Walk Between Worlds

by Samara Breger

  “Do you want to sing a song?” Temperance cocked her head. “Mama used to sing songs while she brushed my hair.”

  “Mine too,” Scratch rasped. Tangled Lakes hair was thick and scraggly, prone to knots. Her mother said it was because the hair wanted to be rope for ships. Scratch had always complained while her mother brushed her hair. “Let it be rope!” she would cry. “I don’t care!”

  Temperance jammed a finger into a nostril.“Could you brush my hair?”

  “Sure.”

  A few minutes later, Temperance sat between her legs, humming absently while Scratch combed through the tangles and snarls. Brella had drifted away. She sat with Lollie, having quiet conversation by the dying fire. Scratch turned from them, settling her mind on the meditation of drawing thick, yellow locks through Temperance’s gap-toothed comb, leaving them smooth and glossy.

  “Brackish, brackish, brackish,” Temperance sang, “are the waves awaiting me.”

  And there it was, stored in another one of those dark cellars of the soul, coated in cobwebs. It crested before she could stop it, as much instinct as catching Temperance had been when she had leapt into Scratch’s arms.

  “Brackish, brackish, brackish,” she sang, before she recognized that she was singing, “are the waves awaiting me.”

  Temperance whipped around. She stared for a moment, then smiled.

  “From the beginning,” she instructed, and Scratch could do nothing but nod helplessly and sing:

  Brackish, brackish, brackish

  Are the waters of the sea

  Born was I in brackish swell

  And so my grave shall be

  Spill the lager, spoil the milk, and scald the bitter tea

  Brackish, brackish, brackish

  Are the waves awaiting me

  I sail amongst my fellows

  For my cousins all they be

  No better men to take

  When you are facing down the sea

  Hoist the sail, men, hoist it high, and onward hard alee

  Brackish, brackish, brackish

  Will our journey surely be

  But, oh! The water’s churning

  Men, watch out, for do you see?

  The hungry waves are reaching out

  And they are calling me

  Remember me, don’t weep for me, I was but one of ye

  Brackish, brackish, brackish, boys

  My grave is now to be

  But on the shore a woman waits

  She holds a child of three

  Inside of her, in brackish swell

  There rests a babe to be

  She waits, while in her heart she knows her love she’ll never see

  Brackish, brackish, brackish

  Are my lover’s tears for me

  Brackish, brackish, brackish

  Are my lover’s tears for me.

  There was noise in the camp when she finished, the same murmurs, the strum of strings, the clank and clang of tin plates and earthenware mugs. She must have imagined, then, the quiet that came over her while she sang. Imagined the low swell of waves, or perhaps her mother shushing her, shush, shush, then an ebbing, silent like sleep. Imagined—invented—the tenderness of hands on her skin, smoothing down her hair and kissing her eyelids. That couldn’t be real. Her mother would never treat, had never treated, her so sweetly, with such care. But why then did she see in her mind’s eye the flickering of a low tallow candle, the wooden walls of her childhood home? Why did she hear her mother singing? Or—oh, gods, had she confused her own voice for her mother’s? If she hadn’t felt sick already, that certainly did the trick.

  “Temperance, I’m going to take a quick trip to the woods. I’ll be right back.”

  Temperance nodded sagely. “Remember, ‘Leaves of two, you’ll scream when you poo.’”

  “Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.”

  She walked toward the tree line, not looking around, just putting one foot in front of the other. She was dizzy and unnerved, like she had just been transported somewhere else. The return trip had felt like falling off a speeding horse. She was fine, she was fine; she just needed a moment to breathe. A moment away from frizzy-haired Lakes girls and Brella’s false gods and Lollie’s cold, inscrutable eyes. A moment to collect her wits.

  She found a leaf-free tree on which to rest her head. The damp, earthen smell of the forest filled her nose and throat, raw and fecund. She missed her world with walls, where she woke early and gave orders and served a king she could trust. The forest was too old to respect order. It was not built for her, nor she for it. She was built for lakes apparently, their songs imbedded in her bones.

