We walked until the street opened abruptly to a square of shops, all clad with huge, clean windows. Each one was fit with flower boxes and fresh, bright paint. Clove stopped before the first shop on the corner, straightening his hat. The sign that hung over the street read FROCKS & LIVERIES.
He pushed open the door and I followed him into the warm shop, where a woman was crouched beside a dress form, needle in hand.
She looked up with her head tilted to the side, eyes raking over us from top to bottom. “May I help you?” The question sounded like an accusation.
Clove cleared his throat. “We need a frock. One fit for a gala.” I rounded on him, stunned, but before I could object, he was speaking again. “And we’ll need it tomorrow.”
The woman rose, sticking the needle into a cushion on her wrist with a flick. “Then you had better have the coin to pay me to sew through the night.”
“It’s not a problem,” Clove answered.
She seemed to consider it for a moment before she wove through the bolts of cloth piled on the long wooden counter. “New silks just came in yesterday. No one in Bastian has anything like this yet.”
Clove ignored my icy stare, following her to the window that looked out over the street.
“What is this?” I whispered, pulling on the sleeve of his jacket.
“You’re just going to have to trust me.”
I was as angry with myself as I was with him. I should have known the moment I saw Clove on Zola’s ship that Saint was up to something. Now I was entangled in whatever scheme they’d hatched and it wasn’t likely that I’d come out unscathed.
His hand moved over the different fabrics carefully, his lips pursing before he picked one up. “This one.”
It was the richest of blues, the color of the sea on sunny days when it was too deep to see the bottom. The dark fabric shimmered as it caught the light. I couldn’t imagine what Clove could possibly have planned that would warrant a frock made of something so fine, but I had a feeling I wouldn’t like it.
“All right, let’s get you up there. Everything off.” The woman wrapped her arms around the dress form, tipping backward to set it against the wall.
The curtain in front of the mirror closed with a whoosh, and then she was staring at me, both hands on her hips. “Well? Come on.”
I groaned before I pulled my shirt over my head and unclipped the wrap over my breasts. She hung it up, tsking as she smoothed out the trousers and rubbed at the creases in the wool.
“Now let’s look at you.” Her eyes moved over my naked body, and she frowned when she saw the scar on my arm and the stitches in my leg. They weren’t my only marks. “Well, I suppose we can cover those. Turn.”
I reluctantly obeyed, giving her my back, and when I met Clove’s eyes over the curtain, he was smirking again. I flinched when her cold hands took my waist, running up the length of my ribs.
“All right,” she said.
She pushed out of the curtain and returned holding a roll of stiff white fabric with laces. I cringed. “Is that…?”
“Corset, my dear.” She smiled sweetly. “Arms up.”
I bit down onto my bottom lip to keep from cursing and turned again so she could fit it around me. She jerked at the laces until my sore ribs were screaming and I pressed my hands against the wall to steady myself.
“You’ve never worn a corset?” The woman’s tone turned up.
“No,” I snapped. My mother had never put me in one and I’d had no need for one on Jeval.
She fit the panniers around my waist next, tying the strings so the shape of the hoops bulged at each of my hips. Then she started on the silk, cutting and draping and pinning until the form of a frock took shape. It wasn’t until she pulled the curtain open that she turned me around and I saw what she was doing.
My reflection appeared in the gold-framed mirror and I sucked in a breath, stepping back.
The garment was fitted at the bodice, wrapping closed in the front so the skin between my breasts came to a sharp point beneath the folds of the fabric. The sleeves were no more than shredded blue silk waiting to be pinned, but the skirt was full, rippling like waves around me.
“I’ll need pockets,” I said, swallowing.
“Pockets?” she huffed. “Why on earth would you need pockets?”
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t going to tell her it was for my knife, or explain why I’d need one at a gala.
“Just do it,” Clove called from behind her.
“Wait here.” The woman sighed before she disappeared into the back of the shop.
Clove sat in the chair, taking in the sight of me. When he saw my face, he tried not to laugh.
“Enjoying yourself?” I muttered.
His mouth twisted up on one side again. “Your mother wouldn’t have been caught dead wearing that thing.”
I was struck by the ease with which we’d slid into the old rhythms between us when only hours ago I’d been ready to kill him. Growing up, there wasn’t a day I wasn’t stuck to his side on the ship or at port. Looking at him now, I felt like I was ten years old again. And that feeling made me miss my mother.
“What happened between Zola and Isolde?” I asked softly, not sure I really wanted the answer.
Clove sat up straighter, pulling at the collar of his shirt. “What do you mean?”
“Saint told me they had history. What kind of history?”
He gave away more than he knew when he wouldn’t meet my gaze. “I think you should talk to Saint about that.”
“I’m asking you.”
He rubbed his hands over his face, letting out a long breath. When he leaned back into the chair, he looked at me for a long moment. “Zola had just established trade in Bastian when he met Isolde. She was trading at the merchant’s house, and I guess she saw a way out.”
“Out of what?”
