Before the Broken Star

by King, Emily R.

  Harlow hops down from the witness box and strides out the opposite door, her head high, a soldier guiding her. Before I can process that she has been sent away for seven years, Claret is summoned to the witness box, and the barrister lists her offenses. After another short deliberation with the queen, they also deem Claret valuable to the realm and sentence her to seven years’ transportation at the penal colony. My ticker sprints faster as Laverick is condemned to the same. The reason for the speedy trial and presence of the queen becomes apparent. She is handpicking the wives and mothers of her future colony. Her ambition to expand her power is at the root of these trials and, most likely, the raid on the wharf.

  A soldier comes for Vevina. The gentlemen in the public gallery admire her swaying hips as she strides to the witness box. I press a palm over my cramping stomach, too anxious to concentrate. My turn on the stand is next.

  Vevina charms her more severe charges down with a demure gaze and repentant tears. Her theatrics earn her the same sentence as the others. She curtsies to the queen and glides out.

  “Next accused!”

  Lieutenant Callahan appears at my side and escorts me to the witness box. The walk to the center of the courtroom feels eternal, each step heavier than the last.

  “State your name and age,” says the magistrate.

  “Everley O’Shea,” I reply, my voice scratchy. “Age seventeen.”

  The barrister sets my father’s sword on his desk, evidence of my misdeeds. “The accused was arrested for participating in illegal gambling duels.”

  Queen Aislinn sits forward, her attention on my weapon. My tongue goes papery.

  “My lord, if I may speak on the prisoner’s behalf,” Callahan says.

  The barrister shoots him a quizzical look.

  “State your name for the court,” barks the magistrate.

  “The Earl of Walsh.” Callahan drops his shoulders and lifts his chin. “First Lieutenant Jamison Callahan. I’m here on official business for Governor Markham.”

  Attendees in the public gallery titter. Lieutenant Callahan is the Earl of Walsh? My uncle has sold clocks to his father, the marquess. Yesterday, I overheard Callahan mention that he had been disinherited, which must account for the jeering from his peers.

  My ticker thrums as the queen continues to stare at my sword.

  “Ah, yes. Governor Markham told us he left his best man to round up prisoners,” remarks the magistrate. “Do you know this woman, Lieutenant?”

  “We have met. Miss Everley is an apprentice for a reputable clockmaker.”

  “Then why was she caught participating in a bettors’ fight?” asks the magistrate.

  “She was on an errand for me,” a voice calls from the rear of the courtroom. Uncle Holden rushes forward, flushed and out of breath. I close my eyes briefly at the sight of him, relief and shame swamping me. He tugs off his hat and bows.

  “Who are you?” demands the magistrate.

  “Holden O’Shea, the girl’s guardian, my lord.” He kneads his hat. “Everley is my apprentice. She’s a good lass.”

  “So we’ve heard,” the magistrate drawls, “yet Miss O’Shea was found dueling in the trench among other characters of ill repute, disrupting the peace of our city.”

  “Everley exercised poor judgment,” Uncle Holden says. “She won’t do it again.”

  I would, if it meant confronting Markham.

  Although I am ashamed of where I am and what this has come to, the thought centers me. Getting arrested was a mistake, yes, but it could also be an opportunity. This could be the moment I have been waiting for.

  Queen Aislinn clears her throat, and every soul in her company stills. “What say you, Miss O’Shea?” she asks, her voice as soft as powdery snow.

  My regulator will surely ring if I lie, which would be loud in this silence, so I answer honestly. “This wasn’t my first time in the trench. I often participate in street duels.”

  The witnesses in the gallery murmur again, and Callahan’s eyes broaden.

  “Are you one of Mistress Vevina’s streetwalkers?” the queen asks, ever gentle.

  “You’re under oath,” reminds the magistrate.

  Uncle Holden shakes his head. Pleading guilty to streetwalking, a higher crime than disrupting the peace, will surely upgrade my punishment from prison time to the same sentencing as the other women. Transportation to the penal colony is a one-way voyage. I will be confined to Dagger Island, halfway around the world in an abandoned land of legend. Regardless of what I plead to or what punishment I receive, I have disgraced my uncle’s name and harmed the reputation of his shop. I doubt the nobles in attendance will purchase his clocks now.

