Girls at the Edge of the World

by Laura Brooke Robson

  I shift my weight.

  “How do you think the Maapinnen people survived after the Flood?” Gospodin says in the calm that follows. His voice is level. Chipper, even.

  “Pardon?” I say, more to stall than because I didn’t understand him.

  When the Sacred Breath arrived to conquer Maapinn, the country was full of people who’d never heard of Antinous Kos. They had their own Flood legends, but no one ever wrote them down. Not like Captain’s Log, written and rewritten and translated so many times that the whole world knows it. So when you’re looking for a template for how to survive a Flood, it’s a lot easier to look at Kos than at the Maapinnen.

  “The Maapinnen.” Gospodin turns his gaze to me. I’ve never noticed how pretty his eyes are: brightly irised, blue, with long black lashes. “How do you think they survived the last Flood?”

  “Isn’t it a mystery?” I say.

  “Venture a guess.”

  I try to invent the answer Gospodin most wants to hear. “I guess they were good people? They adhered to the same virtues as Kos, even though they’d never read Captain’s Log?”

  He hmms. “Not a bad theory. Kos was the one who told us patience, hope, and resilience are the core virtues; doesn’t mean other people didn’t have them, though.”

  “‘In times of strife and storm,’” I quote, “‘we wait with fortitude.’”

  Gospodin’s eyebrows raise. “You really did read Captain’s Log, didn’t you?”

  “I told you I did.”

  “So now,” he says, “do you understand why it’s important to spread Kos’s message?”

  Captain’s Log was abundantly clear about it. “The more people who know Kos’s virtues—who know why the sea saved him—the more people who have a chance at surviving.”

  “Correct,” Gospodin says. “To teach a man about Kos is to save his life.”

  I nod, but my skin prickles under the heavy folds of my wool cloak. I wish that I believed Gospodin. Everything would be worlds easier if I could just convince myself that his logic is sound: The sea saves people who are patient, hopeful, resilient, good, and kills all the rest. If I believed it, I could relax. Just decide to be good. But from our pamphlet-laden table, I have a wide view of sea. It looks to me vast, gnarled, churning, a thing more ancient than words and more beautiful than song and more formidable than any beast I’ve ever seen.

  But does it watch us? Judge us?

  It’s already so much. It’s already so glorious and terrible without all the rest. I would worship it for what I know it is sooner than for the powers I’m told it has.

  My stomach is tight, so for a moment, I shut my eyes and listen to the sound of the waves.

  “You feel it too?” Gospodin says.

  I open my eyes. “What?”

  He nods at the waves. “The call. It hit me during Storm Four.”

  Is that was I was feeling? The same thing Katla and Ella told me about?

  “It’s the sea’s way of talking to you,” Gospodin says. “That’s another thing I’d wager the Maapinnen people did. Listened to the ocean. Worshipped the sea. Worshipped it differently than Kos but worshipped it all the same.”

  I press a hand to my stomach. “Really?”

  “Sing as the sea,” Gospodin says. “Interesting rallying cry, no?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “It’s part of an old Maapinnen song. Brightwallers say it because they’re trying to claim that they understand the ocean better than we do. Like the sea sings in a language only they can understand. But it’s an interesting rallying cry, because if they’d ever read Captain’s Log, they’d know Kos said something similar.”

  I try to remember everything I read. “He did?”

  “‘I will sing to the sea, and the sea will sing to me, for as long as I am good to it, it will show me its brilliance.’ Book Two.” Gospodin frowns. “Shame that Brightwallers these days seem more interested in vandalizing Our Lady and the royal fleet than worshipping the sea quietly, like the Maapinnen would’ve.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Right.”

  A girl, maybe seven years old, approaches our table. She wears a hat with flaps over her ears. If she has parents, they’re not here. She ignores the food and comes straight for me, pointing at my chest with a mittened hand.

  “You’re Natasha,” she says. “You’re my favorite.”