  But, she reminded herself, she had been built twice. Once, when her mother birthed her, and a second time when she spilt blood at the Academy and took her new name. She had adapted before, hadn’t she? Fine, she’d adapt to this. This strange life she found herself inhabiting. How hard could it be to become someone new again? Someone who could understand this place. What was wild earth anyway but potential? She could—

  A thud sounded behind her, two feet hitting the earth from a height, and then there was a knife to her throat.

  “Hello, Keyes,” Lollie purred. “You and I have much to discuss.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Lollie.” She dared not breathe. Lollie held the knife mercilessly close, an inhalation’s breadth from Scratch’s skin. “If you wanted to have a conversation with me, you should have just asked.”

  “Shut up, you royal lapdog. I need to know what you’re doing with Brella.”

  Looking at her too long. Trying to solve an impossible puzzle. “Nothing.”

  Lollie brought the knife closer. Scratch could feel the metal kiss her skin. “Is she your prisoner?”

  “No.”

  “Have you threatened her?”

  “No.”

  Lollie’s breathing was harsh and high. “You didn’t kidnap the princess like they’re saying, did you? You’re going after her. You and the Shaes and that decorative item you call a friend.”

  It shouldn’t matter if Lollie knew the truth. Still, it rankled. That information wasn’t hers to know. Couldn’t Scratch have something to her damn self anymore?

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  “Brella’s worth more than that, you know.” There came the sound of crackling as Lollie ran her tongue over dry, chapped lips. “I told her to be quiet about the gate. That the King’s Guard would eventually use her to get to it.”

  “You know Brella. If she’s anywhere, it’s because she wants to be.”

  “Oh, don’t act like you know Brella,” Lollie spat, venomous. “I know you’re not really her Passenger. Not like that. And you don’t care, do you? You don’t care that you’re stripping her of that?”

  There was that Passenger again. Brella owed her an explanation. Until then, she’d have to pretend. “I think you’re jealous.”

  Lollie growled as the knife made contact with Scratch’s skin. She felt the warmth of a few beads of blood trickling down her throat and onto her shirt.

  “You should be scared of me.” Lollie’s whisper sliced the air. “I could kill you out here.”

  “Is that what you teach those children? To kill their guests?”

  Lollie’s breath stuttered. She shifted her grip on the knife and exhaled, the cool air ghosting over Scratch’s nape. “Probably no worse than what you learned at the Academy. What do they teach you?”

  What had she learned at the Academy? To wake early. To train every day. To hold a sword. To stand by a brother or sister on the battlefield and stanch their bleeding wounds, to get them to a healer before they expired. To stare down an enemy and not cower. To become someone.

  “Honor.” The word was sour with longing.

  Lollie choked out a raspy chuckle. “You don’t know anything about honor.”

  “More than you.”

  “You don’t seem scared.” Lollie angled the blade upward, like a barber shaving clo
se. “Why is that?”

  “Because I could kill you twice out here and no one would know.” A bluff, of course. She couldn’t reach her knife. She was only buying time. What would happen if she screamed? Could James get there faster than Lollie could slit her throat?

  The answer was probably no. Thankfully, she didn’t have to try.

  “Drop the knife, Lollie,” Brella said.

  All she needed was a second’s hesitation. She felt the knife drop away, just for a breath, and—there. She edged into the silent moment, like a key into a lock, her hands fitting perfectly around Lollie’s fingers as she pulled the knife from the slack grip and flung it far into the undergrowth. Her fingers pressed tight to Lollie’s flesh, her back taut, muscles working as she gripped the bandit and bent forward, taking her up and over and slamming her into the earth. And then, a few practiced moves—an arm here, a leg there—to get the woman facedown, Scratch’s knee pressed into her lower back.

  “Ow,” Lollie grumbled.

  “Damn right, ow.” Brella retrieved the knife from the bush where it landed, examining the blade. “I didn’t think you were stupid enough to hold a soldier at knifepoint.”

  “And yet I did.” Lollie wriggled like a trapped lizard, legs kicked out behind her, knees bent at a right angle.

  “And yet you did.” Brella squatted down next to the captive bandit’s head. “Did it even occur to you that you could really mess things up for me—for all of us—by hurting her? That I might be keeping things from you to protect you?”