“Whatever she was running from.” He clenched his jaw. “She struck a deal with Zola and took a place on his crew as one of his dredgers. But he wanted more from her than her skill with the gems. I don’t know what happened between them, but whatever it was, it was bad enough for her to pay him everything she’d saved to get off the Luna.”
I cringed, trying not to imagine what it could have been. “And then she met Saint.”
“Then she met Saint,” he repeated. “And everything changed.”
“How did she get him to take her on?”
“I don’t think he really had a choice. He was ruined for Isolde the first day she sat down beside him at Griff’s tavern.”
Griff’s. I couldn’t help but grin at that.
“They were friends. And then they were more,” he said, his eyes drifting like he was lost in thought. “And then there was you.”
I smiled sadly. The earliest memories I had were of both of them—Saint and Isolde. And they were cast in warm, golden light. Untouched by everything that came after. They’d found each other.
I took West’s ring from where it hung around my neck, holding it before me. I’d felt that way when he kissed me in Tempest Snare. Like we were a world of our own. We had been, in that moment.
If the rumors in Sagsay Holm were true, West was ready to give up the Marigold and everything else. I had to finish what my father started if I was going to keep that from happening.
“He couldn’t have planned this,” I said, almost to myself.
“What?”
“Saint. He didn’t know I’d left Jeval until I saw him in Ceros.” I was putting it together slowly. “I wasn’t a part of his plan until West took me on.”
Clove stared at me.
“Am I right?” But I didn’t need an answer. The truth of it was in his silence. “When I showed up at his post, Saint didn’t want anything to do with me. But when he saw me leaving the harbor on the Marigold that night, he wanted me off that ship. And he saw a way to use me.”
I shook my head, half-laughing at the absurdity of it. There was more to the story than I knew. “What did Zola mean
when he said that West is like Saint?”
Clove shrugged. “You know what it means.”
“If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking.”
“He’s got a lot of demons, Fay.”
“We all do.” I gave him a knowing look.
“I guess that’s true enough.”
I crossed my arms, ignoring the way the silk threatened to pull open at the seams. I was so tired of secrets. So tired of lies. “I’m here, Clove. For you and for Saint. You owe me a hell of a lot more than this.”
His eyes narrowed. “Owe you?”
I lifted both eyebrows, looking down my nose at him. “Saint’s not the only one who left me on that beach.”
His jaw ticked. “Fay, I’m—”
“I don’t want an apology. I want the truth.”
His eyes dropped for a moment to West’s ring hanging around my neck. “I was wondering if the two of you were…” He didn’t finish, hesitating before he went on. “West does what Saint needs done. Whatever it is. And it’s usually pretty dirty work.”
“Like Sowan?” I asked in a low voice.
He nodded. “Like Sowan. He’s been Saint’s guy for a long time.”
“That’s why Saint let him have the Marigold,” I mumbled. He’d earned it.
Clove leaned forward to set his elbows onto his knees. “He’s dangerous, Fay,” he said more gently. “You need to be careful with that one.”
I told myself it wasn’t anything I didn’t already know. The Marigold was a shadow ship, and that came with shadow work. But I had a feeling that even the crew didn’t know about everything West did for my father.
The night West told me he loved me, he’d also told me about Sowan. About a merchant whose operation he’d sunk on Saint’s request. What he hadn’t said was that it was one of many similar stories or that my father’s deeds were the heaviest of the burdens he carried.
Don’t lie to me and I won’t lie to you. Ever.
The only promise we’d made to each other West had already broken.
THIRTEEN
I watched the drip of water into the basin where the shape of me was rippling. The deep blue of the frock set the red in my hair aflame, my cheeks glowing with rouge.
My skin was too warm beneath the dress. The room Zola had put me in at the tavern had a hearth stacked with a blazing fire and a bed stuffed with soft down on which I hadn’t been able to bring myself to sleep.
I wasn’t sure who he was trying to impress. There was no amount of luxury that could wash him clean of what he was. If I had to guess, I’d say the scar on Willa’s face and the Marigold’s slashed sails were probably the least of his sins.
The silk hugged my body tightly, the skirts swishing as I made my way down the steps into the tavern. Clove and Zola sat at a table in the farthest corner drinking rye. They were both dressed in fine tailored coats fit with shining brass buttons, unruly hair trimmed and combed back away from their windblown faces. A flicker of recognition flashed before my eyes. Clove had always been rough around his edges, but he looked younger in the expensive green wool, his blond hair shining.
He sat up straighter when he saw me, setting down the rye glass he was sipping from, and I was instantly embarrassed, catching my reflection in the window. My hair was pulled up in loose curls, pinned to make a halo around the crown of my head, and the light shimmered over the frock.
I looked utterly ridiculous.
“Well, well…” Zola’s eyes dragged over me from head to toe. “What do you think?” He stood from the chair, showing off his coat with a flourish of his hand.
I gave him a withering look. “I think I’m ready to get this over with so I can get the hell out of here.”
Clove drained his glass before he stood and opened the door of the tavern. The cold wind rushed in, making me shiver. I’d decided to leave the cloak Clove purchased for me in the room because when I’d set it on my shoulders, I felt like I was suffocating beneath its weight. Still, the cold was a welcome relief from the heat simmering under my skin.