  “Miss O’Shea?” the magistrate presses.

  My heart has never felt more fragile. The wrong decision could mean no answers, no silence, no resolution. My choices knock against each other. Stay here in prison or travel to the isle?

  Markham is only at one of those places.

  But Dagger Island is a terrifying possibility. I cried when my father left to explore it, afraid he would never return. Would he tell me not to go? Or would he understand that I’m like him? That I want to follow the stars and see where time takes me?

  I press my elbow over my regulator. My ticker drives me forward, a metronome of loss, a beat of resilience I haven’t yet earned.

  Father would be brave, so I will be brave too.

  “Your Omnipotence,” I say, my tone level, “I am a dueler. In the trench, I’m known as Marionette. I’m also employed by Mistress Vevina.”

  My regulator rings. Liar, it says. No one appears to hear it over the nobles’ haughty rumblings. The magistrate calls for order, and the soldiers move into the gallery to intimidate the attendees into silence.

  Callahan leans closer. “What are you doing?”

  “Answering their questions.” My open stare challenges him to contradict me. He thinks I’m a shop clerk prone to fainting spells. He knows nothing about me.

  While the magistrate confers with the queen, my banging pulse sends shocks to my toes.

  Ring!

  Callahan’s attention zips to my waistline. “What was that?”

  “What was what?”

  My regulator rings again, a quiet snitch. Callahan cleans his ear out with his fingertip.

  “We’ve reached a verdict,” the magistrate announces. The courtroom shushes under the queen’s scrutiny. The moment slows, both sluggish and swift. “Her Omnipotence foresaw this young woman’s unseemly habits and praises her honesty. Nevertheless, on account of the accused’s testimony, we have increased the severity of her punishment. Miss O’Shea is hereby sentenced to seven years’ transportation at the penal colony. I surrender her and the other women condemned today to Lieutenant Callahan’s custody so he may prepare for departure.”

  My uncle stumbles sideways against the wall as though he is suddenly faint. I harden my jaw and accept my sentence as I would a well-executed blow. Callahan grabs my arm, his grip firm, and guides me from the witness box. I exit on rickety legs. As we pass my father’s sword on the desk, I lunge for my weapon, but the lieutenant restrains me.

  “You won’t outrun their pistols,” he says of the soldiers.

  “What do you care what I do?”

  “I don’t like innocent people paying for crimes they did not commit.”

  His grumbled reply hushes me. I search out Uncle Holden to send a silent plea for him to secure my father’s sword. Convicts’ possessions often become property of the realm, so my sword could disappear forever. Unfortunately, the place where my uncle stood is empty. He has left, probably run off by my public humiliation.

  Queen Aislinn watches me approach the exit, her eyes glinting. I have no time to contemplate her self-satisfaction as I am dragged out.

  Uncle Holden waits in the foyer. He tries to come forward, but soldiers block him. He rises onto his toes and speaks over their heads. “Lieutenant, I beg a moment with my apprentice.”

  “My apolo
gies,” Callahan replies. “I must take her to the ship.”

  “Please.” My uncle kneads his hat in his fists. “She’s my niece.”

  Callahan releases a short breath. He wavers while my uncle mangles his only hat and then waves aside the soldiers. “You have one minute. We’ll be right here.”

  Uncle Holden crushes me against him, my bound hands between us. “When I heard the corps raided the docks, I went straight to the prison and a guard told me you were here. What were you thinking, Everley?”

  “I was only on the docks to duel for information. I wanted to find out where Markham was staying. I don’t work for Vevina. Never have.”

  “I know you don’t. The queen didn’t foresee that you’re a streetwalker. What utter rubbish.”

  I shush him before the guards overhear us and lock him up too.

  “I’ll appeal your sentence,” says my uncle. “I’ll visit the magistrate and tell him you misspoke—”

  “You can’t. I’ll hang for perjury.”

