Before the Broken Star

by King, Emily R.

  I open the door for him. He picks up the figurine of himself and brings it to me.

  “Dinner is at seven.” He hands me the figurine. “Until then, Evie.”

  I shut the door behind him and lean against it. My thoughts rotate in tandem with my heart, ticking around and around in a loop of broken memories.

  Jamison returns to our cabin hours later with women’s garments slung over his shoulder. He spreads out a shift, petticoat, corset, and gown on the bed. The bodice of the dress is low, the cloth a rich burgundy satin with black lace overlay and a square neckline. The sleeves are sleek to the elbows, then billow out with more lace.

  “Tavis asked me to deliver this,” he explains, and then his voice fills with reproach. “He said you’re to wear it to dinner, and if you argue, I’ve permission to take you over my knee.”

  I snort at Jamison’s critical delivery of my brother’s message. “My parents never struck us. Mother could barely beat the dust from a rug and Father doted on his children to no end.” I pick up the dress for a closer inspection. My brother always had an eye for fashion. Shame I cannot wear it. “The neckline is too low.”

  “You might try it on. Tavis said dinner is a formal affair.” Jamison removes a two-tone uniform from the dressing cabinet. “I haven’t had time to sew the buttons back on my blue jacket, so I’ll wear my court regalia.”

  I hold out the gown again. It reminds me of the dresses my mother wore to the palace for royal engagements. What would she think of me, a lady to an earl? I hope she and Father would be proud despite the circumstances in which Jamison and I wed.

  “Will you help me try it on?” I ask. The armor of a lady may embolden me to withstand the evening with Markham.

  “Shall I fetch Claret or Laverick? Surely they—”

  “They would see my ticker.” I undo my shirt buttons and Jamison turns around. I slide the shift over my head and climb into my petticoats. The corset laces foil me. “Could you, please?”

  Jamison comes behind me and pushes my hair aside. His body heat sears my neck. He ties each string to the top, then I slip into my dress and he buttons me up. I whirl around, my skirt swinging. The top of the dress barely conceals my scar.

  “Well?” I prod.

  He examines me thoroughly, giving my question its due consideration, and then replies, “Your brother will be pleased.”

  Jamison throws off his jacket and sheds his shirt so quickly I freeze. While I pretend not to watch, he puts on a clean shirt and waistcoat, and then I hold out the jacket for him to slide into. He ties his sword to his belt and places his pistol in a drawer.

  The clock chimes seven o’clock.

  He goes to the door ahead of me and waits. Now that we are dressed and ready to leave, I hesitate over the logic of our evening plans. We’re off to dine with my enemy, and I am unarmed.

  “Everley,” Jamison says, returning to my side. “It’s just dinner.”

  He seems to think this gown has stripped me of courage. I could quickly disabuse him of that misconception by pulling his sword, holding him at knifepoint, taking the pistol from the drawer, and locking him in the cabin. Then I could arrive to dinner doubly armed with steel and gun. But I want to trust I have an ally in Jamison, which startles me almost as much as how dissatisfied I am when he leans away. I nearly had his sword.

  Tavis greets us at the door to the officers’ dining hall, a wine goblet in hand. He has switched into a lace-collared shirt, a satin necktie, and a trim black jacket. I gape at his likeness to Father, and his jaw sags as he takes me in. A glimpse in a mirror startles me. I take after Isleen. Our sister was a year younger than I am now when she died. Still, our resemblance is undeniable. Tavis throws back his wine and refills his cup, his grip on the wine bottle quaky.

  A table has been set with fine linens, crystal, and porcelain ware. Lit candelabras drip hot ivory wax. Harlow sits at the head of the table, puffing on a tobacco pipe. Her red gown dives down the front of the fitted bodice. Someone spent a lot of time tightening her corset. Markham stands behind her, his fingers on her slim neck. He opens his arms in welcome.

  “Lieutenant, however did you convince your wife to put on a gown?” he asks.

  “I assure you it was her decision, sir.”

  Jamison and I both sit. Yearning for the security of a blade or tines, I search for knives or a fork and find only spoons. Tavis dines across from us, and Markham takes the opposite end of Harlow.

