Midnight Jewel
Page 37
The hecklers were by far and away a minority. Most of the crowd simply regarded us as a novelty. Children looked at us with awe. And some men, the obvious elite, were sizing us up in a more professional way and would probably make inquiries later.
The procession ended in a cluster of coaches hired by Jasper, surrounded by burly bodyguards he also employed. “Only a fool leaves treasure unguarded,” I heard him say as Adelaide and I were directed to a carriage. His eyes surveyed the crowd. “Excellent, excellent. I can already see the potential buyers. I suppose having half the set might drive up the prices.”
I bit my lip so hard that I nearly drew blood. Anger and grief burned in my chest, and I fought to keep my calm as I walked past him and climbed into the carriage. It jerked to a start, and we got our first real view of Cape Triumph. I settled back in the seat and rubbed my ankle, which ached from my adventures in the storm. Walking on it in the procession had actually been more painful than dealing with the crowd.
Grant had explained enough of the city’s geography for me to understand that the docks were on its southern side. We skimmed the city’s outskirts, never passing through its busy, commercial heart. I wondered how long that business district would stay contained. Cape Triumph was expanding quickly, and we passed many in-progress or only recently completed buildings. They were all rough and more utilitarian than aesthetic at this point. They hadn’t had the centuries of polishing and remodeling that cities across the sea had. I’d seen villages of this style on my journeys, but I could tell the ragtag structures were foreign to Adelaide, who’d spent most of her life in Osfro’s regal, historic districts.
A muddy road led us out through the vast rural lands surrounding the city, which were stark and foreboding. Spring buds were fighting their way through, but winter had yet to relinquish its hold.
Our new home, Wisteria Hollow, was a pretty white house with black shutters. Although smaller than Blue Spring, it was far nicer than anything we’d passed in our brief trip through the edge of Cape Triumph. The hired men helped us down from the coaches and then set to work unloading luggage. Inside, we were greeted by Charles Thorn and the house’s stern-faced caretaker, Mistress Culpepper. I could immediately tell Charles had a kinder disposition than his brother; he expressed true sorrow when he heard about the Gray Gull’s loss. He quickly agreed to Cedric’s suggestion that we delay our social season.
“Yes, yes, certainly. My poor jewels—of course you must recover. But then you will have such fun once the season begins! Your promenade was only a taste of the delights to come.” Charles pushed up his spectacles and smiled at all of us.
“Promenade” was hardly the word I would have chosen to describe our earlier procession, but he seemed sincere in his good intentions.
Mistress Culpepper proved a bit cooler in her reception. She made Mistress Masterson seem indulgent. “No doubt many of you think the New World is a looser place, where you will be allowed to run wild. But not while I am in charge of this house. You will follow all rules I set and adhere to their every detail. There will be no inappropriate or uncouth behavior under my roof.” Her eyes rested on me.
Adelaide and I had a room all to ourselves, but it was a bittersweet luxury. It had two extra beds, meant to accommodate more girls—girls who wouldn’t be joining us. I stared at one of the empty beds, pushed up by the window, and felt a lump in my throat as I recalled the first day I’d met Tamsin. She’d refused the window bed in our room, lecturing us about sunlight and freckles. Once we’d settled in and understood the rules of our new home, we were left alone to mourn, as promised. There seemed to be some debate among the Thorns on how many days that mourning would last, but for now, we had nothing to do but rest and adjust. After all the activity of the last day or so, that stillness came as a shock.
Adelaide just wanted to lie down and seize a moment of peace, and I didn’t challenge her on that or her plea that I not worry about her. She needed to process what had happened. No words of mine could change the responsibility she felt for Tamsin’s death, and I could only hope my friend wouldn’t let herself be burdened with undeserved guilt.
Desperate for distraction, I “processed” my grief by exploring the house. Wisteria Hollow had two main stories, with a cellar below and a small attic above. Although the house was set on vast acreage, the rugged land wasn’t manicured or designed for recreational strolling. Going outdoors was discouraged and only allowed upon the front porch, under the mercenaries’ watchful eyes.
Wisteria Hollow also didn’t have the excess of rooms that Blue Spring did. No ballroom, no conservatory, no drawing room. Nearly every space here served a utilitarian function, the exception being an ornate parlor. Even that, I was given to understand, would be busy once our suitors came calling. A railed landing looked down upon the parlor from the second floor and offered precious privacy. I settled in that nook once I’d explored everything else, curling up against the wall to make myself as small as I could.
Tamsin is dead.
I expected to burst into sobs or scream my outrage to the world. But the blaze of emotions in my chest had gone cold. I felt hollow now, with only the ache of loss to fill that space. Grant had said I carried ghosts, but he was wrong. I felt like one. Insubstantial. Lost.
The floor creaked, and someone sat beside me. Glad I hadn’t cried, I looked up to see which of my housemates had discovered this spot.
But it was no one from the Glittering Court. The woman beside me wore wide-legged trousers, and a loose, untucked blouse with deep blue embroidery at the collar and bell sleeves. A long necklace of pearls and intricately fashioned gold leaves hung around her neck. Her long black hair rested over her shoulder in a loose braid that made me envious of easier days. And her skin . . . was the same color as mine. For a heartbeat, I thought I’d found another Sirminican. But no.
“You’re Balanquan,” I exclaimed.
