by Liz Flanagan
She licked her dry lips and managed to ask hoarsely, “What is it you’re looking for?”
“Hold your tongue, missy. None of your business!” the man shouted at her, muttering about Sartolans as he turned away.
The younger soldier met Milla’s eye. He wasn’t Norlander either: as the duke’s army expanded relentlessly, it was forced to let others in at the lower ranks. Sorry! he mouthed, and hurried after the older man.
“Oi, what about the peaches? You can’t just ruin them and walk away!” Rosa called after them. “Mom and Dad will go mad.” She jumped down and gathered up the fruit that had been spilled.
“Look at these, all bruised now. I bet we don’t even cover the cost of the stall today. It’s so unfair. One day,” she said hotly, “one day soon, I’m going to do something about this.” Rosa stood up carefully, with her apron full of dusty peaches, glaring across the marketplace with open resentment. “I swear I will!”
The shady side was reserved for stallholders of Norlander descent: the coolness protected their wares. Milla could have shopped there—Nestan’s paperwork permitted it—but she stayed loyal to Rosa, knowing how tough times were. She’d never heard Rosa sound so bitter, so ready to snap.
“Josi wants a load of stuff; just add those in, she’ll stew them up tonight,” Milla said, giving Rosa her list. With an effort, she made her voice sound normal. “Thanks, Rosa. You know, I wish I’d been here with you last night, don’t you?” It was mostly true. “Promise? I’ll see you next week.” Milla had a half day’s rest every second week and she always spent it with Rosa and Thom.
She kissed Rosa on both cheeks and hurried away, balancing a basket on each arm, heading for the smugglers’ steps to avoid more patrols. As she rushed along the crowded dockside, a piercing whistle split the air.
“Milla!” Thom Windlass was standing on the dock next to his father’s fishing boat, the Dolphin, poised by the thick coil of rope that bound it fast. His wide, handsome face lit up at the sight of her.
“Thom!” She couldn’t help grinning back.
“Hey, stranger! Where were you last night?”
Smiling at Thom, with the sparkling sea behind him, this morning’s dream resurfaced briefly: that sense of freedom, that fleeting tune. It faded again, leaving Milla aching for it.
“I was at the palace, with the twins.” She gestured up the hill. “Anyway, what are you doing, going out at this time?” She caught sight of the empty crates he’d just loaded, and teased, “Late start, is it, after the parties?”
“Gotta be joking, Milla. Going out again, you mean. Dad would never sleep in; it’s in his blood to be up before dawn.” Thom looked tired. His large brown eyes were ringed with shadows. “Great party, though. Those fireworks! Did you see them, from up there?”
“Sure. But why two trips today?” Milla knew Simeon Windlass was hardworking, but this wasn’t right.
“Winds are changing. Storm coming, Dad says. First of the autumn, and big, too. We won’t put out of harbor for days, so we got to do double till it brews.”
“I’ll let you get out, then,” she said. “May the winds be swift and the tides be kind,” she added, using the old sailors’ blessing. She put her baskets down and rummaged in one. “Here, Rosa gave me extra peaches—catch!”
“Thanks,” Thom said. “You take care in the storm.” That was typical of Thom, thinking of her when he was the one who’d be out in it.
“Now, Thomsen!” Simeon roared suddenly, all his preparations complete.
Thom jumped to obey. He uncoiled the heavy rope and twined it in a loop around his arm, then leapt the growing gap between dock and boat. He cleared it easily with his long legs.
“When?” Milla thought to shout, just as she reached the steps. “How long before the storm?”
Simeon looked at the sky. “By dawn tomorrow, it’ll be here.”
“Home safe, both of you!”
Thom nodded in farewell, the peach clenched between his teeth as his hands worked to stow the ropes.
Milla dashed for the steps. She turned, briefly, just as the Dolphin passed through the massive harbor gates—the sea suddenly came alive and the boat was tossed around. It crested one wave and then disappeared into the trough of the next.
Then she turned her back on her friend and ran to see if her secret had been discovered. The officer’s words kept echoing through her mind: they pay with their life; they pay with their life.
