by Liz Flanagan
Milla took it, too stunned to reply.
Even her silence enraged Lanys.
“Go on, then, laze around all you like. You know what last night’s news means? After the twins leave, they won’t need two maids anymore. They found you in the street and that’s where they’ll dump you, just you wait and see.” Lanys hissed these last words and then strode back into the house.
Feeling winded, Milla stumbled toward the kitchen with the heavy tray.
“All right, Milla?” Nestan emerged, looking as troubled as she felt. “Did you sleep at all?”
Milla mumbled incoherently, robbed of words.
“You’d better get in there …” Nestan patted her arm and left.
Milla went in and put the tray down.
Josi was standing at the workbench with her back to Milla, her short black hair tucked behind her ears. She was hacking with a cleaver at a joint of lamb that really didn’t need such savage treatment. Above her head hung the empty pans, two hares waiting to be skinned, a plaited bunch of onions, and some fresh basil, just picked, scenting the air with greenness.
Just standing in the kitchen made Milla feel better. If the Yellow House was her home, the kitchen was its heart. Everyone came here sooner or later, drawn by the warmth and the irresistible smells that poured from its window all day long. Josi’s temper might be legendary, but so was her cooking and her wise advice.
“Josi?” Milla asked, trying not to startle her. They always spoke Sartolan together, ready to switch to Norlandish the moment anyone walked in.
With a loud thwack, the cleaver buried itself in the wooden chopping board.
“What’s wrong?” Milla was shocked to see tears streaming down Josi’s face. She’d never seen her cry before. She’d never seen Nestan and Josi together like that. The ground seemed to shift uneasily beneath her feet.
“Nothing—just onions!” Josi said curtly, throwing the meat in the pot, clattering the lid down.
That wasn’t true. Milla caught sight of the onions, all cooked through with thyme and garlic, well past causing tears.
“What are you doing up?” Josi demanded. “I sent Lanys to serve breakfast so you could rest.” She wiped her face on her apron.
“I know.”
“I think you mean thank you,” Josi said tartly, but her dark eyes were warm and dancing with life again. Then she noticed Milla’s expression. “What is it?” She came and put her hands on her shoulders, those bright perceptive eyes searching Milla’s.
“Oh, Josi,” Milla began, sensing a torrent of words threatening to spill out, about the murder, the eggs, the duke’s ball last night. She longed to ask Josi for advice: the words sprang to her tongue. She must know about the man who was killed, right outside her kitchen door.
Then she froze. If Josi was with Nestan now, it changed everything. They wouldn’t be equals anymore. Josi would be lady of the house. People married out of their own community all the time; even the duke had done that. And her friend Thom’s mother was Sartolan, his dad Norlander. But Nestan and Josi … Milla had not seen that one coming. So Milla bit the words down, like bitter medicine. If she told Josi, she’d tell Nestan, Nestan would tell the duke, and the duke would be given the bag and its precious contents before the day was through.
“It’s all right, kitten.” Josi pulled her into a hug. “You can tell me.”
But Milla tugged herself free. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore. She sat down on the little stool by the fire. Skalla the kitchen cat came and meowed loudly, till she let him jump onto her lap. She stroked his black fur absentmindedly.
“Here.” Josi passed her a heel of bread smeared with goat’s cheese, followed by a bowl of warm milk with nutmeg and honey stirred into it.
Milla stared into the flames and dipped the bread in the milk, comforted by good food and Skalla’s warm purring bulk, anchoring her.
“So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Josi tried again. “Is it about Lady Tarya’s betrothal?”
She nodded: it was a safe place to start. “Lanys said they won’t need two maids when Tarya leaves for the palace. What’s going to happen to me? Will Nestan”—she whispered it—“get rid of me?”
“Is Lanys in charge of this household?” Josi snapped.
“No.”
“So why would you listen to her? Lanys is just jealous. You and Tarya have been friends since the day you arrived, and nothing is going to change that. You’ll always have a home here.”
Josi’s words warmed Milla like the heat from the fire. She let Skalla lick the crumbs of cheese off her fingertips, smiling at the feel of his small rough tongue.
