The cart’s driver scowled. “We only just made curfew and then one of ’em got loose. Spent the last few hours tracking him down. Then when we finally got to the barracks gate, there was no one to let us in! I could’ve gone round the front, but All help me, any more time with these rats and I’m going to snap.” She pointed back at the wagon. “Me and Lorde thought maybe since half of ’em’ll end up in your tender care anyway, we could drop them here?”
Mistress Abbot took a few more steps out into the courtyard, pulling her shawl about her shoulders and squinting at the wagon’s cargo. I still couldn’t see proper for Margot’s thick legs before the crate, but my ears were working just fine and what I heard chilled me through. The voices coming from the back of the wagon belonged to whelps. Scared whelps.
The kitchen mistress sighed. “All right, but I certainly don’t need all twelve. You’ll have to take them through.”
Margot clapped her big hands together. “Bless you, mistress. It’s been a long road from the south.” She shouted over her shoulder to her wagon mate. “We can dump ’em here, Lorde!”
Lorde, a big man with nothing much to say, grunted and leapt from the seat. As Margot moved to help him, I got my first look at the wagon.
I had to jam my whole fist in my mouth to keep from screaming. Ordish whelps, from barely six to the biggest at maybe thirteen, sat huddled together against the cold, clutching threadbare blankets round their shivering bodies. The older ones were doing their best to quiet the younger, most of whom were in floods, but it was hard, due to their hands being bound.
I was sore afraid the crate I’d stashed myself in would catch light with the heat of my fury. I’d risked my neck—risked many necks—to loose those desperate men, and these villains brought more whelps like Lark and Rowan to serve at the king’s pleasure?
Non’s sensible voice sounded a warning in my head. Now, Pip, don’t go getting in an upset . . .
Upset? Hens get upset when there’s a snake in the coop. A horseman gets upset when his mount tosses him in a puddle. By the Mother, I was so far past upset that I could’ve pulled the stars right out from the sky. Splinters of wood worked their way under my nails as my hands curled in fists of rage, but I barely noticed. I only had eyes for the small bodies being roughly shucked from the wagon.
“Come on, then,” Mistress Abbot snipped, eager to be back to her breakfast preparations. “Get yourselves indoors. You’ll have a bowl of oat porridge before you start.” She seized the shoulder of one of the captives as they made their way toward her. “You. You’ve got a bit of muscle. Can you turn a spit?”
I couldn’t make out the whelp’s face under the blanket wrapped round his ears, but his meaning was clear when he spat on the ground at her feet.
Mistress Abbot’s hand flashed out and caught the boy a swat across the cheek. He stumbled, the blanket falling to the ground, as the stern woman put her hands on her hips. “I think mucking out the stables might be more to your liking.”
The oldest pushed forward in the queue to help, but got a boot in the back for her trouble from Margot. “Eager to begin, are you?” the woman scoffed.
Both the ragged whelps looked up from the cobbles, staring daggers at the kitchen mistress.
Lorde’s beefy mitts slid under the boy’s arm and hauled him up.
“Let go, you eel! You flatfish! You dirty kingsman!” he hollered, trying to kick the man any way he could. But Lorde cuffed him again, as if he were nowt but an annoying pup, nipping at his heels. The boy yelped and stopped his thrashing.
“Don’t hurt him!” cried his sister, trying to get to her feet. “He ain’t gonna be any more trouble, are you, Marsh?”
Her brother’s body sagged in surrender, but his eyes were still speaking spite. Mistress Abbot clucked. “Take that one straight to Master Piers. I think a night getting acquainted with the horseboxes might take the edge off him.”
Lorde grunted again, slung the furious boy over his shoulder, and set off in the direction of the stables. The girl tugged the kitchen mistress’s skirts. “Please, ma’am, don’t let no harm come to him, he’s just—”
Mistress Abbot grabbed her sharply by the chin, jerking her to her feet. “We’re not savages—not like your folk. He’ll not come to any harm, unless by harm, you mean hard work, which you know nothing of. You’ll be fed and watered, and if you’re lucky, you’ll come to know Mother All and her mercy. If not, you wait till whatever sloth you call kin bring the king his due to collect you. Have we an understanding, girl?”
Shaking with cold and ire, the girl said nothing in reply.
The kitchen mistress released her as the last of the whelps filed through the door. “In,” she commanded.
With a last cold glare, the whelp trudged slowly into the kitchens. Mistress Abbot stuck her head in after, calling for Hal.
“Can you make a start with these crates before you go? There’s room in the store next to the potatoes.”
The clump of the porter’s steps drew nearer to my hiding place and I knew then any chance of escape was about to be lost.
Please don’t pick this crate first, please don’t pick this crate first, please don’t . . .
Being hoisted in the air while stuck in a crate isn’t comfortable for a body, especially one as tired and shook as mine. But Hal was bound and determined to stack the crates as quick as he could so he could be abed, so it weren’t a gentle ride. Bumping against his large belly, I tried to see anything in the kitchen before us that looked familiar—a cupboard, a staircase, a door—
A door! From between the slats of the crate, I spotted a point on the route Lark had given me—a giant arch with the winged bull chiseled in stone above it. But between me and it was a whole kitchen.
My teeth rattled as Hal tossed the angriest box of onions the palace had ever seen to the floor and set off for another. There were folk bustling about, lighting fires, and readying breakfast for the castle staff. There wasn’t any way to make an exit without being twigged in a flash. I bit a nail down to the quick. If I was caught and questioned, a whole night’s work would go up in smoke. Gareth and the Ordish might be apprehended before they’d the chance to get out of the city.
Thud went the crate being stacked on top of mine. I realized then I was to be on the bottom of that great pile.