She didn’t stop running till she reached the smokehouse. Forgetting caution, she dropped her baskets outside and dashed straight in to check on the eggs.
She sighed and patted the pockets gently. “Hello there, how are you?” she whispered, opening the blue pocket first.
She sang to the blue egg, the half-remembered tune from her dream, lingering there in the gloom till people started yelling her name and she was summoned back to work.
The storm hit Arcosi in the night, just as Thom and Simeon had warned. Milla jerked awake, startled by the rain on the roof like pattering feet.
The eggs! What if they got wet?
She must have checked on them a dozen times yesterday. Now she padded down through the darkened house. When she opened the door, the wind almost wrenched it from her grasp. She held it with difficulty, cursing in whispers, stopping it before it slammed against the wall and woke everyone inside. Moments later, in the velvety darkness of the smokehouse, she lifted down the bag with the eggs and placed it around her neck. They were dry. They were safe.
It was a risk, but she curled her body carefully around the bag and dozed through the night with them. The dreams returned.
She was back in that perfect blue, speeding through mist, hair streaming behind her. She sang the five notes: up and down again. Then she threw her head back and laughed, letting the wind snatch her breath away. When she looked down, her hands touched cool blue scales …
Milla woke with a start. She sat up, breathing hard. The bag was there.
“Morning,” she whispered, bending down to stroke the blue egg with a fingertip. “I’m glad you’re inside, out of this storm. You stay here and no one will find you.”
The eggs were warm, maybe even warmer than yesterday, which seemed odd. Milla had let the smokehouse fire go out because of the storm. But perhaps the eggs retained heat?
She spoke quietly to the eggs: “Wish me luck, stuck inside today with the twins and their father, all of them in moods as dark as that sky.
“Tarya’s protesting her betrothal—not sure how long she’ll keep that one up. Isak’s not speaking to anyone, and that’s even worse.”
She rocked them slowly, absentmindedly humming that five-note tune again. “Nestan’s feeling guilty about them both. That always makes him grumpy, so he’s shouting and fussing and we’ve all got to jump to it …
“Looks like that killer got clean away, too. No one’s seen him since. You’re safe here, don’t you worry. At least the soldiers haven’t come to search here yet.”
On she crooned, telling the eggs everything that was on her mind. It felt good to be speaking honestly to someone, even if they couldn’t reply. What had life been like before the eggs? She could barely recall: it was as if they’d always been here. At the back of her mind, the need to decide what to do with them flapped anxiously, trying to get her attention, but she looked away.
She heard a movement in the kitchen on the other side of the chimney. Josi was awake, hanging the kettle on its hook to boil.
“Bye-bye, eggs,” Milla said. “See you soon.” She walked, yawning, into the kitchen, as if everything were normal, as if every bone in her body didn’t scream to stay there in the dark with the eggs. She’d never had anything of her own to look after before.
That must be why she thought of them every waking hour. Every breath. Every heartbeat.
When Milla had left the smokehouse, from deep inside the pannier came an answering noise: Tap! Tap, tap!
Milla built fires, carried water, washed clothes, and wr
ung them out to dry. She cooked breakfast, washed plates, chopped wood, and fed fires. It was still only the middle of the morning when the duke’s soldiers arrived.
Milla was crossing to the kitchen door with a handful of hen’s eggs she’d just collected from the chicken roost, when Finn opened the gate and let the guards file in, six tall men in the duke’s black livery.
This was it. They’d found her. They knew about the bag. Everything seemed to move in slow motion: her fingers dropping the hen’s eggs, the bright splash of yolk across the slick wet tiles.
“Milla? Are you all right?” Finn put a gentle hand on her arm.
The soldiers were blocking the gate. There was nowhere to run. “The twins,” she managed to croak. Surely there was time for goodbye, before they took her? She ran for the stairs.
Tarya was playing chess against herself, in the middle of her crumpled bed, but she jumped up when Milla burst in. “What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
There was a boulder on Milla’s chest, stopping her from speaking. Instead, she put her arms around Tarya and hugged her hard for the last time as tears came spilling from her eyes.