“What’s going to happen?” Josi was saying. “Honestly? I don’t know.”
“They probably won’t want someone like me in the palace, will they?” Milla asked. “But if Tarya is married, she’ll still need me.”
“She will, love, she will,” Josi agreed. “But needing and getting are quite different things, as you and I both know.” She started shaking fine wheat flour into a bowl.
Milla felt stupid for not guessing this might happen one day. “But … but, if Tarya goes, will I go, too? I don’t want to leave you, Josi!” Everything was changing so suddenly, she felt dizzy with it.
Living here, working here, it was all Milla had ever known. It was different for the twins: their memories of their mother faded gradually, like the beautiful mural portrait of Vianna that covered one wall of the entrance hall. And just as the portrait was retouched with fresh paint to keep it vibrant, so the stories about Vianna kept her memory alive.
Milla had no memories of anything else. No stories. No mother.
With a jolt, she remembered how the old woman had stared at her last night. She lifted her medal on its golden chain and rubbed the skin-warmed gold against her bottom lip, feeling the tiny outline of the dragon and the moon. Lanys’s words were painfully fresh in her mind. “Josi, where did the twins’ mother find me?”
Josi’s voice softened. “I’m sorry, kitten, we don’t know. When Vianna died, your story died, too,” she said, her hands busy now rubbing fat into the flour.
“So when was that? How old am I?”
“You know all this!” Josi said, not meeting Milla’s eyes. “We guessed you were two then, so you’re twelve now. Thirteen next spring.”
“It’s not a proper birthday, though, is it? Just one you made up.”
“It felt right,” Josi said, looking down very deliberately.
Milla watched her keenly. What wasn’t she telling her? “So my family could be anyone?” She’d thought about this a lot. She imagined a wealthy family on the mainland of Sartola, dark-eyed brothers and sisters who looked like her. Or a sailor’s family, at sea in all weathers. Or a trader’s clan, seeing the world, bartering, bringing back spice and silk and ceramics.
“Could be,” Josi said. “But why do you need to know? You’ve a place to sleep, people who care for you. That’s more than some. Isn’t it enough?”
Once, Milla had loved hearing these stories, believing they bound her to Josi, to the twins and Nestan. But on this bright morning, the day after everything had changed, suddenly it wasn’t enough.
Milla needed to know more.
When Josi sent her to market, Milla wanted to disobey. No! she almost cried. I can’t leave the eggs. Don’t be ridiculous, she scolded herself. What are you, a mother hen? They aren’t yours, and they might not hatch anyway. But as she stood, reluctantly, the thought of the four eggs tugged painfully at her heart.
On the storeroom shelves, Milla found two baskets and the worn slips of stamped parchment that would identify her. She started to wind a scarf over her hair to keep the sun from her eyes, sore and gritty with exhaustion.
A shadow fell through the doorway, and she leapt around with a yelp of alarm, suddenly convinced it was yesterday’s assassin come back for her.
“Steady, Milla,” said Richal Finn. “What’s wrong?” He filled the doorway, solid and dependable as
ever.
“Sorry! Jumpy today.” She put her hand on his arm, relieved it was only him. “Just tired, after last night.”
“Strange evening,” he agreed. “But don’t worry, you’re safe now.” His tone turned almost gossipy, as he asked, “And what about Lady Tarya and the duke’s son?”
Milla glanced at him, curious. That wasn’t like Finn. Was he checking on her, or Tarya? “She’ll be fine. She just needs some time, you’ll see.” She turned and crossed the courtyard, with Finn by her side.
Lanys was in the doorway, watching, a look of furious envy on her face as Milla chatted easily to Richal Finn. Milla chose to ignore her.
“Should I expect her down the practice yard later, you think?” he asked. “Better get some thicker armor while she takes out her frustration, eh?”
“Be ready for a beating, Finn.” Milla smiled in spite of herself, picturing it. “Rather you than me. I’ll have a skin of ale cooling in the well for you afterward, shall I?”
“Cheers, Milla. You going down into the city? I’ll come with you; I’m headed that way,” Finn said, opening the gates.