  “Miss Donovan,” he says, “you’ve grown into a lovely young lady.”

  “You haven’t aged a year,” I reply. His use of my surname instead of Jamison’s hammers in the memory of the life I lost. The life he stole.

  Harlow puffs on her pipe, her lips toying with the tip. “Killian is eternally handsome.”

  Her position on this ship is more complex than I assumed. She and Markham must be partners in more ways than one.

  A servant portions out the creamed soup, ladling it from the tureen into our bowls.

  “Governor,” Jamison says, his spoon deep in his bowl, “I inventoried the male convicts before we left and found one unaccounted for. An inmate, Baylee Rafferty. You may identify him from his snuffbox. It has a crest of his family’s tobacco farm on the lid.”

  “I recall Rafferty,” Tavis replies. He finishes another glass of wine and pauses to pour another. “Rafferty was convicted of murdering your sister.”

  Silence grasps us.

  Harlow slurps her soup loudly, thriving on the awkward pause.

  “He was falsely condemned.” Jamison enunciates so there is no mishearing him. “I spoke with three witnesses who saw the accident. They testified that Rafferty was farther up the road when the wagon tipped onto my sister. They think her horse was spooked by a snake. I have signed reports from the witnesses that attest Rafferty is not to blame.”

  I listen intently. Jamison did not tell me any of this.

  Markham wipes his mouth with his napery and reclines in his chair. “Once a man is condemned, it’s impossible to overturn the magistrate’s ruling.”

  Jamison sets aside his spoon, his soup untouched, and adjusts himself in his chair. “Rafferty is innocent. I cannot let him pay for my sister’s death.”

  “Can’t you?” Markham replies, his gaze and tone simultaneously sharpening.

  “Pardon my boldness, sir,” Jamison says. His deference ruins my appetite, so I set down my spoon. “I understand the realm must adhere to sentencings, which is why I’m offering myself in exchange for Rafferty.”

  Markham points at me. “You’ve already consigned yourself to life on the isle by marrying a convict.”

  “Precisely,” Jamison replies. “I could serve the years Rafferty was sentenced for, and he could return to Wyeth. The realm’s requirement would be satisfied. At the completion of my term, I would return to my service in the navy.”

  My spine digs into the back of my chair. This was Jamison’s motive for marrying me. I’m an anchor he threw to the wind, hoping to stay on the isle and set Rafferty free.

  “Has Rafferty agreed?” Markham asks.

  “I wished to discuss the matter upon my arrival but couldn’t find him.” Jamison fidgets in his chair again. “Rafferty was not in camp. I spoke with Commander Flynn and he consulted the prisoners’ log. He gave me a list of all deceased male convicts. Rafferty’s death was not recorded nor was a headstone erected for him in the graveyard.”

  Markham shrugs, relaxing into his chair. “You can hardly expect me to keep track of every inmate.”

  “I know where he is, sir,” Tavis says. “Rafferty was with the scouting party that went into the Thornwoods to determine where to break ground for permanent settlement. They were scheduled to return six days ago.”

  “Have you sent a search party after them?” I ask, drawing Markham’s gaze to me.

  “Miss Donovan,” he says, emphasizing my surname again, “the scouting party mainly consisted of convicts. They and the soldiers with them knew the risks of entering
the Thornwoods.”

  His refusal to accept responsibility scalds. The queen continues to ship men and women to the penal colony without a care for our survival. She and Markham have no heart, but my brother may still have some left of his. “Tavis, our father warned the queen not to colonize the isle. We should return home and forsake this place.”

  Markham and Harlow vibrate with silent mirth. Their private humor leaves me less than entertained.

  “She has no idea, does she?” Markham asks.

  “No,” Tavis replies. “She was too young, sir.”

  “Too young for what?” I demand.

  “Do you remember Mother’s stories about the Ruined Kingdom?” Tavis questions.

  “Of course I do, but they were stories.”

  “The kingdom is real,” Markham asserts, and Harlow quits chuckling. “Only one man has been inside the gates of the Everwoods since time locked us out over three centuries ago—Brogan Donovan.”