“Hey! What is it?”
Lanys knocked at the door. “It’s Her Grace the Duchess Serina and His Grace Vigo Refarson, to see Lady Tarya …”
Tarya pulled away as if she’d been stung.
Relief flooded through Milla. The soldiers weren’t here for the bag of eggs! They weren’t here to take her away. That ebbed as she realized they were here to take Tarya away. Maybe not now, but one day soon, it would happen. She sniffed hard, wiping her eyes on her sleeve.
“No! Not here!” Tarya began pacing wildly, like a newly caged bird. “Milla, I can’t talk to him.” Her eyes were wide with distress and her hair stood out in crazed tufts, like a ruff of feathers. As she passed the low table, her nightdress caught a plate and swept it to the floor with a crash.
Milla swooped to remove the shards before Tarya stood on them. She came back to herself with a rush: she had a job to do, right here. Tarya needed her.
“Shh, go steady, or you’ll hurt yourself.” She moved fast now, pulling a dress from Tarya’s clothes chest. “Here, let’s get this on.” Then she knotted a scarlet wrap around Tarya’s shoulders and replaited her thick hair. “There, that’ll do.” Milla put her hands on Tarya’s shoulders. “He’s come out in a storm to see you. You can’t leave him waiting. Ready?”
“Well, I bet he came in a carriage—you just check if his feet are dry.” But Tarya raised her chin and stood tall, shoulders braced back. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Don’t leave me, Milla?”
“I won’t.”
They walked down into Nestan’s favorite room, where the tall glass windows showed the raging tempest outside. Huge, white-topped waves flung themselves at the island, battering against the harbor wall, furious at being locked out. Serina and Vigo were indeed perfectly dry, in their silks and velvet cloaks, sitting in the best chairs while Lanys served them drinks. Nestan and Isak were both watching Tarya approach, as if she were a keg of firepowder and Vigo held a flame.
Nestan stood, clearing his throat. “Ah, here’s my daughter, Lady Tarya.”
When all the formal greetings were done, Serina asked, “And this is?” She was smiling at Milla.
“Ah, yes. This is Milla,” Nestan said. “My daughter’s maid and companion. She’s been with us almost all her life.”
Lanys glowered at this warm introduction.
Milla was grateful for the welcome, ignoring Lanys’s glare and that tricky little word—almost all her life. When would she ever learn about where she came from? She pulled her thoughts out of this well-worn track and busied herself handing around a plate of Josi’s famous almond cake.
After a while, the chatter petered out. Duchess Serina stood, asking, “May I go and compliment your cook on her cake? I’d like her recipe.”
Nestan offered her his arm. “Of course, Your Grace, I’d be delighted to introduce you.” They left the room.
Isak coughed and stood, adjusting his glasses. “Excuse me. I need to go … and check on … something. Lanys, can you help?” He backed out of the room, staring hard at Lanys till she followed him.
Tarya sprang up, keeping her back to Vigo. Don’t you dare! she mouthed at Milla. Don’t leave me!
Milla met Tarya’s eyes and nodded once, then went to tidy the drinks tray in the corner.
“So,” Vigo began, standing, too, “I don’t think I made myself clear at the ball. That is …”
“No, you were very clear,” Tarya said softly.
Uh-oh, Milla thought. She recognized that tone, soft as a cat’s paw, right before the claws came out and slashed you across the cheek. Tell him! Tell him you don’t want to marry him, and we can stay together, like always.
“That is, I thought we could start to … spend … er, time. Get to know … each other. Before …” Each word sounded effortful.
Tarya laughed, but it wasn’t a pleasant sound. “You’re not great at this, are you?” She eyed him curiously. “Do you have any actual friends? I mean, people who aren’t being paid, or living in fear of your father, or trying to snare you in marriage?” She counted off the categories on her fingers.
Milla glanced at the duke’s son to see how he’d take this.
Vigo flushed, but it only made him look more handsome, the color spreading across his bronze cheekbones. “That’s hardly my fault. There’s my cousin Luca in Sartola—he’s a friend. And there used to be Jonas, the head stableman’s son, but his family was blacklisted. I think they live in the lower town now.”