  “Fine excuse. Well, you never told me a damn thing when we were together. Why should now be any different?” Lollie’s muscles worked against Scratch’s grip. “I thought—I don’t know what I thought.”

  “I have an idea.” Brella seated herself, cross-legged. “You did what you always do and assumed I needed rescuing.”

  “Can you blame me? You never told me anything. Anything about your life, anything about what trouble you were getting yourself into. All I could ever do was guess. Guess and worry.”

  Brella stiffened. “I didn’t ask you to worry.”

  “Well, too bad.” Lollie dropped her cheek to the earth, sighing. “It’s my nature. I look after children.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “I don’t need looking aft—”

  “It’s what people do for each other!” Lollie flailed, but she was no match for Scratch’s knee pressing firmly into her spine.

  “I didn’t need you to—”

  “It isn’t about what you needed, Brella. It’s about what you wanted.” She gave up the fight, going limp in the dirt. Her hat was missing and her short, sleek hair was dusty and mussed. “No one does anything alone. And I know you have Vel, but you’re so close to each other you never let anyone else in.”

  Scratch cleared her throat. “I could go.”

  “No, Scratch.” Brella held up a hand. “Stay.”

  “Yes, Scratch,” Lollie added. “Stay. Bear witness to my total humiliation.”

  “I’m not trying to humiliate you, Lollie.” Brella looked away, drawing little patterns in the dirt with the blade of Lollie’s knife. “I came to tell you to let her go. Whatever trouble I’m in is trouble of my own choosing.”

  “Fine.”

  Silence rang out in the dark wood. Scratch wanted to run. This felt like reading someone’s diary: an intimate trespass, devoid of any clarifying context. She had both the most power and the least out here with these women, and the tension tugged at her spine.

  Lollie wriggled. “I’m losing feeling in my arm.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “Don’t apologize to her, Scratch.”

  “I really could go. You two seem to—”

  “Scratch, stay.”

  Lollie tensed. “Don’t tell me there’s really something between you.”

  “I don’t see what business it is of yours.” Brella rose stiffly, wiping dust off of her trousers. “This is a warning, Lollie. Don’t get in the way of things you don’t understand.”

  Lollie glared up at Brella from where she lay in the dirt. “It kills me that you don’t get it.”

  For one moment, Brella’s composure cracked, that full mouth falling open, those hot-coal eyes going round. Then she swallowed, setting her jaw. “Get what?”

  “That I’m not your enemy. That it’s not weakness to ask someone to help you. That whatever you’re doing, you can’t do it alone.”

  “I’m clearly not alone.” Brella waved a vague hand in Scratch’s direction.

  Lollie chuckled darkly.“Of course not. Sergeant Major, if I promise not to knife you in your sleep, will you let me go?”

  “Oh, yes. Pardon me.” Scratch scrambled off and Lollie rose, wincing as she shook out her arms and rolled her wrists.

  The bandit scrubbed her face with dirty hands, depositing smudges on her cheeks and forehead. “Well, I’m off. Who knows what chaos your brother’s new beau has incited in the camp.” She made to walk off, but stopped. “I just . . .” She breathed, and Scratch imagined she could see the words crumple on Lollie’s tongue. The bandit shook her head and disappeared into the trees.

  Brella dropped her head into her hands and groaned. “Oh, God of Chaos. I’m sorry you had to see that, Scratch.”

  “What’s a Passenger?”

  Brella went wide-eyed, caught like a doe. “I wasn’t sure you had heard that.”

  Anger sparked in her chest. “What are you hiding from me, Brella?”

  “Nothing! Well, nothing important.”

  A lie, of course. She had been prepared for this, for knowing that Brella lied remorselessly, boldly. It shouldn’t have stung. “So, what? Lollie just keeps bringing it up for fun?”

  “Lollie is just . . . Lollie.” Brella spoke the name with irritated familiarity, and it struck Scratch how little she really knew about this woman. She knew Brella was defensive. That she had a whole slew of brothers and sisters who were . . . somewhere. She was a brewer, supposedly. And despite the clenched-jaw care with which she approached the world, she was either the sort of person who careened headlong into an impossible quest, or a skilled and practiced liar. Disappointment dripped through Scratch’s body, slowing her blood and weighing her down.