  Tavis nods. He believes the penal colony is a worthwhile venture.

  How pathetically naive.

  “I didn’t take you for a dreamer, Tavis,” I say. “The legend is a myth.”

  Markham slams his hand down on the table, vibrating the candelabras. “The tale is as real as you and me!” Carefully, as though he did not just rattle the porcelain ware, he lifts the wine bottle and refills my brother’s glass. Tavis’s cheeks are ruddy from too much wine, yet he dives into his next cup. Composed again, Markham goes on. “Brogan found the gate. We were separated by the Thornwoods and reunited upon his return to the beach. He said the only way to settle Dagger Island was to break the curse.”

  “How is that done?” I ask, humoring him.

  “We reawaken Amadara and restart time.”

  Restart time? Markham is mad.

  “Pardon me, sir,” Jamison interjects. “What’s your interest in the Ruined Kingdom?”

  Markham gazes straight ahead, preoccupied by the flickering candles. “I want to wake those trapped in time and end the curse.”

  Harlow tings her spoon against the side of her bowl loudly. She sets down her utensil and strangles the stem of her wineglass.

  “It’s my quest to find the kingdom,” says Markham. “I will not stop until I do.”

  Tavis raises his glass. “To good timing.”

  “To my queen,” Markham adds.

  Tavis clinks their glasses together. Harlow throws down her napery and pushes from the table. Markham beckons for her, but she storms past him out of the cabin.

  “How long will our expedition take us away from camp?” Jamison asks.

  I can see him calculating how many days it will be until we return to the settlement so he can see if Rafferty has returned.

  “Our voyage will bring us around the south of the island and up the windward side,” Tavis replies. “There, we will enter the Thornwoods.”

  This excursion is absurd. We are to break a curse? Find the gate to the Everwoods? Awake Amadara and restart time? We’re all going to disappear and never again be found.

  Markham thinks he can convince me a legend is real and I will forget he slaughtered my parents. He has swindled Tavis, but he won’t trick me. This is not a penitent man. He will not admit wrongdoing, and without the truth, I cannot turn him in for punishment.

  Tavis can gamble his life away, but I’m not following Markham anywhere else. I’m finishing this tonight.

  Markham pushes from his chair and rings a bell, and a server enters with a violin case.

  “I think we would all appreciate a lighthearted conclusion to our evening,” Markham says. He takes the violin and passes it to Jamison. “It would be good of you to indulge me.”

  Jamison must be conscious that this is not a request, for he removes the musical instrument from its case and rises. “I believe I recall your favorite, sir.”

  His long fingers curl around the neck of the violin, his other hand setting the bow to the strings. Markham sits again, and Jamison strikes the first note, a soulful timbre that bridges into a haunting melody. Markham shuts his eyes to listen. I fixate on Jamison, riveted by his fingertips adeptly pressing the strings and the accurate strokes of his bow. He sustains the final note to the fullness of its life and lets the music ascend to silence.

  Markham and Tavis clap first, then I join in. Jamison bows and starts to set down his violin, but the governor asks for another song.

  Jamison plays into the night, heeding request after request from Markham. The chair beneath me grows harder and the soup I ate begins to curdle in my stomach. I am even more aware that Markham views us as puppets. He knows exactly which strings to pull to make us dance.

  Chapter Sixteen

  At the close of dinner, Jamison and I return to our cabin. While he puts away his violin, I mull over Tavis’s claims about our father. Father boasted that he had made a remarkable discovery, and all these years I presumed his feat was mapping Dagger Island. Could his accomplishment have been validating Amadara’s story? Is the gate to the Everwoods cradled in the depths of the Thornwoods?

  I rub circles at my temples. I must be tired if I’m seeking truth in Markham’s lies.

  “I can unbutton you,” Jamison says.

  “Thank you. Did you take the assignment to the island so you could free Rafferty?”

  He finishes with my dress and quickly unlaces my corset. “I couldn’t reconcile him paying for a crime he did not commit.”