The second Hal turned the corner for the next load, I tested the lid with my shoulder. It was heavy. Real heavy. Who would’ve believed onions could be so heavy? The next crate would trap me for good.
There was nothing for it. I gathered up every last drop of spirit I had left in my body and shoved.
The lid exploded open, scattering the onions above me like tiny, stinking bombs, but I wasn’t sticking around to see where any of them landed. Pulling my hood as far down over my face as it could go, I sprinted through the kitchen, dodging cooks, spit boys, and porters. Shouts rose up all around.
“Who’s that?”
“What’s going on?”
“Catch that boy!”
Thanking the Mother and the stable lad in North Hallow for my breeches, I ran as if all the seven hells were trying to take a bite out of my seat. I ducked between the ovens, dove up the stairs, and plunged into the hallways of the castle above, no one in the kitchen the wiser that the king’s Mayquin had just made a decision that would change Orstral forever.
31
Isa had three whelps who were constantly squabbling. There were many chores on the barge that needed three pairs of hand to finish, but since they could never agree, the chores went unfinished or had bad endings. They were supposed to clean the dovecote, but they fought over who was to hold the doves and some flew away. They were supposed to trim the sail, but they fought over who would tie off the boom and ripped a hole in the cloth. They were supposed to paint the barge’s water-side, but they fought over who would hold the brush and they all ended up in the river.
The whelps did as they were told, thinking they were in for a switching. When they returned, they laid the sticks before their mam. “I want each of you to try to break your stick,” she said.
The whelps did as they were told and broke each stick over their knees.
“Now, gather the pieces all together,” said Isa, “and try to break the bundle.”
The whelps did as they were told, and although they all tried, none of them could break the bundle of sticks.
“You whelps are like those sticks,” said their mother. “If you set to quarreling and holding grudges, the world will snap you in half. But if you join together, you’ll find strength in what you have in common and, though the world may try, it’ll never break your back.”
The three whelps saw the error of their ways and were peaceable ever after.
—Ordish folktale
* * *
LARK WAS SNORING in the great bed, but I let her be.
I should’ve been eaten up by my night’s labors, but when I finally reached the safety of my chamber and stashed my breeches at the back of the wardrobe, I couldn’t find it in me to lie down. Lark’s gentle snuffling weren’t the reason. I knew what I had to do and I didn’t want to waste no more time.
Lady Mollier’d been true to her word. Atop the little writing desk next to the window sat several sheets of fine, heavy paper, ink, and a quill, already cut. I took a match from the silver dish and struck it to light the small oil lamp perched on the edge.
The drapes weren’t drawn, so I looked out on the dark winter sky. The moon that looked down on Bellskeep and the orchard had set, making way for the coming dawn. Somewhere, out in the city, were seven men trying to make their way back home and one brave boy leading them. Somewhere, down in the kitchens, there were twelve whelps, stolen away, far from theirs. And somewhere, in the middle of the castle, there was me, scratching away by the light of the lamp. When the pale blue of morning finally began to creep over the city, there were two letters folded neat and orderly, ready to be sent.
The first was to my family.
Dearest Mama, Papa, Non, and Ether,
Lady Hawliss has promised to deliver this for me. She is the kind lady wife to Constance Mollier and I hope you’ll receive her well.
Lady Mollier has given me pen and ink so that I might let you know I’ve been delivered to Bellskeep safe. You know I can’t lie, not even with my pen, so I can tell you there’s danger here, but there’s good folk, too, so I’m not afraid. Tell Non I still got my green apple skin.
The orchard’s been in my heart every second I been gone from it. Today, Master Iordan showed me a map of Orstral and I asked where Presston was. When he pointed it out, I felt sad at first, but then happy to know it were there and it’s ours. I wish I could be there to look on your faces, but, All willing, we’ll be together again soon.
Your loving Only
And the second was to Lamia Folque.
To Her Grace, Lady Folque,
My non once told me it ain’t us that make choices, but choices that make us.
I choose what you choose. I choose Orstral.
Only, the Mayquin
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Writing’s a little like mountain climbing—every piece of rope, every carabiner, every hand- and foothold on the way deserves blessings heaped upon it for its role in holding you up and helping you reach your goal.
To the amazing women of the magical Internet sorority I’m honored to be a part of: “thank you” is almost too small. I owe this entire experience to your talent, wisdom, expertise, unwavering support and sketchy GIFs. Thanks especially to Amber Tuscan-Clites and Heather Griffin for being the most stalwart of critique partners, road-trip buddies, and providers of stories that still make me laugh almost three years later whenever I think of them.
To my agent, Jen Linnan, and my editor at Putnam, Arianne Lewin, my crazy gratitude for taking up Only’s story and helping me run with it. Also, for making this experience as friendly and stress-free as possible by being available to any and all first-timer questions!
To Marlene (and Tom!) England and the rest of the bookish mess at the Curious Iguana in Frederick, Maryland, for providing not only an important space for the community to appreciate books and share ideas, but for taking me on as part of the team and giving me ten to fifteen hours every week where I can live and breathe stories written by other people. Many thanks also to the PRH Westminster team for being amazing cheerleaders.
To my mom and dad, who are probably super glad that, after all that college they paid for, I’ve finally decided what I wanted to do when I grow up. Thanks for your unshakable love and encouragement.
To Nick, Wren, and Ellie, the housemates that I both chose and made myself, you are the best and the loveliest, the weirdest and the funniest. And occasionally, when I’m up against a deadline, the quietest.
To friends and family both near and far who have been with me on this journey in the form of excited texts and social media messages, thank you all so, so much.
And finally, to the canal boat Galileo: long may she sail, wherever she may be.
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