  “Tell me what a Passenger is,” she demanded, but there was nothing behind it but resignation.

  “A blood bond,” Brella began, after a careful pause. “It doesn’t just get you through to the Between. It connects us.”

  “Connects us how?”

  She lifted a shoulder. “I don’t really know. I’ve never done it before. Supposedly it’s intense. Fae magic,” she added. “It’ll make us close. Apparently, we’ll be able to sense each other’s emotions while we’re Between.”

  “Why did Lollie get so bothered about it? Is it . . .” She struggled for the word. “Special?”

  “I guess. My mom always told me . . .” She broke off, staring at nothing. “She said it was something to do with someone I cared about. I was waiting. I never brought Lollie. It didn’t seem right.”

  “And you’re bringing me.”

  Brella’s eyes hardened. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

  Anger warred with guilt. “You chose to take me with you.”

  “I had to. There was no other way. And I don’t see you complaining. Would you rather still be in the dungeon? Or perhaps hanging from that slender little neck, hmm?”

  Her stomach churned. “Brella . . .”

  Brella covered her face. Scratch thought for one horrified moment that Brella might be crying. Should she . . . go to her? Touch her? Every option looked like it might end with a broken finger, so she stood and watched while Brella breathed behind her closed hands.

  “Look, Scratch.” Brella ran a hand over one of her long brown braids. Someone—a child, probably—had poked flowers in between the strands, little blue buds that looked like they belonged in the loamy earth of Brella’s hair. “We barely have
a plan. We love our sister, so we’re doing whatever we can to get her princess back. And because . . .” She breathed for a moment, eyes closed. “Because it’s the right thing to do. You might not understand—”

  “I understand.”

  Brella winced. “He’s not a great king, Scratch.”

  Had it been only two days ago that she was passed over for commander? It felt like an eternity. “He has his faults.”

  “A great deal more than faults.”

  “Well, if what you say about a conspiracy is true . . .”

  “Scratch. Do you really not—” She tugged at a braid. A flower popped out and landed on the ground, disappearing into the brush. “Of course you don’t.”

  Scratch bristled. “Of course I don’t what?”

  Brella’s nostrils flared. “I keep forgetting you’re a soldier.”

  “If you could refrain from making these cryptic little comments about how you disapprove of me being a soldier, never mind that the cornerstone of this excellent plan you have is for me and James to do ‘our thing,’” she curled her fingers in quotations, “and ‘our thing,’” more quotations, “is what we do as soldiers. We fight. You got us so that we could fight. I don’t see what the problem is.”

  Brella stared at her for a moment. Then she exhaled, all the fight floating off her body like dew.

  “You wouldn’t,” Brella mumbled as she turned away, walking off toward the chatter and firelight of the bandit’s camp.

  Chapter Eleven

  If Scratch had lived through a more awkward morning, she couldn’t remember it.

  On one side of camp, Brella hunched over a plate of eggs, spooning them into her mouth while Vel looked her over with concern. Across the fire, Lollie silently waved off a band of older Snatchers, several of whom were making a valiant attempt to keep the littlest of the bunch away from their leader. Tension hung over the camp like wet canvas, the atmosphere close and uncomfortable.

  Scratch didn’t quite know what to do with herself. Luckily, Temperance spared her the choice, nuzzling into her shirt and making low, mournful noises.

  “I don’t want you to go.”

  “I know.” Scratch petted the girl’s head and made what, to her best recollection, were sounds of comfort. “I will miss you,” she said, finding as she said it that it was true. It was odd. She had spent years fighting alongside the same soldiers, yet had grown attached to only one: James, who was presently handing over a few shiny coins to a delighted teenager. No one besides James had managed the feat of getting her to care. But something must have sloughed off her when she left the castle, a layer of dead skin turned armor by the force of routine or order or some calculable rubric of where she belonged in the world. Now, she was like a freshly molted snake, her scales too soft and too bright, her eyes stinging from reflected newness.