saw a shadow on the cliff, just after she fell. She must have been pushed.”
“Nonsense.” He swatted his hand, easily dismissing my theory.
“It’s not! Someone was there. Someone who didn’t want Eulalie to marry Edgar.”
“That could be anyone,” Camille cut in. “I can’t think of a more unlikely match.”
Papa sank into his armchair, chuckling. “Quite true. If I half suspected Edgar capable of stealing Eulalie, I’d have pushed him off a cliff. Gladly.” He rubbed at his eyes. “That’s enough of this, Annaleigh.”
“But how can you be so sure—”
“I said enough.” His voice was sharp and swift, a guillotine axing the conversation. “Now, what’s this I hear about shoes?”
Everyone exchanged tense glances. Finally, Honor pushed her way forward and lifted her skirts to reveal very battered slippers. The soles were scuffed, and the navy dye had completely worn away in spots. Most of the silver beads had chipped off, and the ribbons were completely tattered.
Papa slipped a shoe off, mystified. “Are they all like this?”
The triplets glanced at each other before raising their skirts.
“The cobbler promised these would last all season. They look as though they’ve seen a hundred balls.”
Lenore twisted her mouth, visibly uncomfortable. “Maybe there was something wrong with the leather?”
“And you’ve no other shoes?” Papa asked, his skepticism evident. “I just paid three thousand gold florettes for a set that didn’t last a month.”
“You burned our others,” Camille reminded him. “On the bonfire with the mourning clothes, remember?”
Papa sighed, pressing the pads of his fingers to his forehead. “I suppose a trip to town will be necessary. But you’ll have to wait. I’m leaving for Vasa the day after tomorrow, at first light. There’s a problem there with a clipper’s hull. I won’t pay for shoddy craftsmanship.” He glanced back at Honor’s slipper. “Not on ships and certainly not on shoes. I could go early next week.”
“We can’t go barefoot till then,” Rosalie exclaimed. “Could we take the rowboat? We could go tomorrow. We all know how to row.”
“But not all of you will fit.” He glanced behind us. “Ah, Fisher.”
“Welcome home, sir,” Fisher said, lingering in the doorway. His face was smudged and his hair damp with sweat. He wore a thick navy sweater and carried a bucket of soft blades for cleaning boats. His amber eyes fell on me once before shifting away.
“Enjoying your stay? Must be nice to get a break from Silas’s cooking, I imagine,” Papa said, settling back into his chair.
“It is, to be sure. And it’s wonderful getting to spend so much time with Mother.”
I blinked, Hanna’s hurt still fresh in my mind.
“She’s put me to work today,” he continued, raising the bucket.
Papa winced with a laugh. “Scraping off barnacles like a little lad. I’m sorry to hear that.” He paused. “Actually, I might have something to help you out. The girls need to go to Astrea tomorrow if the fog lifts. Could you take them out on the cat?”
Fisher nodded. “I’d be happy to.”
“Oh, thank you, Papa! Thank you, Fisher!” Ligeia exclaimed, throwing her arms around P
apa’s neck.
Papa raised a finger of warning to us all. “I will not make a habit of purchasing new pairs every week. Pick something sturdy to get you through the winter at least. No more fairy shoes.”
“Hurry up and choose something, Rosalie.” Honor hopped from one foot to the other, a petulant whine growing in her voice. Papa had given us sailors’ boots, found in one of the storerooms near the dock, and they were too big for even us older girls. On the Graces, they were comically absurd.
We’d been in the cobbler’s shop for over an hour. Fisher had carried in the boxes of worn slippers and dumped the contents on Reynold Gerver’s table, demanding to know why the shoes had worn out so fast.
The poor shoemaker had hemmed and hawed as he examined his creations, sputtering that such fraying should never have occurred so quickly. He’d offered new shoes for us all, at a fraction of the standard price.
“These are awfully nice.” Rosalie picked up a pair of satin shoes with a fashionable court heel.
“And impractical,” Fisher said, snatching them from her. “Your father made it abundantly clear I’m not to allow you to purchase something delicate and pretty. Just find something like the rest of your sisters.”
Our eyes met, and my throat constricted. I’d longed for the chance to pull him aside and smooth over the mess from Pelage, but a rainstorm had rolled in shortly after we left Highmoor. Fisher had waved me away, citing his need for concentration as the rain soaked us to the skin, making the short journey to Astrea miserable.
Honor threw herself into a chair in a swoon worthy of the stage, and Verity was precariously close to knocking over a display of stacked boxes in the window.
“Why don’t I take the Graces for a cup of tea while Rosalie makes up her mind?” I suggested.
“Or cider?” Verity asked, pawing at Fisher with a hopeful smile.
He handed me the coins.
“Make sure your hoods are on,” I instructed before opening the shop door.
We raced across the cobblestones, skirting puddles of rainwater to huddle in the sanctuary of the tavern’s wide awning.
“Here, take these,” I said, pressing the coins into Honor’s hand. “There’s something I need to do—an errand—so you three go inside, and I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”
“Where are you going?” Verity asked, clearly wanting to come too.
“Nowhere with cider,” I said, scooting her toward the large oak door. “It’s cold and wet. Hurry in, you don’t want to freeze!”
They scurried inside and I darted back into the storm, making my way to Mr. Averson’s clock shop.
My stomach twisted with guilt as I remembered how unceremoniously Edgar had been removed from Highmoor. I should have stopped Camille, should have tried harder to contact him. I was ashamed at how easily I’d been distracted.
The balls were consuming more than just my nights. Whole mornings were slept away. Often we didn’t wake until it was time to primp for the next party. After so many years of staid blacks and tepid behaviors, the balls were invigorating. Intoxicating. The masks and paste jewels, the whisper of silks and tulles, the promise of handsome dance partners—they’d all dazzled me until I was blinded to my true purpose.
