by Jeff Wheeler
“He did?” Cettie gasped, interrupting him. “He never told me that.”
“It wasn’t very much,” Phinia said with sarcasm. “But finding even one of your parents is proving difficult. Still, Father insists he is going to adopt you. The prince regent—”
“Let me explain it, Phinia,” Stephen shot in. “If Father were named prime minister, his willingness to help an urchin like you would be seen as an agenda for reform. And it’s true. That’s just the sort of thing Father would try to do if he did get the role. The prince regent would have none of it. He gave Father an ultimatum, according to Mrs. Pullman. And Father walked out.” His jaw clenched. “And what makes it worse is that the silver mines have stopped producing anything but quicksilver, which is pretty useless. You can’t mint coins out of liquid metal, you see. So not only does Father have to pay for our schooling now, which is indeed a burden, but he also has to pay our Mr. Sloan to hunt the Fells for a man or a woman who didn’t even want you to begin with. The salary of being prime minister was more than what Father was earning per annum before. It would have solved all of our problems. And now, we run the risk that we’ll go bankrupt because of you, and Fog Willows will come crashing down to the ground and break into rubble because it costs money to keep it afloat.”
Whether or not Phinia agreed with her brother didn’t matter. It felt unfair of them to heap all the blame on her shoulders. Fitzroy was acting in character—and his nontraditional behavior had begun before Cettie was even born. But that didn’t lessen the pang. It made it worse. Cettie stared at the two siblings mutely, feeling despised and utterly responsible for the family’s current predicament. She was going to cry, and she didn’t want them to see her.
Unable to speak, she turned and rushed out of the study. Escaping the room wasn’t enough, though, and she fled the confinement of the manor altogether. It was drizzling outside, and the sky was leaden with gray clouds. Over the last months, she’d learned the various walkways that wound through the grounds. On a day such as this, she knew she wouldn’t find anyone else wandering outside. The light rain felt cold against her cheeks, and soon her hair was thick with it, her dress damp.
There was a gazebo with a cupola on the far side of the manor grounds, which she knew would provide some cover from the rain and a place to be alone and out of sight. She especially didn’t want to see Mrs. Pullman. Something told her the woman would be fiercer than a dragon. As Cettie ran along the slick trails, part of her was tempted to just slip and stumble and fall off the edge. Fitzroy had mentioned some protections but not how they worked. Would some strange providential barrier stop her from falling? Or would she plummet down to the ground far beneath the estate—back to the place where the eldest Fitzroy siblings thought she belonged? How would Stephen and Phinia react to that? The thought of self-destruction terrified her, as did the image of falling from that great height, and she shoved it from her mind.
As she turned the corner of the trail, the gazebo came into view. To her bitter disappointment, someone was already there. It was Raj Sarin, the Bhikhu, the master’s bodyguard, whom she had scarcely spoken three words to in all her months at Fog Willows. He was standing, feet apart, dropped low in some sort of pose. His hands and arms were doing a mirrored set of motions, and his breath came in and out in short spurts. The sequence changed as he straightened, and Cettie found herself watching him. Catching herself, she was about to run back the way she’d come when Raj Sarin turned his head and noticed her.
“Good morning, Cettie!” he called to her. There was a twinkle in his eyes as he gestured for her to come to the gazebo.
Her dress was nearly soaked through, and she was cold and miserable and self-conscious. She had been crying and hoped that her eyes weren’t too red and puffy. Raj Sarin continued with some of his movements—his arms circled each other slowly before jabbing out quickly and raking downward. He repeated it again and again. It was a bizarre ritual, but it captivated her.
He didn’t stop his practice when she reached the gazebo. It was wide enough in the center for him to perform his routine, so she slunk onto the bench and watched in fascination.
Finally, after several minutes, he stopped the ritual and then turned and bowed to her, pushing a fist against an open palm in a form of salute. Raj Sarin was short and pudgy, which seemed unusual for one of his training. His hair was scraped clean with a razor, but he had a salt-and-pepper beard that nearly covered his neck. His dark eyes met her own, and she felt an immediate kinship with him. He had a slightly haunted look, as if he, too, had seen many sorrows in his days.