“You think? Didn’t you check?” Tarya asked him.
“Should I have?”
“A friend would check.”
“Well, anyway, what about you? What friends do you have?” Vigo turned it back on her.
“I don’t have friends,” Tarya said simply. “I have Isak and Milla. That’s all I need.”
“And how’s that different from me?” Vigo pushed.
“We’ve known each other all our lives, haven’t we, Milla?”
Milla nodded, warily.
“Yes, but she works here, right? So she can’t disagree with you. Not really. Not without risking her job.”
Tarya paused, looking thoughtful. “You tell me, don’t you, Milla? When you think I’m wrong? You just did!”
“Yes, of course.”
“See!” Vigo said. “That’s exactly what I mean—she’s never going to say you’re wrong. That’s what it’s like for us. That’s why we get so … lonely.” He was being honest now, Milla saw, and she almost felt sorry for him. “I talk to my mom, my cousin, my horses. Everyone else just tells me what they think I want to hear.”
Tarya stepped closer, listening. “You have horses? How many?”
“Two. My old pony that I’ve outgrown, and the new chestnut colt I’m training. Do you ride?”
“When I can. My black mare, Greti. It’s hardly fair on this island, riding in tight circles, like trapped rats. Oh, I’d love to ride on Sartola one day: gallop along the plains! Have you done that?”
“Yes! When we visit my uncle.”
“What’s it like?” Tarya’s face grew animated as they talked about riding.
“… and you can use the palace riding trails,” Vigo said, “when we’re married—”
“When?” Tarya jerked back.
“Yes, you can bring Greti and—”
“Oh, I can, can I? Wait a moment,” Tarya said frostily. “You haven’t heard my answer. You’ve barely asked the question. Or do you think I’ll be another one of these people who just tells you what you want to hear?” Now she let rip, at top volume. “Well, I’m afraid you’re wrong about me, Your Grace. I make my own decisions. I won’t trot along and do as I’m told. Not now, and not ever!” Tarya ran straight out of the door, heading down the steps, past the assembled guards, and out of the gates into the street.
“Excuse me, Your Grace, I must follow
her.” Milla bobbed a quick curtsy and turned to dash after Tarya.
But when she’d glanced up at Vigo’s face, he wasn’t upset by Tarya’s tirade. He looked delighted. He looked relieved.
Tarya!” Milla kept her head down, squinting against the rain, almost blown sideways as gusts caught her. The streets of Arcosi were empty, streaming with fast-flowing water. Soon she was cold and soaked through, but she followed Tarya’s fluttering red scarf, catching glimpses to guide her way. She was heading right into the north of the island. There was a narrow neighborhood of abandoned houses no one had ever moved into, in the very north where the sun never reached. People called it the shadow strip. People said it was haunted.
Tarya darted ahead, slipping into the garden of one of these abandoned villas.
“Wait, Tarya!” Milla yelled. “Wait for me! Where are you going?” She followed her under a crumbling arch into the walled garden. To her right, a house reared up. Once elegant and gracious, it looked strange and dejected, one gaping window sprouting weeds and ivy. Milla watched a bird fly in through a jagged hole in the roof.
“So a haunted house is less scary than the duke’s son?” Isak’s voice made Milla jump, startled. “Sounds like my sister.”
“Oh, Isak, you came, too! I didn’t hear you.” Knowing that he’d come after her made Milla feel less cold suddenly. “I think she’s gone in here. Let’s get out of the rain.”
His cheeks were pink, his glasses steamed up, and his hair was dripping wet. But he grinned at her. “Come on, let’s find her.” He offered his hand.
Milla took it, finding comfort in the warmth of his fingers.
They walked deeper into the garden. Tarya was there, her dress and scarf soaked through, her hands tracing over the intricate stonework of the ancient wall. “Hey, you two. Come look at this. Dragons!”
“Where?” Milla asked quickly.
“Look, here! Ah, they’re so beautiful.”