The dovekie took flight again, in search of an indigo wildflower.
52
ELLA
I didn’t think my heart had enough left in it to break.
It breaks when I watch Natasha read to Sofie and Ness. It breaks when she tugs Ness’s blanket over her shoulders and dabs the sweat from Sofie’s brow. It breaks when I see a tear drip from underneath the mask and splatter on Tamm’s yellowing pages.
After Princess Talia, Natasha doesn’t stop reading. She reads about a princess who marries a whale king and births a people who can out-swim a Flood. She reads about another princess who is more tempting than the moon and convinces the waves to leave her be. When she reads, I can shut my eyes and almost forget where I am.
No one has come looking for me since the guards killed Maret. If they haven’t by now, it’s because they don’t know. And now, more than ever, I can’t leave. Not just because there’s no one else left to kill Nikolai. But because I can’t imagine leaving the flyers behind.
Inside the infirmary, there’s no room to feel anything but sadness and fear. But when I’m outside the infirmary, something else starts tugging at me. It’s elusive, like zigzags of light on closed eyelids, and when I try to look it square in the face, it skitters away.
Call it an instinct. Something feels wrong.
On the sixth morning after Ness and Sofie fall ill, as I walk the hallway to the infirmary, I tally the oddities.
One: Bog plague began all at once. I’ve heard of diseases spreading quickly, but it seems to me that nearly everyone who fell ill did it within the span of a few days. After the initial outbreak, few new patients have entered the infirmary.
Two: Why have Natasha, Katla, and I not felt even a flutter of sickness? Are some people immune?
Three: Twain. Twain is the sticking point for me. If anyone should’ve inhaled the miasma around Ness, it’s Twain. He admitted they kissed not ten minutes before she first vomited. What’s most curious to me, though, is that Twain is allowed to see Ness at all. When I first heard that the Captain of the Guard had granted Twain the ability to visit the infirmary, I thought it was just a father showing care for his lovestruck son. But the more I consider it, the more I’m confused. The Captain is one of the most powerful figures within the palace—as his child, Twain is practically guaranteed a place on the royal fleet. Why would the Captain risk his son’s life now? Unless, of course, the Captain knows something I don’t. If Natasha, Katla, and I are immune, maybe Twain is too.
I’ve almost made it all the way to the infirmary when I turn around again. I walk the winding halls back to our bedroom. It’s been mostly empty since bog plague struck. Gretta’s been staying with her parents. Even Adelaida’s been largely absent, as though the rest of us might bring the miasma back when we stumble here to sleep.
It’s empty when I arrive. I gaze around the room. It looks the same as it did that first night when Sofie lay in bed.
I lift her quilt. It smells like sweat. Her nightstand is full of pleasant clutter: her stash of hazelnuts, a tarot deck, a few beads from our bear season festival full-suits. I stoop to the rucksack tucked halfway beneath her bed. Inside, I find a pair of mittens and a bundle of cloth. I open the cloth: a hunk of bread and half a berry tart, stale but not yet molding. I rewrap the parcel and put it back where I found it.
Before I can search further, the door swings open. I jump, but it’s only Natasha, and she looks too tired to care that I was sifting through Sofie’s things.
“I was going to sleep in here,” she says. “In Gretta’s bed.”
I nod. I don’t blame her for avoiding her lonely bedroom.
Her eyes are veined pink. Her hair is loose around her shoulders and as tangled as I’ve ever seen it. I thought I did a good job of avoiding sleep leading up to the festival, but Natasha might have me beat.
“How are they doing?” I ask.
“The same,” she says. “I read them a few more stories.”
“Are all of the fables like the ones I heard?”
“What do you mean?” she says.
I struggle for the words. “My parents told me stories when I was little. I don’t know if they were Terrazzan, or just stories they made up. But they always had happy endings. Everything turned out all right in the end.”
