“You’re beautiful in this light,” I told her, meaning for it to be a compliment.
She scoffed. “Do you suggest I’m not beautiful in other lights?”
“Of course not,” I said. The others laughed, and it was a silly thing, but I was filled with hot shame. The following day, I accidentally brushed against Andela, and she spun to me and yelled to never touch her again. I could feel the disgust building in her. I could feel her thoughts plainly: She thought me beneath her, for having come from these islands. She thought me a savage. Beneath those thoughts, there was a vibration of jealousy—jealousy because Andela feared that I was more beautiful than she. She was used to being the only one in this house with her dark skin and her convincing smile.
What angers me about those days wasn’t Andela’s hatred for me, the betrayal I felt simmering beneath my skin; what angers me most is that I continued to sit at her feet, that I attempted to convince her that I was worthy of her respect and love. Months went on like this, me fetching her things and doing her errands and taking her harsh comments, the laughter of the girls around me, the shame boiling inside me.
Finally, one morning, we all walked the cobblestoned streets. The seasons had changed and it was a hot day, sun bright, the market filled with clattering stalls and horse-pulled carriages making their deliveries. There were slaves, marked by the chains around their hands and legs. This particular nation held no slaves, but they allowed merchants to pass through with their property, as long as the slaves weren’t sold on these docks. The slaves also had dark skin, like mine, and like Andela’s—and yet, she laughed.
“Sigourney,” she said to me, “is this not your people? Isn’t that where you belong—in your chains?”
The other girls laughed with her, and the flare of anger in me was unexpected. It was the building of rage and humiliation, yes, and also of Andela’s dismissal of my people and their pain; but also there was her dismissal of me. Her suggestion that I was only worthy of such a life because of the color of my skin and the islands I’d once called home. I did it without thinking: I sank into her, as I might to feel her emotions, but sank so deeply that I could feel myself within her body, another soul possessing her skin, and I could see through her eyes—could feel, for a moment, the pain as I forced her to step in front of an oncoming horse pulling a carriage to make its deliveries.
Andela lived, though she had multiple broken bones. She was unconscious, taken away from the house where we lived. When I admitted to Marieke what had happened, she told me that we had to leave at once. We couldn’t allow anyone to know what I’d done; we couldn’t allow ourselves to wait for Andela to wake up and declare that I had used my kraft to attempt to kill her. But it was the first time I truly understood the extent of my power.
The trade winds make the islands cooler at night, and they become much stronger at the start of the storm season, whistling through the wooden cracks in the house. Even with the windows closed, the curtains shift as if on a breeze. I shiver, placing cut wood and branches in the fireplace and sparking a flint until the fire comes to life, filling the room with light and warmth. I take the white sheet covering the dining room table, wrapping myself in a seat before the fireplace, biting into the mango’s skin so that its juice leaks down my arm.
I think on my mother. How she must’ve felt when she was first invited to the royal island. My mother must’ve been afraid. She must’ve been scared every day of her life, with her four children and dead husband, knowing that the kongelig hated her, suspecting that they might attempt to kill her. She never showed her fear to me or to my sisters or brother. She would have a smile as she tickled me and Ellinor and read us our fairy tales, plaited Inga’s hair while they sang their songs together in the sitting room by the unused fireplace, while she fed Claus chicken broth and lemongrass tea, smoothing down his hair and whispering her encouragements whenever my brother fell ill, as he often did. She had loved us so much.
So why, then, did my mother accept Konge Valdemar’s invitation? There’s a bitterness in me, an anger at my mother. She must’ve known what the kongelig would do if she did accept. She knew she was entering into a dangerous game, and that she would be risking all of our lives. Instead of accepting Konge Valdemar’s invitation, my mother could’ve moved us all to the north; she could’ve done this the day my father died, in fact, taking all the coin of the sugarcane business and starting over in a place where we wouldn’t be hated for the color of our skin—in a place where our freedom wouldn’t be questioned.
But I knew, too, that my mother would never have made such a choice. My mother would’ve wanted to do everything she could to inherit the title of regent from Konge Valdemar. She hadn’t been born with her freedom. She knew what it was to live in these islands she called home, these islands she loved, these islands of our ancestors, and have her happiness taken by the Fjern. She was the true heroine: sacrificing her life, and even the lives of her children, for the chance to free her people.
The wind becomes stronger, the fire flickering. Rain begins to lash against the windows, and I can hear water dripping. I stand, sheets wrapped tightly around me, and see water pooling at the entrance, leaking in through the door. I open the door and step into the night, chilled rain stinging my eyes and cheeks, wind pressing against my ears, my thin dress and sheets sticking to my skin. I can see now that there’s a hole in the wooden paneling above the door—nothing can be done about that now, I’ll have to wait for the help of Marieke and for the other slaves to arrive.
Something moves in the corner of my eye. I spin to look, my heart quickening. I expect to see someone come at me with a knife. Even in the night with nothing but the moon, the lashing wind and rain, I recognize her—this woman who had earlier stood on the rocks. Her yellow hair glints in the moonlight.
A roll of thunder, and the woman is gone—disappeared, like she’d never stood before me, like she’d only been a part of the rain, sent away on the wind.