  I can feel Gospodin watching me. I come out from behind the table and crouch in front of the girl. Her eyebrows are so pale, I’m not convinced she has them. “I am. What’s your name?”

  “Livli,” she says.

  I rest my forearms on my knees so that I’m eye level with Livli. “Do you like flying?”

  “I never tried it,” she says. “I like watching it.”

  “Perhaps you can learn to fly in the New World,” Gospodin says.

  Livli gives me a skeptical look, awaiting my confirmation. She’s young; she isn’t stupid.

  I’m cold from the inside out. There’s a long silence, and I know what I’m meant to say: Yes, Livli, the ocean will save you. Yes, Livli, if you believe in the Sacred Breath, you will make it to the New World. Yes, Livli, if you’re patient, resilient, and hopeful, the ocean will protect you.

  The words are tar in my throat.

  “Miss Koskinen?” Gospodin says.

  “I very much hope the sea will save you,” I say.

  I have never loathed myself quite so acutely.

  “The sea’s going to save you?” Livli says.

  I turn my gaze to Gospodin, and with it, my loathing. “Only if I’m very good,” I say. “And do all the things the Sacred Breath tells us to do.”

  Gospodin smiles.

  * * *

  ~~~

  When the sun starts to droop behind the horizon, Gospodin says, “We’ll take it from here, Miss Koskinen. You’ve done well.”

  Have I? I feel grimy.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “I’ll see you at the bear season festival,” Gospodin says. “Nikolai’s announcement won't be far behind.”

  I try not to shiver.

  “And best of luck on your performance,” he says, smiling. “I know the city could use the cheer.”

  I turn his words over in my head as I walk away from the tables. Every time I start to think I have Gospodin figured, he twists to show me a new side. A man who was willing to expose his own father to the Sacred Breath is also a man concerned with how to make New Sundstad more cheerful.

  No sooner have I stepped onto the path home than I see two familiar heads bobbing down the street in front of me.

  “Ness!” I jog to catch up. “Sofie!”

  They turn in unison, their coats swishing the snow. Their lips are stained in identical cranberry smiles.

  I cross my arms. “You two went to the food drive?”

  “Don’t be annoyed,” Ness says.

  “We were visiting Pippa,” Sofie says. “We didn’t realize the food was for the hungry.”

  “I was hungry,” Ness says.

  “Remember how we talked about times to think before you speak?” Sofie says.

  I shake my head and fight a laugh. They look so pleased with themselves that I struggle to hold my annoyance.

  “Fine, little thieves,” I say. “Walk home with me?”

  We fall into step together.

  “What were you doing there?” Sofie asks.

  “Gospodin invited me to volunteer,” I say.

  “Really?” Ness says. “Mariner Gospodin himself?”

  Sofie whistles. “It sounds like you’ve made some progress, suitress.” I don’t hear any accusation in her tone.

  “Well,” I say. “We’ll see.”

  “Hey,” Ness says, “do you think René will make us spiced wine if I ask him nicely?”


  Sofie laughs. “Definitely not.”

  “What if you asked him?”

  Sofie considers. “Maybe.”

  “Why does he like you so much?” Ness asks.

  “Because I eat everything he cooks,” Sofie says. “Even when it’s fish stew.”

  For the first time in months, I feel the sense of togetherness that was once my favorite part of being a flyer. Ness links one of her arms through mine and the other through Sofie’s.

  I forgot how much I missed it.

  46

  ELLA

  A week before the bear season festival, I wake up to find half the flyers gone.

  “They really never invite me anywhere,” Gretta grumbles.

  They don’t get back until dusk—Sofie and Ness covered in berry juice, Natasha looking distracted. Her eyes meet mine once, but she looks away again quickly. Natasha disappears without saying anything.

  One more week. One more week, and I have to have a plan to kill Nikolai.

  Two more weeks, and she could be engaged to him.

  We’re about to head to dinner when one of the guards—I think his name is Zakarias—shows up with a letter. We huddle around it. Sofie lifts it to the lamplight to try to read through the envelope, but the paper is too thick. All we know is what it says on the envelope: To Miss Natasha Koskinen. On the back, Nikolai’s seal is embossed in golden wax.