Amusement filled her beautiful features, which boasted lively dark eyes and high cheekbones that half the girls in the house would’ve killed for. “And you’re Mirabel.”
The procession ended in a cluster of coaches hired by Jasper, surrounded by burly bodyguards he also employed. “Only a fool leaves treasure unguarded,” I heard him say as Adelaide and I were directed to a carriage. His eyes surveyed the crowd. “Excellent, excellent. I can already see the potential buyers. I suppose having half the set might drive up the prices.”
I bit my lip so hard that I nearly drew blood. Anger and grief burned in my chest, and I fought to keep my calm as I walked past him and climbed into the carriage. It jerked to a start, and we got our first real view of Cape Triumph. I settled back in the seat and rubbed my ankle, which ached from my adventures in the storm. Walking on it in the procession had actually been more painful than dealing with the crowd.
Grant had explained enough of the city’s geography for me to understand that the docks were on its southern side. We skimmed the city’s outskirts, never passing through its busy, commercial heart. I wondered how long that business district would stay contained. Cape Triumph was expanding quickly, and we passed many in-progress or only recently completed buildings. They were all rough and more utilitarian than aesthetic at this point. They hadn’t had the centuries of polishing and remodeling that cities across the sea had. I’d seen villages of this style on my journeys, but I could tell the ragtag structures were foreign to Adelaide, who’d spent most of her life in Osfro’s regal, historic districts.
A muddy road led us out through the vast rural lands surrounding the city, which were stark and foreboding. Spring buds were fighting their way through, but winter had yet to relinquish its hold.
Our new home, Wisteria Hollow, was a pretty white house with black shutters. Although smaller than Blue Spring, it was far nicer than anything we’d passed in our brief trip through the edge of Cape Triumph. The hired men helped us down from the coaches and then set to work unloading luggage. Inside, we were greeted by Charles Thorn and the house’s stern-faced caretaker, Mistress Culpepper. I could immediately tell Charles had a kinder disposition than his brother; he expressed true sorrow when he heard about the Gray Gull’s loss. He quickly agreed to Cedric’s suggestion that we delay our social season.
“Yes, yes, certainly. My poor jewels—of course you must recover. But then you will have such fun once the season begins! Your promenade was only a taste of the delights to come.” Charles pushed up his spectacles and smiled at all of us.
“Promenade” was hardly the word I would have chosen to describe our earlier procession, but he seemed sincere in his good intentions.
Mistress Culpepper proved a bit cooler in her reception. She made Mistress Masterson seem indulgent. “No doubt many of you think the New World is a looser place, where you will be allowed to run wild. But not while I am in charge of this house. You will follow all rules I set and adhere to their every detail. There will be no inappropriate or uncouth behavior under my roof.” Her eyes rested on me.
Adelaide and I had a room all to ourselves, but it was a bittersweet luxury. It had two extra beds, meant to accommodate more girls—girls who wouldn’t be joining us. I stared at one of the empty beds, pushed up by the window, and felt a lump in my throat as I recalled the first day I’d met Tamsin. She’d refused the window bed in our room, lecturing us about sunlight and freckles. Once we’d settled in and understood the rules of our new home, we were left alone to mourn, as promised. There seemed to be some debate among the Thorns on how many days that mourning would last, but for now, we had nothing to do but rest and adjust. After all the activity of the last day or so, that stillness came as a shock.
Adelaide just wanted to lie down and seize a moment of peace, and I didn’t challenge her on that or her plea that I not worry about her. She needed to process what had happened. No words of mine could change the responsibility she felt for Tamsin’s death, and I could only hope my friend wouldn’t let herself be burdened with undeserved guilt.
Desperate for distraction, I “processed” my grief by exploring the house. Wisteria Hollow had two main stories, with a cellar below and a small attic above. Although the house was set on vast acreage, the rugged land wasn’t manicured or designed for recreational strolling. Going outdoors was discouraged and only allowed upon the front porch, under the mercenaries’ watchful eyes.
Wisteria Hollow also didn’t have the excess of rooms that Blue Spring did. No ballroom, no conservatory, no drawing room. Nearly every space here served a utilitarian function, the exception being an ornate parlor. Even that, I was given to understand, would be busy once our suitors came calling. A railed landing looked down upon the parlor from the second floor and offered precious privacy. I settled in that nook once I’d explored everything else, curling up against the wall to make myself as small as I could.
Tamsin is dead.
I expected to burst into sobs or scream my outrage to the world. But the blaze of emotions in my chest had gone cold. I felt hollow now, with only the ache of loss to fill that space. Grant had said I carried ghosts, but he was wrong. I felt like one. Insubstantial. Lost.
The floor creaked, and someone sat beside me. Glad I hadn’t cried, I looked up to see which of my housemates had discovered this spot.
But it was no one from the Glittering Court. The woman beside me wore wide-legged trousers, and a loose, untucked blouse with deep blue embroidery at the collar and bell sleeves. A long necklace of pearls and intricately fashioned gold leaves hung around her neck. Her long black hair rested over her shoulder in a loose braid that made me envious of easier days. And her skin . . . was the same color as mine. For a heartbeat, I thought I’d found another Sirminican. But no.
“You’re Balanquan,” I exclaimed.
Amusement filled her beautiful features, which boasted lively dark eyes and high cheekbones that half the girls in the house would’ve killed for. “And you’re Mirabel.”