  “Everley,” Uncle Holden says, equal parts furious and exasperated, “there are things about that island . . . Your father . . . It’s not what it seems.” He shakes his head at himself, as though he cannot find the proper words to explain. “I warned you of this. I warned you to let go of the past.”

  I lay his palm over my ticker and force him to feel the cold, heartless drumming. “I can’t let go. Markham broke me.”

  “Oh, Everley.” My uncle runs his thumb across my cheek. “You underestimate yourself.” His warm blue eyes—so like my mother’s—brim with tears. “I haven’t been as attentive as your parents. I shouldn’t have let you go to the docks.”

  “This isn’t your fault. You couldn’t have stopped me.”

  “Mister O’Shea,” the lieutenant cuts in, “time’s up.”

  Uncle Holden removes a pouch from his breast pocket, the tool kit he carries with him for work, and passes it to Callahan. “I neglected to include this in your purchase. It’s for repairs.”

  The lieutenant peeks inside at the silver tools, tools that are needed to adjust my clock heart and maintain my regulator. Tears fuzzy my vision. Uncle Holden gave the kit to Callahan, but he intends it for me.

  “Lieutenant,” my uncle says, tugging on his wrinkled cap, “protect my niece.”

  “I will, sir.” Callahan grasps my bindings and tugs me away.

  I call over my shoulder to my uncle, “Secure my sword.”

  “I’ll do my best. Be careful, Everley.”

  “You too.” If the guards weren’t here, I would beg him not to hum chanteys about Madrona anymore or vocalize another prayer.

  “Love you, lass.”

  A hot lump rises in my throat. I have cared for him all my life, since before I had a clock heart. “I love you too.”

  I hold his grief-stricken gaze until I exit the building. A throng is gathering in the courtyard in front of the courthouse and prison. Soldiers stack wood around a stake, building a pyre. Someone is scheduled to burn today. Did Queen Aislinn predict that person’s guiltiness too?

  Lieutenant Callahan helps me into the rear of a wagon. Vevina, the Fox and the Cat, and Harlow steal curious glances at me. None of them inquire after what turn of events brought me into the navy’s custody, though I’m certain they will interrogate me later. I sit away from them so they cannot hear my heart’s soft ticking. Callahan shuts the door and the horse team sets off.

  With each turn of the wagon wheels, the permanence of what I have done scores deeper. I may never see my city or my uncle again.

  Hot tears burn behind my nose. I will them away by concentrating on the forward march of my ticker. This separation from my life and my home won’t be for naught. My day is coming. Before I am finished, Markham will know my name.

  Chapter Six

  We row across the river, the lights of the city dimming in the evening fog. The other prisoners and I were released from our shackles for the jaunt to the anchored ship. Gulls circle above our longboat as I grip the bench and eye the murky water. One errant wave and the boat will capsize.

  The bowsprit of the Lady Regina and her figurehead, the bust of a siren queen, materialize in the mist. The soldiers row us to the starboard side. The ship has several decks, including a gun deck, which is marked by cannon ports. Lieutenant Callahan ties off our boat, securing us to pulleys bolted to the main deck. An abrupt jerk throws my chest to my knees, and then we are hoisted. Fog masks the rolling waves below. I cannot see how high we are, and for that, I am grateful.

  The groaning pulleys reel us to the top. Lieutenant Callahan lifts Laverick and Claret to the deck one after the other. Claret slips her hand into his jacket pocket and pulls out nothing. It must be empty. He assists the other two next. Vevina kisses him on the cheek before letting go, and Harlow digs her elbow into his side. The lieutenant weathers their antics with an amused expression. I clutch him tightly as he assists me over the gap between the boat and the deck and onto the vessel.

  “Afraid of heights?” he asks.

  “No,” I reply, scooting away from the rail. My proximity to the water, however . . .

  The Lady Regina’s sails are secured against its three masts, the shrouds bare. On each side of the main deck, a double stairway spans to the upper deck and the unattended helm. The soldiers climb back into the longboat for their return to land, and a crewman passes the lieutenant a glowing lamp. Callahan directs us across the main deck, through the hatch, and down a steep, creaky ladder into the lower decks.