  “Can anyone see anything?” Sofie says, squinting.

  “Are you sure that’s Nikolai’s seal?” Ness asks.

  “It says Seal of the King,” Sofie says. “I’m pretty sure it’s his seal.”

  “I think we should just open it,” Katla says.

  “Yeah,” I say, “that sounds more fun.”

  Ness snatches it from Sofie and holds it high above our heads. “No one opens this until Natasha gets back.”

  “Where is she, anyway?” Gretta says. “She’s getting as elusive as Ella.”

  “No fair,” I say. “Elusive is my epithet.”

  “See?” Gretta says. She waves at the other flyers. “Does no one else care that she talks like a noble and she’s not even from Kostrov? Does no one else think that’s odd?”

  “Not really,” Sofie says. “Here, give me the letter back.”

  A scuffle ensues, and in the end, Sofie reclaims the envelope. More important, she reclaims the attention of the room. I’d like to be mad at Gretta for being so annoying, but my indignation is somewhat inhibited by the fact that she’s completely correct.

  Sofie holds the envelope so close to the flame of the oil lamp on the wall that I think it’s going to catch fire. Before it can, the door opens.

  “What are you doing?” Natasha says. Her cheeks are pink; her freckles are conspicuous. “You all look furtive.”

  “Where were you?” Gretta asks.

  “On a walk. Clearing my head.” Natasha frowns at Sofie. “What are you holding?”

  Sofie tucks the letter behind her back. “We’re planning you a surprise birthday party.”

  “My birthday’s in deer season,” Natasha says.

  “Nikolai sent you a letter,” Ness says. “Sofie’s hiding it.”

  Sofie sighs and produces the envelope.

  Natasha takes it. She takes one look at the seal and shoves the thing in her pocket.

  “You’re not going to open it here?” Ness says.

  “I’m sure you’ve all already read it, so what’s the point?”

  There’s great protest about how we couldn’t actually read it, despite our best efforts, but Natasha slips inside the privacy of her room and shuts the door behind her. The other flyers dissipate, muttering. I stand in the hallway a moment longer. I have to read that letter. I need to know what Nikolai is up to.

  I sit just inside the flyer bedroom, listening for the sound of Natasha’s door. I expect her to leave to come dinner, at least, but all is quiet. Sofie tries to convince me to come to the kitchen, but I shake my head and tell her I’m feeling sick.

  When the other girls have been at dinner for nearly a half an hour, I hear a creak. Soft footsteps. Another door opens and shuts farther down the hall.

  I force myself to stay still for another long moment, just in case she comes back. Then I dart into the hallway. When I push open Natasha’s door, I feel a twinge of guilt. But if she can follow me, then I can snoop on her. We’ll be even now.

  I’ve never been in her room before. It’s a smaller version of the one I share with the other flyers. A narrow bed is pushed to one side. Above it, a pane of warped glass shows the night-dull sky. The room is hardly big enough for the bed, but a desk is squeezed against the opposite wall, leaving only a strip of floor so narrow, I have to turn sideways to walk through it.

  On her desk, a small wooden clock ticks steadily. Beside it, a copy of Captain’s Log sits on top of a copy of Tamm’s Fables. I’m tempted to flip through both, but I keep searching. I open the top desk drawer. In it, I find a stack of flyer choreography, the handwriting varied. I recognize both Adelaida’s and Natasha’s from the flights for the ball and the upcoming bear season festival.

  Finally, in the next drawer, I find the letter with the golden seal.

  Natasha—

  How was your day with our mutual friend? I’d love to hear how it went.

  Meet at the conservatory? Seven o’clock.

  Best,

  N

  It’s so familiar. The way he signs it, N, as though they’re already more than just acquaintances. Natasha told me she didn’t love Nikolai. She told me they hardly knew each other. Maybe she was lying.