“What were you doing, Raj Sarin?” she asked him. Though they’d spoken infrequently, he had always treated her with respect and kindness. He would not mock her for not knowing what she should.
“Practicing,” he answered with a smile. “I come here every morning. You never know when brigantes may attack Fog Willows.” He raised his eyebrows at her and smiled. “It is best to be prepared.” He clasped his hands behind his back and started pacing. “So, Cettie of the Fells. You were running just now. You look upset. Let me hazard a guess. You put a cockroach in Mrs. Pullman’s breakfast and were caught?”
Cettie started with surprise because he had said it so seriously. “No, Raj Sarin.”
He frowned and nodded. “Let me try again. You were carrying sixteen porcelain dishes for Kinross—because of his gout—and dropped all but three.”
Cettie bit her lip and shook her head no again. She felt the tiny beginnings of a laugh.
He pursed his lips as he continued to pace, running a hand over his cone-shaped beard. “This is truly a mystery, but I will solve it. You were blamed, unfairly, by the master’s eldest children for being the cause of hunger in the world, for heat on sunny days, and for rashes on the sick and afflicted?”
Cettie stifled a giggle. In just a few moments, he had made her feel enormously better. “You were a little closer to the truth that time,” she said.
“Ah, I see, I see,” he said, his eyes twinkling again. “I heard something to that effect from Mrs. Pullman first thing this morning. Would you like some advice, Cettie of the Fells?” He dropped down into a stance again and started moving his arms slowly, one following the other.
“I would appreciate your counsel,” she answered. “You must be very wise.”
“In my country, they call hurricanes typhoons. If you are at peace with yourself in your center”—he tapped his heart with his spread fingers—“then you can stand on a beach during a typhoon and it will only rustle your hair. If you have any.” He winked at her. “If you are not at peace, then the typhoon will blow you away.” He continued with his motions, turning in a full circle as he did them. “When Fitzroy met me, I was a slave to the poppy dust. I was fat, and I’d forsaken both my training and my wits. He gave me another chance at a new life. And every morning, I come to the gazebo and do these drills. They have helped me conquer my mind. They have helped me realize that I sought fulfillment in something that could never fill me. I would never forsake a practice. Not even if a hurricane were blowing. And so I control my mind. And so I control my peace.”
He paused midmotion. “Would you like to learn, Cettie of the Fells, how to control your mind?”
She rose from the bench, her eyes widening with hope, her heart feeling swells of relief. “I would, Raj Sarin.”
“Then I will teach you,” he answered with a smile.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
BELONGING
Raj Sarin told Cettie that the art he practiced had an ancient name called the Way of Ice and Shadows. Most practitioners simply called it the Way. He offered to teach it to her, and Cettie eagerly accepted.
The mind, Raj Sarin told her, was affected by everything the body did. This series of exercises he practiced was taught not only to improve strength and quickness, but also to allow the mind to focus, to rid it of distracting thoughts and worries. Each part of the routine that he taught her, and he said there were thousands of others, had a
name. Heron swooping on water. Rooster claws at seed. Black dragon spreads its wings. It was a whole new world, with a whole new language to accompany it, and her mind immediately craved learning more.
She was in the middle of crane gliding on waters when she saw Fitzroy and Anna approaching them from the manor. That particular movement had her standing on one leg, her back arched, one fist pointing outward, her other arm jutting the other way to counterbalance. Her whole body felt alive and invigorated, but standing like that made her feel incredibly foolish in front of Fitzroy and her friend. She was about to drop back down, but Raj Sarin clucked his tongue in warning, reminding her that she had not finished holding it to the proper count.
As the others approached, her self-consciousness increased, and the strain of the pose made her limbs begin to tremble. It had not been difficult before, but she was suddenly desperately aware of her damp dress and rain-soaked hair and the wind and the cold.
