The Turnaway Girls
Page 14
When she pulls away, she holds her palms to my temples. “I knew it was you,” she says. “Delphernia Sveglia Harpermall.”
The Sea-Singer — my mother, my mother — stands, turning toward the kneeling Masters. She looks over the tops of their heads. Looks at Mr. Crowwith.
“Bind his hands,” she says.
“Sveglia —” he cries. “You must understand — I only did what the Ninth King asked of me —” He struggles against the Masters encircling him.
“And now the Masters will do what I ask of them,” says the Sea-Singer, turning to face us again, ignoring Mr. Crowwith.
“Sveglia!” he screams.
She snaps her chin in his direction. “Why don’t you show off that silence you’re so famed for,” she says sweetly, “and close your mouth.”
In glistening night, I walk through what was once the Garden of All Silences. It’s filled with the smell of soil and the promise of new leaves.
One day, there will be a tongue-fruit tree for every soul who loved me enough to listen to my voice. One for Linna. One for Bly. One for Fable. One for each of the cloisterwings. And of course there’ll be a tree for the Sea-Singer.
My mother.
Our mother.
Voices lift from a distance, darned with the strains of stone-flutes. Tonight is the Festival of Shimmer. The Masters have collected the gold that Mr. Crowwith makes in his underground prison. They’re weighing it now on the beach, eating sapsweet puddings as Linna teaches them how to knead the fresh glow of music into metal — and how to improve their playing. She’s an education for their ears.
I look across the sheen of the ocean, following the path of rocks to where the cloister used to be. It’s only a pile of burnt hushingstone now. Mother Nine has a grave there. I do not visit. Sometimes her words still kick up in my heart, but I’ve learned to dampen them with singing.
We found the loosed turnaway girls crouched among boulders, shivering, the older ones holding the babies. They live at Sorrowhall now. The ones my age and younger still don’t have questions, but they like to shine polished gold, catch warped glimpses of their eyes in sun-skimmed plates. Some of the older ones have made themselves little crowns. This pleases Fable.
I open my mouth and a song unwinds from my chest, but there’s no gleam pushing through.
I haven’t sung the souls of birds since the day I met my mother. To make a bird’s soul, the singer must be trapped, and I’m done with that — I’m free.
And so are the cloisterwings.
Sometimes I feel Mimm and Trick nudging my cheeks as I’m waking from sleep. Then I remember they’re gone.
But I am not afraid.
I won’t worry for feathers.
I’ve planted a garden, and I know — I know, I know — the birds will come.
I could not have written this book without my brilliant agent, Patricia Nelson, who pointed the way to Blightsend. Thank you for believing in my work from the very beginning, Patricia. You have made my biggest dreams come true. Here’s to many more stories about magical girls with secrets.
Miriam Newman, my phenomenal editor, helped me turn an unruly manuscript into a book. Thank you so much, Miriam. Working with you has been a gift. I couldn’t have done this without your insight, passion, and determination. Thank you for loving Delphernia and Linna as much as I do.
To everyone at Candlewick Press and Walker Books: thank you for working so hard to get my strange little book out into the world. Special thanks must go to Pam Consolazio for making The Turnaway Girls prettier than I ever could have imagined, and to Sarah J. Coleman for creating such an evocative jacket for this story. (Sarah, you sing with ink!) Thank you to Betsy Uhrig and Hannah Mahoney, both brilliant copyeditors, for noticing the details, and to Maggie Duffy, Emily Quill, and Martha Dwyer for catching inconsistencies. And a big, big thank-you to Karen Lotz for reading and suggesting changes.
To every person who read a version of The Turnaway Girls and offered advice: thank you. Your input has helped me shape this story into something I am proud of. I especially want to thank Susan Bishop Crispell, Kathryn Rose, and Heather Clark for their words of wisdom and encouragement. And thanks to Kheryn Callender for reading the earliest version of this story and cheering me on.
To my teachers: Mrs. Knight, who helped me believe I was intelligent enough to write in the first place, and Mrs. Krall, whose kindness got me through high school. Thanks to Alison Lowry, my first creative writing teacher, who told me not to be afraid of dark endings, and to the professors at the University of the Witwatersrand who deepened my love of languages and literature: Claudia Gianoglio, Alida Poeti, Tim Trengrove-Jones, Gerald Gaylard, and Merle Williams. Grazie mille.
To Kate Paterson, who, when I told her I was writing a novel, said, “Of course you are!” Kate, meeting you made five years of legal education worth it. Thank you for not doubting.
To my ouma, Petrusa Johanna Spies, who taught me to watch for fairies in the garden. Your imagination has inspired mine. Thank you.
To my sisters, Tamsyn, Chelsey, and Ashley Chewins, whose soul-shapes match mine. Thank you for teaching me what friendship is.
To my niece, Tatum Seymore, who said, “I want to read that!”
To my parents, Mark and Linell Chewins. Thank you for supporting me on this path. Thank you for loving me so much I couldn’t help but think I was capable of anything. You are my definition of extraordinary.
To my husband, Liale Francis, who looks after me in every possible sense and who introduced me to the songs that inspired this book. Liale, you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me. It would take a thousand pages to detail all the wonder you have added to my life. So I will just say this: thank you for everything. I love you.
Last, to Darfer, who reminded me who I was when I had forgotten.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or, if real, are used fictitiously.
Copyright © 2018 by Hayley Chewins
Cover illustration copyright © 2018 by Sarah J. Coleman
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in an information retrieval system in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, taping, and recording, without prior written permission from the publisher.
First electronic edition 2018
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number pending
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