  My face goes hot. It doesn’t matter what Natasha told me. There’s no reason Natasha should be honest with me. There’s no reason she’d think of me as anything other than the newest flyer.

  When I replace Nikolai’s letter in the desk drawer, I frown at another one I hadn’t seen tucked beneath it. This one has a blue wax seal instead of a gold one, and the handwriting is so swoopy that it takes me a long five minutes to read.

  It’s from Gospodin.

  So that’s what Nikolai meant by our mutual friend. Natasha spent the day helping Gospodin.

  I think again of the way Maret laughed away my concerns about Gospodin. My arms prickle with goose bumps.

  I close the desk drawer. The wooden clock tells me it’s ten past seven.

  If I leave now, I’ll have just enough time to figure out what Nikolai and Natasha are up to.

  47

  NATASHA

  When I arrive at the Stone Garden, the sky has breathed new snow across the ground. It gleams ghost pale with reflected light from the palace windows. Overhead, there’s no moon.

  My slippers crunch against the frost. The conservatory looms above me, a wall of glass panes steamed through from the inside.

  Gregor waits at the door. His coat is pulled tight against the cold. When he sees me, he presses his lips together. I get the feeling he’s trying his best not to laugh. “Evening,” he says.

  “Don’t say it like that.”

  “Like what?”

  I struggle for the word. “Suggestively.”

  “Sorry, Tasha.” He steps out of the way. “What’s a fellow to think when he’s instructed to stand guard outside the conservatory?”

  The path to the door is clear, but I’m frozen in place. Nikolai, alone. I didn’t know that was what tonight would be. I imagined it would be like the last time I saw him here, surrounded by guards and other flyers.

  But of course there won’t be more flyers here tonight. I made sure none of them knew where I was going.

  Gregor opens the door. There’s nothing to do but step through it.

  The room is dizzyingly hot and thick with steam. Waxy green leaves droop over each other. Little fires flicker from the sconces on the glass walls, streaking
the ground with ghoulish shadows. I push an overgrown branch out of my way.

  Nikolai sits half-submerged in the stone-tiled pool at the end of the conservatory. To his left, a vase of water lavish with mint leaves and cloudberries, the glass sweating furiously. To his right, a plate of pale bread. Around him, plumes of steam.

  He’s not wearing a shirt.

  I consider turning back. But this is just Nikolai. He’s never seemed dangerous or frightening before, and that doesn’t need to change just because we’re alone. Or because he’s shirtless.

  I’m going to be queen.

  I cross the conservatory.

  “You’re dressed for the cold,” he says in greeting, propping his elbows on the ledge behind him.

  “Well, it’s practically bear season outside.” I take off my cloak and fold it carefully on the stone path. Next, my slippers. I hesitate on the hem of my sweater, but I take that off too. Underneath, I wear a plain black full-suit. I put it on before meeting Gospodin this morning in pursuit of dressing myself in as many warm layers as possible. I didn’t imagine I’d be going for a swim.

  “Aren’t you going to get in?” he says. “It’s hot.” His crown rests on the edge of the stone by his elbow. His dark hair is spiked from the humidity, lifted off his forehead in horns.

  I dip one foot in the water, and then I slide the rest of the way into the pool.

  It does feel good. Hot, urgently so, shocking the breath out of me.

  Nikolai smiles at me, his lips lazy and slow. I can see where the water hasn’t reached yet—a glistening band across his collarbone where the skin turns matte.

  My heart beats high in my throat. I can’t put a name to what I’m feeling. Fear? Excitement? Attraction?

  For a moment, I’m tugged back to Storm Four when Ella’s lips and eyes gleamed in the lantern light and I wished she’d come closer. If this is nerves and excitement and attraction, then what was that?

  I extinguish the thought as quickly as it appears. There’s no point in thinking of Ella unless it’s about all the reasons I can’t trust her. I’m here with Nikolai. I need to convince him I would make a good queen.