Natasha sits on the edge of Gretta’s bed. “Tamm liked bittersweet endings. I think they make the stories feel more real. And of course, some of the fables start from a kernel of truth, like with Inna, and true stories don’t often have happy endings.”
I blink. “Are you trying to tell me there really was a girl named Inna who befriended a bear?”
She exhales through her nose. It’s the tiredest laugh. “No. But there’s some scrap of Maapinnen history—I don’t know all the details—about invaders coming here and a young girl killing their king. Hans von Kleb, or something. I don’t remember. That’s the sort of thing my mother would know. She always told me these stories from the—”
“Hans?” There’s little that could make me interrupt Natasha in the middle of telling me about her past. But I have to ask. “Are you sure it’s not Otto? Otto von Kleb?”
Her weary brows scrunch together. “I guess? Sure. That sounds right.”
“And he was mauled by a bear?” I say.
“I don’t know. Probably not. I mean, some girl killed him, but she probably didn’t sic a bear on him. That’s just the way the fable goes. I don’t know what actually happened.”
In my mind, I see everything like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle: not yet assembled, but there, ready to snap into place.
“How do you think Inna killed him, then?” I say.
Natasha watches me skeptically. “I just told you, I don’t know.” A pause. “Though if you think about a young girl killing a king, there’s really only one clear way she could’ve done it.”
I’ve spent long enough wondering the same thing that I have the answer ready. “Poison.”
“How on earth do you know Otto von Kleb’s name, anyway?” Natasha says.
The last piece snaps into place.
“Seas,” I whisper.
The book. The botanical book in the library. I remember the page in my mind now: a watercolor mushroom, fairy-tale charming, with a rounded top and feathery gills. The kind of mushroom you’d choose to live underneath if you were a caterpillar. The notes written by hand beside the illustration: Smells of honey. Otto von Kleb?
It’s poison. Sofie and Ness were poisoned. But—it’s not possible. We eat all the same food, always, and the chef adores Sofie. Did someone slip something onto their dinner plates while they weren’t looking? And why the two of them? Why the two most harmless flyers?
Then I look down at my fingers. A golden crumb, the tiniest stain of red berry juice on my thumbnail. And I remember them coming back to the palace, tarts in hand, faces stained with berries.
I have to get to Ness and Sofie.
They’re not dying of a plague. They’re dying of a poison.
“Ella?” Natasha says. “What is it?”
I run.
53
NATASHA
I tear after Ella down the hall to the infirmary. What’s she thinking? What’s going on?
My slippers skid along the marble floor. I slam into a guard and don’t bother to apologize as I right myself and keep running. When Ella and I barrel through the infirmary door, I’m gasping and sweaty.
The nurse stands between Ness’s and Sofie’s beds. When she sees me, she looks up sharply. “Mask,” she says.
I don’t put it on. I can’t. Not when I see Ness’s and Sofie’s faces.
I run to their beds, then I collapse to my knees. I sense, distantly, Ella’s presence beside me.
Ness’s skin is colorless and stretched like wax.
“I’m sorry,” the nurse says.
; My mind refuses to process what she’s sorry for. I crawl to Sofie’s bed and grip her hand as tightly as I can. After a moment, I feel the faintest squeeze in return.
“Sofie?”
Her eyes open halfway. She parts her mouth to speak, and I lean forward to listen. “Many breaths,” she whispers.
I smooth her hair. My eyes burn. I want to memorize her precious, hopeful face. The words are slow to come. “Many breaths.”
I say it a moment too late. There are no more breaths to stir the air between her lips.
54
ELLA
The thing about awfulness is this: Everyone wants it in small doses.
The storms are an adventure if you have a home at the end of them. If you can watch them from the dry side of a window. Light a few lamps. Drink a bottle of cider with your loved ones. You say you’re scared, but it’s an exciting little façade. A fervor in being The Toughest People Who Ever Lived in the Grimmest Time That Ever Was. You drift through the fog of awfulness like a tourist. It’s a miasma, the awfulness. You’ll be fine if you wear a mask. Stay long enough to breathe it into your lungs, and you can’t ever leave.