“Sure.” She was glad to have Finn by her side: tall, calm, and undemanding. They set off down the main road and hit a patrol almost immediately.
“Papers!” the first guardsman yelled when he reached Milla. He caught sight of Finn and modified his tone slightly. “Do you have permission to walk in the upper town?”
She watched how differently they treated Richal Finn, because he was Norlander. Well, she might not know who her family was, but it was evident to everyone that she was not of Norlander descent, and she braced herself for an interrogation yet again.
“Yes.” She produced her papers and recited the information wearily: “I work for the Thornsen family. Second-generation Norlanders. Yellow House.” It was a daily ordeal, but today Milla felt unhinged with tiredness. She had a sudden crazed urge to shout her suspicions out loud: I found dragon eggs! The dragons are returning! They’re already here!
People would scream and rush forward, shouting, Where? I want to see the dragons! She’d be crushed, surrounded by desperate, eager faces. The guards would drag her away, for questioning by the duke himself.
She blinked, and the daydream vanished. That’s all it was: A dream. A mirage. Wishful thinking, nothing more.
The guard waved her through, and Milla called goodbye to Finn when they went separate ways at the busy docks and the marketplace.
Traders called out their best prices. Their rhythmic patter filled the air like birdsong. She heard bickering and bartering in Norlandish, in Sartolan, in dialects she could only guess at. There were Silk Islanders with their neat jackets and brightly printed skirts; merchants from the far south, wearing thick gold armbands that glinted dully in the sunshine. Arcosi was a jewel of an island, where all the main trade routes crossed, so its marketplace was always full of riches: intricate gold jewelery, fragrant spices, precious glazed ceramics, and the softest leatherwork. One sailor had a tame bird riding his shoulder, its feathers as red as blood, and one yellow eye beadily watching Milla as she slipped past.
She reached the main marketplace and breathed in deeply, half closing her eyes, enjoying the familiar smell of the market: sweet cinnamon doughnuts frying in a large pan to her left, strong dark coffee brewing in a tall metal pot on a stall to her right, the warm stink of pack mules patiently waiting in the shade. But when she opened them, blinking, Milla saw there was something wrong. People huddled in tight groups, looking around uneasily.
There were too many guardsmen here, spreading out through the marketplace like a dirty stain. Their black uniforms outnumbered the colorful hotchpotch of ordinary clothes.
Milla speeded up, heading to her friend Rosa’s stall. As she jostled her way through the crowd, a guardsman turned and sneered, “What’s your hurry?” He paused to stick one foot out, very deliberately.
Too late to avoid it, Milla tripped. She sprawled forward, baskets flying, skinning her palms on the loose gravel. Hot and humiliated, she spat away dust and wearily climbed to her feet.
“Oi! You bully. Haven’t you got anything better to do?” Rosa was there, helping Milla to stand and dust off her tunic.
The guard was smirking, still enjoying Milla’s fall.
“Leave it, Rosa, it’s not worth it,” Milla hissed. She’d seen people beaten and arrested for less.
But Rosa bawled out, so loudly that everyone stopped to stare, “Oh, wait, don’t tell me, that’s the only way you can get a girl to notice you?”
Snickers of amusement passed through the crowd.
Milla saw the guardsman flush crimson. His eyes narrowed as he glared at Rosa.
She watched in horror as his hand flew to the hilt of his sword.
Thinking fast, Milla reached out and tickled the hind leg of a tethered mule with the scratchy handle of her basket. The mule kicked out, knocking over a tall jar of wine, which spilled in the dust like blood. The stallholders began arguing, voices raised, hands waving. In the hubbub, no one was looking at the girls.
Milla tugged Rosa quickly away through the crowd, back to her stall. “You shouldn’t antagonize them.” She knew Rosa’s family couldn’t afford the release fee if she was arrested.
“I’m sick of it! Who do they think they are? He wouldn’t dare trip a Norlander maid. Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, really.” She ignored the pain in her hands and glanced backward to check no one was following them. “But thank you.”
Now that they were safe, they turned and hugged each other hard.
“How are you? How was last night?” Milla demanded.