“Now you are finished,” Raj Sarin said, releasing her from the pose.
Cettie lowered her leg and rubbed her arms, feeling the tingling sensation all the way to her fingertips. She couldn’t help but glance back at Fitzroy and Anna.
Raj Sarin interposed himself in front of Cettie, blocking her view of them. “One of the reasons I practice here,” he told her gently, “is to avoid what just happened to you. Your mind was calm, your breathing was guided, until you felt yourself being observed.” He held up his finger, his eyes narrowing with seriousness. “To fully master your mind, you must learn not to react to being observed by others. We naturally seek to please. To be acceptable. And in so doing, we give others—even our loved ones—power over our minds.” He shook his bald head and gave her a fierce look. “Never let another person have control over your thinking. It is yours by right and by destiny. My greatest shame occurred when I relinquished control of my mind to a powder. When we practice next, you will hold your poses until the last count, no matter who sees you.” He gave her a small bow of his head, his fist salute, and then he backed away just as the noise of Fitzroy’s boots reached the edge of the gazebo.
Anna rushed up to Cettie and embraced her, hugging her tightly. “I was so worried.”
“I told you she was here at the gazebo,” Fitzroy said in a calming way. “I’m pleased to see Raj Sarin has started teaching you.”
“This morning was her first lesson,” Raj Sarin said with a bow.
Anna kissed Cettie’s cheek, catching her by surprise. She looked at the other girl with confusion. “What’s wrong?”
“When I woke up and you weren’t in my room, I was afraid something had happened to you,” Anna said. “I found Stephen and Phinia, and they told me about what they’d said to you. That they hoped you would leave Fog Willows. Phinia even teased that you might have . . . might have jumped off!”
The quip hurt, especially since she’d considered the possibility for the briefest of moments, but there was no denying Anna’s concern was deeply felt.
“So I went to Papa, who always knows what to do,” Anna said, turning to her father and smiling with relief.
Fitzroy still looked concerned, although he was trying not to show it. He shrugged, but she noticed his hands were behind his back—probably itching.
“I will have a word with Stephen and Phinia,” he said somberly. “I do always try to hear both sides before rendering consequences, and they need to be given a chance.” He looked Cettie in the eye earnestly. “What did they tell you, Cettie?”
She swallowed, unsure of what to say, but then she remembered that she’d promised never to lie to him again. She didn’t want to get Stephen and Phinia in trouble. That wouldn’t earn their love or respect. But the promise she’d made to Fitzroy needed to be kept.
“They told me that you were not going to become prime minister. Because of me.”
His lips pursed, and a brooding expression came over his face. “They shouldn’t have said anything of the sort. How did they learn of it?” he said to himself, half muttering.
Cettie took another breath. “Mrs. Pullman.”
Fitzroy gave her a solemn look and nodded in understanding. “That makes more sense.” He sighed and shook his head.
“But it’s true!” Cettie said forcefully. The patter of rain against the shingles of the gazebo grew more pronounced. It would be a wet walk back to the family manor, and Cettie was dreading it. If Mrs. Pullman could see beyond the walls of the manor, then she’d just given the woman yet another reason to destroy her.
Fitzroy met Cettie’s gaze. His bitter smile said it plainly enough. “It is true, Cettie. And I would be dishonest to say that I’m not struggling to come to grips with it. It would have solved . . . multiple problems.” He chafed his hands and pressed his palms firmly together and tapped his chin with the edge of his forefingers.
Cettie’s heart flinched, but she stepped forward and looked at him pleadingly. “Then you must send me back to the other children.”
“Shhhh,” Fitzroy said, shaking his head, stopping her from saying more. “No more of that,” he said kindly, his voice tightening. “But what gives a man, even if he is a prince and a regent, the right to compel a man to act against his conscience? To toss down values he has held long before you . . . before you were even born?” He struggled to compose himself. The rain continued to patter even louder, and the gutters of the gazebo were soon churning with the flood. There was something unsaid in his words. Some long-ago hurt. Some resolve made of stronger stuff than dreams. “He may as well have asked me,” he said with thick emotion, “to carve out my honor and cast it aside. I will not do it, no matter who asks it of me. That he would ask tells me much about the kind of leader he will be . . . and the kind of prime minister he desires.”