  Holding my gown to my front, I swivel toward him. “You’re certain he’s innocent?”

  “As certain as I am that my father was wrong. He didn’t care that he sent an innocent man to prison. My mother died of an illness we could not fight, then my sister was taken . . . He wanted someone to suffer.” Jamison sits on the bed and slumps forward, elbows on knees. “No magistrate would rehear Rafferty’s case. I shouldn’t have wasted my time on the courts. I should have come sooner.”

  Though I am acutely aware of my state of undress, I grasp Jamison’s knee. “You came, which is more than most people would do.”

  “Don’t commend me, Everley. I’m simply righting my father’s wrong. I’m sorry for involving you in this.”

  His duplicity doesn’t sting. Our marriage offered us both selfish opportunities.

  Still, Jamison could have wed any woman aboard that ship. He chose to intervene on my behalf because he has a good heart. He must, or he would not have come all this way to release an innocent man as reparation for a tragedy that was not his fault.

  Jamison lays his hand over mine. “You and I aren’t so different. We both want to shed our pasts.”

  We are vastly different. Jamison came to Dagger Island to save a man. I came to ruin one.

  “I’m here to make Markham pay.”

  Jamison rises, our chests so close he can hear my clock heart. “The seconds are ticking by. Don’t give him any more of your time.”

  “You want me to forget what he did?”

  “Not forget—forgo. After Tarah died, I realized I couldn’t make everything our father did right, but I stopped letting his offenses hurt me. Letting go of my anger set me free.”

  Freedom from the past is exactly what I’m after, but my wounds are in the present and I carry my prison within me.

  Jamison eyes my gaping neckline. “May I?”

  Clutching my gown to my chin, I hold still as he bends and rests his ear over the ticker. Each beat echoes through my head as though my own ear is pressed to my chest. He straightens and touches under my chin. The tick resonates there like a regular pulse.

  “You’re a marvel,” he says.

  “No—”

  “Yes. These years you were given are a gift. Don’t be so distracted with what keeps you alive that you neglect to live.”

  I duck my chin, burying it in my loose dress. Though I am still mostly covered, I feel completely exposed.

  Jamison withdraws. “I’ll turn around now.”

  Once his back is to me, I undress and get into bed quickly. He makes a
bed on the floor and lies down. Before long, his breaths slow to shallow pulls and he drifts off.

  I get up and dress in black trousers, a shirt, and a cloak. As I take up Jamison’s sword, why I have come returns to me stronger. A decade of biding my time has pushed me to this night, this choice, this opportunity to emancipate myself. Markham’s day has come, and I am ready.

  Night has slunk aboard the ship and hunkered down for a rest. Low-lit lanterns swing in the billows that fill the sails and power our journey. The quiet deck is disturbed by a light ringing. My trouser pocket has a small lump in it. I reach in and take out the bell that belonged to my regulator. Jamison must have slipped it into my pocket. Smiling to myself, I tuck the bell away.

  A shadow falls across the planks before me. Markham stands on the upper deck, overlooking the bow. I sink into the shadows and climb the stairs. As I approach the helm, I unsheathe my sword.

  “Father Time is a cruel trickster,” Markham says. “He makes us wait for most everything we desire. Have you patience, Everley?”

  “I’m all out of patience with you. Why did you come to our home? What did you want?”

  “Would you believe I sought redemption?”

  “What does it matter what I believe?”

  “You won’t stop hunting me until you have your answers.” He unsheathes my father’s sword. I bend into my knees, preparing to spring at him. He grabs lower on the hilt and rotates it so the blade points at him and the hilt at me. “Take it. Satiate your hunger. But beware. Ambition has a putrid aftertaste.”

  “You’d let me dispatch you?”

  “You seek release, do you not?” He extends the sword closer. I replace Jamison’s rapier in the scabbard on my hip and take my father’s steel. It feels right in my hand, like my gloves did when I put them on again. Markham does not draw another weapon to defend himself. “Now that you have your blade of choice, end this.”

  I wait for my fury to respond, but this is not how I envisioned our encounter. I’m unprepared to slay an unarmed man.