Natasha curls on the floor between the beds, pressed in on herself like a wounded animal.
I cover her body with mine. I wrap myself around her and I press my face to her hair as she shakes.
“Shh,” I whisper, over and over again. “Shh.”
Her heart beats against mine. I don’t think she even registers I’m here.
Why would anyone poison all these people? Half of Kostrov? The only one who has motive is—is Nikolai. Fighting Gospodin to keep his tenuous grasp on power. Battling the straining population. There aren’t enough supplies for the royal fleet, everyone says that. So Nikolai figured out a solution: Kill the people who were going to get left behind in Storm One. Then, when he gets to save everyone else, save whoever’s left, he’s a hero.
I bury my face in Natasha’s shoulder.
Sofie and Ness and Maret and Cassia.
“I can’t,” Natasha says, choked. “I can’t. I can’t.”
I know what she means well enough. She can’t bear the loss of Sofie and Ness. She can’t fight back against this world, this sick city, this vile palace.
But I can.
55
NATASHA
I spend the day after they die wandering the halls, caught in a trance. A silky curtain in front of a window reminds me how long it’s been since I flew. I find I don’t care.
I only go to their bedroom once. Katla’s incense clouds the air. I stare at Sofie’s bed. The sheets are still messy from when she kicked them off to vomit the first time. Ness’s bed is strewn with hair ribbons. Those beds will probably never be filled again.
The flyers are over.
Maybe the ocean should eat all of us. Not just all the people excluded from the fleet, but the palace and the Sacred Breath and everyone else.
The incense makes my head fuzzy, but I have nowhere to go, so when I leave the bedroom, I just keep pacing the palace halls. The snow outside thaws in a riotous, unfair barrage of sunlight. I walk and I walk and I walk until the sun sinks beneath the ocean and the clouds squeeze out the moon.
I need to talk to Nikolai. Surely, he can do something. To protect the rest of my girls. To stop this plague before Gretta and Katla and Ella die too. He has to know something. He has to do something.
Distantly, I remember that his birthday is soon. Maybe it’s already passed. He hasn’t chosen a queen yet.
My heart is hollow. After all this—I still want the crown. I still want to survive. Want my girls to survive. When I picture Katla’s face, Gretta’s face—Ella’s face.
A shiver runs through me.
I can’t lose her. Them. Any of them.
Back in my room, I sit down at my desk and begin to write. I only have three sheets of paper to my name, so I choose each word with care.
Your Royal Highness,
As you may have heard, two flyers died yesterday. My grief is difficult to describe. I hope you haven’t lost anyone. I wouldn’t wish this on you.
If you can, I’d like the two of us to talk. I’ll be at the conservatory at midnight.
Best,
Natasha Koskinen
I melt a blob of sticky wax and seal the letter shut. I find a familiar guard: Zakarias, one of Nikolai’s favorites. I give him the letter and tell him it’s important.
I lean against the wall and shut my eyes. I hold my breath, like the Flood came early and the ocean found me. One, two, three . . .
I’m already drowning.
56
ELLA
If I’d killed him sooner, Sofie and Ness might still be alive.
I know from the floor plans I found in the library that I’m in the right area. I’ve never dared walk the heavily guarded part of the palace where Nikolai lives. If there’s a silver lining to the bog plague panic, it’s that everyone is too distraught to notice a wandering flyer.
When I near the door I think is Nikolai’s, I double back around the corner. Two men stand in front of it. I peer around the corner again. It’s Gregor and Andrei.
“Why does he want to go to the conservatory?” Andrei asks.
Gregor shakes his head. “I don’t know. Just go with him and don’t talk too much. He’s not in the mood for a chat.”
“Well, tell Sebastian to check the conservatory if I’m not here when his shift starts.”