  Fresh winds diminish to cloying dampness and the stink of unwashed skin. Young women, numbering in the dozens, huddle in groups across the closed-in cargo hold. Each one is manacled and then tied together by long iron chains. The convicts hush upon our entrance.

  “Clean clothes and beds, eh?” Harlow drawls.

  Vevina raises her chin, veiling her disappointment. Our accommodations are as I assumed. The Lady Regina is an improvement over the underground cell, but the vessel is still a floating prison.

  Callahan leads us to the outer wall. “Sit here.”

  I lower to the floor beside a girl eleven or twelve years of age. She’s dressed as a boy and her hair is a mass of knots. She cries into the crook of her elbow. The prisoners are crushed in close, closer than I generally allow others in proximity to me. Fortunately, the creaking ship, clinking chains, and crying convicts drown out the faint ticktock of my heart.

  The lieutenant shackles my wrists and weaves a long metal chain fastened to bolts in the floor through my manacles. He continues down the line, fettering us new arrivals together. My spine breaks out in a cold sweat. Should we sink, we will go down chained to the ship.

  Vevina leans forward, giving the lieutenant an unobstructed view down her low neckline. She is not trying to be provocative. The style of her dress, of most of the women’s attire around us, reveals more up top than I ever could. “Will we be locked up the entire voyage?” she asks.

  He contemplates her question before he replies, “Once we’re out to sea, the captain may consider unbinding you. In the meantime, a crewman will take you to the head when needed. Simply raise your hand and they will assist you. Meals will be served here in the hold.” Callahan crouches in front of the crying girl. Her muddy-brown hair hangs in ropy tangles. Grime stains her fingernails. “Would you like a drink of water?”

  She shrinks from him, her face buried in her arms. I press my spine against the hard wall, shifting away from the lieutenant. In his blue naval uniform, he reminds me too much of Markham.

  “Leave her alone,” Claret says, glowering. “She shouldn’t be here. She’s too young to go to the penal colony.”

  “The lass will serve as a maid to the governor,” the lieutenant replies. “She won’t be given as a wife yet.”

  “That fixes everything,” Claret retorts dryly.

  Lieutenant Callahan’s focus shifts to me, as if seeking my support or backing. I stare elsewhere and do not acknowledge him. Though I doubt he played a part i
n the girl’s prison sentencing, I will not defend the detainment of a child.

  On a heavy sigh, Lieutenant Callahan straightens. He treads down the line, assessing the needs of the other prisoners, and then disappears back up the ladder. Laverick speaks lowly to Claret, but the Cat twists away from her friend.

  “Is Claret all right?” I ask.

  “She will be,” Vevina answers, barely above a whisper. “Years ago, when Claret was about the same age as the lass, she worked as a pickpocket for a brute of a man with a gold tooth. She was thin as a reed when I first met her. Her handler starved his underperforming workers, and she was struggling. When I made a bet that paid out handsomely, I offered him my earnings. He wanted twice as much for her, so he sent me away. Claret found me the next evening, her handler’s gold tooth in hand, and asked to join my ranks.”

  I side-eye the beautiful and often unpredictable Claret. “Did she kill him?”

  “Oh, no. She stole a bottle of his favorite whisky for him. After he was as drunk as a sow, she pulled out his tooth.” One side of Vevina’s mouth lifts in approval. “We traded that tooth for a big bottle of wine and a box of biscuits. We ate and drank all night long.”

  I can easily picture them passing a bottle back and forth and cackling over the brute’s comeuppance. “How did Claret come to work for the handler?”

  Vevina waves the question away. “Same way everyone comes to call the streets home—a string of bad luck.”

  A group of sailors pass out blankets. I take one for myself and spread another over the weeping girl. Evening speedily descends upon the ship’s hold. Shadows commandeer the gaps between the lantern lights, dropping a grayish blur over the women. Many abandon the day and fall asleep. Claret and Laverick settle against each other to rest, and the crying lass finally quiets.

  Vevina shifts forward into my line of sight. “I thought the queen would go lenient on you.”

  “She needs women for the settlement,” I say, shrugging. “How many prisoners do you think are down here?”