“And you might as well carve out a part of my heart, too,” Anna said, grabbing Cettie and hugging her. “You are my sister. As if we had the same blood. Please don’t go. Stephen and Phinia were just being selfish. They are, you know.”
The looks on their faces humbled Cettie. She had never felt wanted before. She had never belonged to a family before. It was a dizzying, heavy feeling, one that made her joints weak. The looks of utter sincerity on their faces, and the small grin and nod of approval from Raj Sarin, made fresh tears spring into Cettie’s eyes.
“No more talk of such nonsense,” Fitzroy said. “I will have a discussion with Stephen and Phinia. And Mrs. Pullman.”
Cettie winced.
Fitzroy reached out and touched her shoulder. “Trust me, Cettie. I will do it in a way that doesn’t implicate you. When I was captain of a sky ship, I would get reports of misbehavior from the men. Gambling belowdecks, for example, could lead to enormous problems. Lost wages, fistfights, even duels. I made it my practice not to respond immediately to reports, especially those told to me in confidence. I made it seem more like happenstance that I had found out.” His thumb came up and grazed her cheek, interrupting the fall of a tear. “I don’t want them to dislike you. In fact . . .” He looked deep into her eyes. “I want them to be as fond of you as Lady Maren and I are.” He gave a wink to his daughter. “And Anna, too. Why don’t you two run back to the manor? Raj Sarin and I have a matter to discuss about your training.”
“Yes, Father,” Anna said, beaming. “Can Cettie stay in my room from now on?”
Fitzroy arched an eyebrow at Cettie, clearly leaving the decision to her.
It would be a risk. This would make things worse with Mrs. Pullman. But if she stayed with Anna, it would be more difficult for the keeper to seek out a private audience with her, wouldn’t it? It might also make it harder for her to seek vengeance on Cettie without revealing her true nature to all. Maybe it would even be better for Cettie to sleep in the same room. If the old woman did send a ghost to torment them, Cettie would see what Anna could not. She’d know to call for Fitzroy.
He had the power to banish them. And she knew that he would.
Maybe she finally had a solution to her problem.
C
ettie nodded gratefully, and Anna squealed and gripped her arm. Hand in hand, they ran back into the rain. Cettie glanced back once to watch Fitzroy speaking to Raj Sarin.
There was a feeling in her heart. No, it wasn’t a feeling. It was a whole jumble of them all crowding in on her at once. Gratitude, respect, admiration, loyalty, concern, compassion, and the desire to please.
For the first time in her life, she realized what that special mixture was called.
Love.
No sky ships approached Fog Willows that day. It would have been too dangerous to fly. The storm continued to rake the windows of the manor all day long, but Cettie felt safe from the cold. As Cettie gazed down at the willow trees, the long limbs being thrashed by the storm, she pitied them. Her morning had been blissful—a warm bath, a change of clothes, a delicious meal, and a dear friend—and she knew her life had changed for the better.
It had been a few days since she’d checked the glass tubes in Fitzroy’s study, so she made her way there before dinner and withdrew the book she had been using to record the tick marks on the glass. She checked her previous entries and started counting the ticks, surprised by how much the level had changed. So much of the quicksilver was gone. She counted it again—just to be sure—and got the same number and wrote it down. Why had it changed so much in a few days? Had someone come into the room and stolen the curious metal? She tapped her bottom lip with the pencil, staring out at the rainstorm and thinking about her day—the horrible confrontation with Phinia and Stephen, the gazebo, and her wonderful talk with Fitzroy and Anna. To remember the day, she drew a little square covered in small parallel lines to represent the rain. She had not done that before, but it was a special day for her—the day that Fitzroy had made her feel truly wanted.