I duck out of sight. Stepping as quietly as I can, I hurry back the way I came. He can only be Nikolai. And Nikolai in the conservatory is easier to reach than Nikolai in his bedroom.
I grip the straps of Sofie’s rucksack. When I think I’m out of earshot of the guards, I run. In my haste to get through the Stone Garden unseen, I cut too fast a corner around a statue of a soldier with a pike. The pointed tip of his weapon slices open the sleeve of my full-suit. Blood wells along the siren’s tail. I slap a hand to the stinging skin and keep moving.
The conservatory is empty when I arrive. The air smells like muggy earth. I’d hoped that the hot pools would be set up as they were last time, and when I push aside the dangling ferns, I see I’ve gotten lucky. A servant must’ve just swept through. Sitting by the pool’s edge is a platter of bread. Beside it, a vase of water. Mint leaves float on the surface. Cloudberries settle at the bottom. A set of empty glasses sit beside it.
I pour one half-full. My hands shake as I open Sofie’s rucksack. My fingers, bloodstained from my arm, smear red across the buckles. I remove the bundle of cloth and unwrap it carefully. I’m afraid to touch the contents, but I make myself do it anyway. The inside of the tart is sticky and wet. I scoop the contents into the water glass. The cranberries tinge it pink. The bits of chopped mushroom settle at the bottom with the cloudberries.
By the time I put the leftover tart back in the rucksack, my whole body is trembling. I swing the rucksack over my shoulder. The steam from the pool is hot, but I can’t stop shivering.
I need to get out of here. Not just the conservatory but out of the palace.
I rise on unsteady feet.
Through the ferns, a door opens.
I freeze. A boot crunches snow.
I lunge for the tangle of plants on the far side of the pool. The net of branches pushes back against me. The flapping fabric of my sleeve catches a thorn and tears another few inches. The leaf at my hand smears red, whether from my blood or the cranberries’ innards, I don’t know. The plants close tightly around me. I crouch in the shelter of their arms. Through the crosshatch, I see Nikolai.
He approaches the pool. Inhales the thermal steam. Takes off his boots, rolls up his pants, and dangles his feet in the water.
He picks up the glass of water. Around me, the leaves still. He doesn’t drink. He swirls the glass and moves his legs in lazy circles in the pool.
No. I bury my hand in the rucksack again, searching, but—I didn’t bring Maret’s barometer. It’s still under my pillow. I don’t have my knife.
I stare at the glass, willing him to drink it. He raises it to his lips.
I don’t know which is more fitting: That he should die by poison or that he should die by water.
Then the creaking of wind against glass. The door opens again. He sets down the glass.
I wait for Andrei to walk in. Let him drink too. I’ll gladly see them both dead. But it’s not Andrei who next pushes through the ferns.
Not Natasha. It can’t be.
She sits down beside Nikolai, and the leaves shiver against my skin.
“I’m sorry about your flyers,” Nikolai says.
A long silence. Natasha’s eyes are red.
“I’m sorry, Natasha.” He sounds genuine. It’s almost convincing enough that I could believe it. Please don’t let Natasha be fooled.
Nikolai lifts a hand like he means to take Natasha’s. When she doesn’t move, he pulls back. “I had something I wanted to ask you, actually, but I don’t know if now is the right time.”
That’s when I realize. The start of bear season came and went. In the chaos of bog plague, Nikolai never announced his queen.
“Every day that passes, the more I realize how right you were. That I need a queen I can trust. But you told me I could trust you, and so you should trust me too.”
No. She can’t. She can’t trust him.
She stays very still as she considers. Their silhouettes match: two tall, slender figures, smooth-haired, sharp-jawed. The queen and king. It’s too easy to imagine.
“If anyone else dies . . .” Natasha says. “I don’t think I could . . .” Her voice is hoarse.
Nikolai puts a hesitating hand on her shoulder.
Girls at the Edge of the World Page 27