Rosa grinned broadly and wiggled herself up to perch on the wooden planks of her family’s stall, laid out with fruit, cheese, and Sartolan wine imported from the mainland. “You should’ve come down here—we missed you at the street party …”
“You did take some wine!” Milla whispered. “I knew it!”
“I shared it,” Rosa said mock-defensively. “Made me some new friends, that bottle did. And not all of them were boring.” She told Milla about her evening, making her laugh for the first time that day.
“I wish I’d been there …”
“Did they leave you behind again?” A shadow of concern passed over Rosa’s beautiful heart-shaped face. She had huge brown eyes, usually full of laughter, and her tight black plaits stuck out sideways from under her red scarf.
Milla said, “First, tell me, what’s all this about?” She tilted her head surreptitiously toward the duke’s soldiers. “What are people saying? What’s going on?” Gossip flowed downhill in Arcosi, like the spring water, gathering momentum along the way. Rosa always knew the latest.
“Haven’t you heard? They say the duke had an unexpected guest at his precious ball, doom and gloom all around.” She retold an exaggerated version of the old woman’s outburst at the palace. “It’s the curse of Arcosi, Dad says, just like the old days.”
“What curse of Arcosi? That’s rubbish! No one ever said the city was cursed before last night.” Milla shivered. She didn’t want to hear about curses, not today.
“You know—the legacy of mad Duke Rufus? Last duke of Old Arcosi? Won the war against Sartola on his dragon, then vanished?” Rosa asked. “Every kid knows that one.”
“I work for Norlanders; they have different stories.” Milla watched the soldiers moving from stall to stall. “So, is that who they’re looking for? That old woman from the ball?” She remembered the duke’s offer of a reward for her capture.
“Nah, watch them. They’re looking for something quite small, something that would fit in those crates.”
Milla felt the blood rush to her cheeks at this news. They must be searching for the eggs.
With her heart banging out a protest, Milla watched the soldiers rummage through the stall opposite them. Had they searched the Yellow House yet? She gripped her baskets tightly, resisting the urge to run home and check. She hoped her flush didn’t show.
“See how nice they are with the Norlander marketfolk.” Rosa swore at them quietly. “Bet we get it worse. Sartolans always do, even when we outnumber them. Especially then …”
“I’ll stay with you,” Milla said. “And to answer your question, no, they didn’t leave me behind. I was there …”
“What? You saw the duke?” Rosa almost fell off the stall. “What’s he like? And his son—isn’t he gorgeous?” She put a hand on Milla’s sleeve, smiling now as she remembered. “I did see him, last year, lovely eyes …”
Milla glanced away from the soldiers for a moment, thinking of Vigo, and immediately of Tarya. If the betrothal took place, Tarya would be talked about like this. Every dress, every gesture, every word would be commented on, till she was something both less and more than a real person. How would Tarya live with that kind of scrutiny?
Rosa was watching and misread her hesitation. “Oh, well, if you don’t want to tell me—”
“It’s not that,” Milla said quickly. “I was thinking of something Vigo said …”
“Vigo? Oh! First names, is it? You didn’t really speak to him?”
Milla nodded, seeing Rosa’s expression change.
“Oh, so you don’t need to hear all this from me if you were actually there!” Rosa snapped, hurt. “Well, just make sure you don’t forget your real friends, next time you’re dancing at the palace with the duke’s own son …”
Milla started saying, “I didn’t dance with him—” but she was interrupted by the duke’s soldiers reaching them.
“Open these crates up, quickly now,” the officer said, banging loudly on the wooden slats of the stall.
One of the younger soldiers lifted a box of fruit awkwardly and then dropped it again.
“Hey!” Rosa shouted. “You’ll bruise the fruit. Careful!”
The officer cuffed the younger man around the ear, growling, “Did you forget the duke’s orders? This cargo is fragile. Anyone breaks it, anyone hides it, they pay with their life, got it?”
With their life? Milla’s mouth felt as dry as sunbaked sand. The duke really wanted those eggs. The assassin must have been working for him. He must have reported back to the duke. Perhaps they were searching the Yellow House right now. Whose life would they take if they found the eggs there?