Clove had given me his word that in a few hours, he would tell me the truth. Tomorrow, I’d be on my way back to the the Narrows. I’d be able to find the Marigold before West did even more damage than what was already done.
The heels of my shoes clicked as I walked in Zola’s wake. Despite his attempt at arrogance, I could see he was nervous. He was missing the usual rock to his gait, his mouth pressing into a hard line as he moved down the street. He watched the ground, thinking. Measuring. Calculating.
He led us through the city, and the farther we walked, the more beautiful it became. Dusk painted Bastian in soft pinks and purples, and the white stone buildings caught their hues, making everything look like it was from a dream.
The cobblestones bled from rough, paved rectangles to polished granite squares as we made another turn, and Zola stopped, looking at the shining marble face of a grand building in the distance.
A series of enormous arches stood over wide, gleaming steps, where three sets of double doors were flung open to the night. Lantern light spilled out onto the street from inside, the race of shadows slipping into the dark.
The ornate plaque above the center doors read AZIMUTH HOUSE.
The first word was one I knew. It was a term used in celestial navigation to describe the bearing of the sun or moon or stars from one’s position. But house didn’t begin to describe what this was. Stone carvings covered every inch of the edifice in flowers and vines, and above them all, an expanse of night sky was adorned with a pearl-faced moon.
Zola was quiet, his gaze dropping from the arches to his boots.
My brow knit when I realized he was summoning up his courage and a wicked smile stretched up my cheek. I liked this version of Zola. He was unsure. He was afraid.
“Ready?” He glanced back at me but didn’t wait for an answer. He took off up the steps without us.
I looked to Clove. He was missing the hesitation that saddled Zola. And that could only mean one thing. Everything was going according to his plan.
He lifted a hand, gesturing for me to go first, and I picked up the heavy skirts, taking the stairs up to the doors. A gust of air whipped around me, pulling a few strands of hair from where they were pinned, and for a moment I felt like I was up on the mast of the Lark, leaning into the heavy wind. But the Lark had never felt more far away than it did now.
We slipped through the open doors and the warmth of the hall enveloped me as my eyes drifted up to the ceiling. Panes of painted murals set with gemstones looked down on us, too many to count. They were framed by stained glass windows in a kaleidoscope of colors that soaked the light of the hall with saturated hues. The people gathered below reflected their brilliant shades, dressed in colorful, shining fabrics. Coats in the richest reds and golds and expertly draped frocks moved like bleeding ink across the mosaicked floor. I looked down to the toes of my shoes. Beneath my feet, chips of amethyst and rose quartz and celestine fit together in the shape of a flower.
“What is this place?” I whispered to Clove.
He spoke low beside me, his eyes scanning the room. “Holland’s home.”
“She lives here?”
My fingers curled into my silk skirts. Large candelabras were lit throughout the hall, where trays of sparkling glasses floated through the crowd on the fingers of servers dressed in white. The gala’s guests filled the room, encircling glass cases that were framed in brushed bronze. Inside the one nearest to us, a glimmer caught my eye.
I could feel the gemstone before I could see it. The deep reverberation of it woke in the center of my chest, my lips parting as I walked toward the case and leaned over the glass. It was a piece of red beryl almost as big as my hand.
“What the…” The words dissolved.
I’d never seen anything like it. The color was a pale red, its face cut into intricate facets so my reflection was broken into pieces on the stone. There was no telling what it was worth.
The hall was an exhibit
of some kind, designed to showcase the expansive collection of gems. It looked like a museum.
“Find her,” Zola muttered, looking to Clove.
Clove met my eyes for a moment before he obeyed, shouldering through the people gathered between the next two cases.
Zola fell quiet, studying the room.
“You look nervous.” I folded my hands together behind my back, letting my head tip to one side.
He gave me a weak smile. “Do I?”
“Actually, you look terrified,” I said sweetly.
His jaw tightened as a silver tray appeared beside me. It was set with delicate etched glasses filled with a pale, bubbling liquid.
“Take one,” Zola said, plucking one up by the rim.
I untangled my fingers to reach up and take one of the drinks, giving it a sniff.
“It’s cava.” He grinned. “Saltbloods don’t drink rye.”
I took a sip, grimacing at the way it fizzed on my tongue. “When are you going to tell me what we’re doing here?”
“We’re waiting for the woman of the hour.” Zola rocked back onto his heels. “Should be any minute now.” I watched him gulp down the glass and reach for another.
The light cast his skin in a warm brown that made his face almost handsome, and I couldn’t help but think he didn’t look like a monster. Maybe that was why Isolde stepped onto the Luna that day. I wondered how long it took her to find out she was wrong.
“I want to ask you a question,” I said, cupping my hands around the narrow glass.
“Then ask it.”
I watched him carefully. “What were you to my mother?”
A twinkle lit in his eyes as he surveyed me. “Ah. That depends on who you ask.” His voice lowered conspiratorially. “A helmsman. A savior.” He paused. “A villain. Which version of the story do you want to hear?”
I took another long drink and the cava burned in my throat. “Why did she leave the Luna?”
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