I’d forgotten Eulalie.
And if I was being honest, it hadn’t bothered me until now, when I was firmly rooted back at home, back in Salann, back in the Salt.
I needed to track down Edgar and apologize. I didn’t care what Camille thought. I believed his story about the shadow on the cliff, and together we’d uncover who it was.
A silver bell tinkled overhead as I stepped into the shop, out of the rain.
“Coming, coming,” a cheerful voice called from the workroom. Or perhaps it came from behind the stack of metal hands near the corner. They were taller than me, used for clock towers in town squares.
Cogs and gears littered every available surface in the shop, and rows of clocks lined the walls. The staggered ticks of passing seconds overlapped, forming a symphony of beats. It was a soft, subtle sound, but once you noticed the ticks, they became impossible to ignore.
“How may I help you today—” Edgar emerged from the workroom. When he saw me, he came to a full stop, nearly crashing into a case displaying pocket watches and chains. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, his tone coloring. “Come to kick me out of my own place of employment? You’ll find the Thaumas reach does not extend this far. Good day.”
“Edgar—wait! I’m so sorry about that. I should have stood up for you, I should have stopped Camille. I came to apologize and…and also to talk.”
“Talk?” He glared at me through his tiny eyeglasses.
“About Eulalie, about the shadow.”
“I already told you everything I know.” His hand raised against the swinging door.
“Not everything,” I said, stopping him before he could retreat. “I saw the way you reacted when Camille called for Roland.” He stiffened as I mentioned the valet’s name. “Why?”
Edgar turned back, reluctance on his face. He removed his glasses and polished them on the edge of his canvas apron, biding his time.
“Could he be the shadow?” I guessed.
He squinted through the lenses as though they were still unclean. “I don’t know who the shadow was…but I must admit, my first guess would be him.” His fingertips trembled as if fighting the urge to wipe the spectacles again. “Every time I was at Highmoor—helping Mr. Averson with that grandfather clock, delivering a fixed pocket watch or mantel clock—he was always about, lurking, listening. Eulalie said it was just part of his job, waiting to be needed, but it felt like more than that…. It felt…”
“Yes?” I whispered, leaning in.
“Like an obsession.”
I watched the rain fall on the soggy market outside, thinking about our day-to-day life at Highmoor. It was true, Roland was always nearby, ready to help, but as he was one of Papa’s most trusted servants, that seemed only natural to me. I didn’t know much about Edgar, but I’d hazard a guess he’d not grown up in a house like ours, full of more servants than family members.
“Did Eulalie keep a diary?” Edgar asked, trying a different approach. “She learned something she wasn’t supposed to. Perhaps she wrote about it?”
Eulalie wasn’t the type to pour her heart out onto the page, as Lenore and Camille did. She’d hated penmanship lessons when we were girls and had to be cajoled into writing letters to aunts and cousins.
“I never saw her with one.”
His pale eyebrows creased together. “The more I think about it, I’m certain the shadow was Roland,” he said, circling back. “He never liked me. If he somehow found out we were eloping…”
“Wouldn’t he try to stop you, then, not Eulalie?” I asked. Edgar’s accusation didn’t feel right to me at all. It had too many holes. Even if Roland had been wildly in love with Eulalie, he must have known nothing would ever come of it. She was the heir to Highmoor. Papa would never have let her court one of its servants.
Besides…he was just so old….
One by one, the clocks’ gears turned, chiming out the quarter hour. The cacophony set my teeth on edge, reminding me I’d been gone too long already. I reached for the door.
“Miss Thaumas, wait! I—I need to know…You do believe me, don’t you? About the shadow? Eulalie didn’t trip, and she would never have hurt herself. You know that.”
After a beat, I nodded.
“I want to find out who did this to her. Who…murdered her.” His said the word with an intense precision, as if trying not to stammer over it. “Will you help me? Please?” His eyes, suddenly bright with righteous fervor, fixed me in place like a butterfly pinned onto a shadowbox board.
“Yes,” I whispered.
He toyed with his spectacles again. “I know you don’t think
Roland was involved, but promise me you’ll look into it? Ask around. Even if it wasn’t him, he must have seen something. He sees everything.”
The final clock chimed, its notes slightly sharp, giving a strange importance to Edgar’s idea.
“He does,” I echoed in agreement.
“Good. Thank you. Will your family be coming to any Churning events?”
The festival was only a week away. Soon Highmoor would be turned inside out, readying for the ten-day affair.
“We always go to the pageant after First Night.”
A floorboard creaked above us, and our eyes darted to the ceiling. I’d assumed we were alone. Was someone listening in on our conversation?
“What’s up there?”
“Just storage…Mr. Averson?” Edgar called out.
“Yes, Edgar? Just taking off my cloak,” a voice called out from the workshop behind us. “This rain won’t be letting up any time soon.”
“Meet me here before the play,” he whispered.
I promised I would. “I have to get back to my sisters now.”
Edgar brushed his hair back, a smile warming his face. “Good. I’m glad that…Thank you for believing me, Miss Thaumas.”
“Annaleigh,” I offered, extending a small token of friendship.
“Annaleigh.”
* * *
I hurried down the road, taking the fastest route back to the tavern, puddles be damned.
I breathed a sigh of relief when I opened the door and spotted the Graces at a table, then stopped in my tracks.
They were not alone.
“Annaleigh!” Honor called out.
A young man stood up from their table and turned at her greeting. Cassius. His face broke into a smile as he spotted me. “We meet again.”
His cheeks were pink from the cold, and his dark curls sprang out from beneath a knit cap.
“What are you doing here?” I immediately wished I could take the question back. It sounded too accusatory, too brusque. “How is your father?” I tried again, softening. I’d forgotten to ask at the ball.
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