I return inside, closing the door behind me, and stand there for some time, staring at the torn wallpaper, willing my heart to slow, for the fear to stop pumping through my chest. I pour a pail of water into the steaming fireplace and, in the dark, make my way to my room, where I lie on the hard bed, listening to the lashing storm. I’ve heard stories of the ghosts of Hans Lollik. Marieke would speak of them as warnings, and Ellinor would whisper about them under our bedsheets with her wide eyes—but I’d never witnessed one myself. I’m surprised. I expected that when I saw a spirit of these islands, it would be one with skin as black as night, coming to me with vengeance in its eyes.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Marieke arrives at the front doors in a flurry before the next morning’s end. A comforting warmth spreads through me as I watch her arrival from my porch. I haven’t seen Marieke in days now, and I’m used to her steady thoughts, her fierce reminders of why I need to continue to pursue my goals. And though I won’t readily admit it, I’ve been afraid to stay in this house alone.
The house comes to life. It’s almost easy to forget about the woman who appeared in my gardens, like forgetting the details of a nightmare after waking—though I do have a harder time forgetting Dame Ane Solberg. It’s possible, yes, that she really is only an older woman who passed in her sleep, but it isn’t likely. The Solberg family has enemies among the Fjern; families like the Årud hold a jealousy for Jytte Solberg’s success, and it’s possible that one of these families hoped to strike at a weaker member of the Solberg family, perhaps force Jytte into a state of grief, or intimidate Elskerinde Solberg into leaving the island. Ane Solberg’s death only serves as a reminder that the kongelig are ruthless. If they’re willing to kill one of their own so early in the storm season, how long until another attempts to kill me again?
I can hear Marieke shouting orders, smell the spices from the kitchens, hear the chatter of the slaves who followed from Lund Helle. It’s a chatter that silences itself the moment I come within hearing; the slaves’ eyes downcast, they murmur
proper greetings and fill the air with songs so that I won’t know their thoughts if I attempt to see their minds, though I never do. I’m used to the silence and to these songs. It’s as much my shadow as is the hatred that follows me.
When Marieke has a moment, she comes to my room with steaming lemongrass tea. It’s always too hot to drink tea on these islands, but the scent is still calming. We sit together, speaking of her journey. She allows me to distract myself. To give myself a reprieve in thinking about the fact that after so many years of planning, I’m finally here, on Hans Lollik Helle—and that the storm will soon begin. We share stories. She tells me of a memory that I was too young to hold myself: Before my mother gave Marieke the order to leave our manor, she’d worked alongside Tante, nurse to me and my sisters and brother. Inga, Marieke tells me, had been made of light. Inga would wake in the mornings and pray on her gratitude to the gods. She didn’t mind that the gods belonged to the Fjern and that our people had been forced to forget the spirits of our ancestors. These were the gods she had been taught, so she prayed to them with her thanks every morning and every night. She would take baskets of bread and fruit, along with bowls of water, to the slaves who worked the groves and the fields, just as our mother had done; and though the Fjern held no love of her, Inga would bring her basket of bread and fruit into the poor villages of Lund Helle as well.
Ellinor had been made of light as well, but she was more mischievous. Ellinor hadn’t been born with kraft, Marieke tells me, but with a trickster spirit; she says this with a laugh, but even still I can feel the exhaustion in her from the memories alone. It seems that girl never learned to walk; she simply stood one day and ran, and she never stopped running. She’d run from her baths, suds and water splashing all over the marble floors; she’d run from her dress fittings and out into the mud, so that she would become as dirty as the goats; she’d run right into the sea like she was a wild thing, an untamed spirit brought back from the land of the dead. The girl didn’t like to listen, Marieke tells me, but she still had a light inside her, so that while chasing her, even Marieke couldn’t help but smile.
I was born after Ellinor. I’d been born screaming, so angry to be pushed from my mother and into this world. The rage never left me, Marieke tells me. I liked to listen to Inga’s songs as she braided my hair, and loved to laugh with Ellinor as we ran from our nurses, but I had an anger in me that neither of my sisters held.
“I suppose I got that anger from my father,” I say, relying on the memories I have of my mother, always gentle, always smiling.
“No,” Marieke tells me, voice hard. “Your father was a fool. He was afraid of the world, afraid of upsetting the Fjern, always so eager to please them however he could so that he wouldn’t lose the power he’d managed to scrape together. No,” she says again, “you got your anger from your mother.” She sees my surprise. “She hid her fury well. She knew it was dangerous to not be seen smiling, dangerous if the kongelig were to see her unhappiness. But your mother had a horrible anger, as though a vengeful spirit entered her body and never left. Sometimes I wonder if, when she was killed, that spirit left her body and entered you.”
Shouts interrupt us. The yelling gets louder, and slaves who’d been bustling about hurry beneath my balcony, across the lawn of weeds.
I jump to my feet, peering over the edge of my balcony’s railing. My gaze follows the slaves into the searing light. I squint my eyes to see Malthe below, and the man who is my prisoner.
The two face each other. Somehow, the assassin has slipped free from his bindings. He holds a knife, pointed straight at Malthe, who holds his own blade steady.
“Spirits, boy, don’t be foolish,” Marieke murmurs beside me.
Attempting to kill Malthe will only mean the end of his own life, the man has to know; I realize, with a flinch, that this could very well be what he wants. They circle each other for only a moment before the man lashes forward, aiming for Malthe’s chest—the guard dodges, kneeing him in the gut. The prisoner falls to his knees but swipes out a foot; Malthe falls back, and the assassin has an opening, but he hesitates. Malthe kicks, and the prisoner is on the ground as well, Malthe holding the blade against the man’s neck.
Malthe looks up, right at me, as though he knew I was watching from the balcony all along. The assassin struggles, until finally Malthe yanks his arms behind his back and holds him to the ground.
Marieke stands beside me, hand to her mouth. “Are you sure it was wise to bring him onto this island?” She asks this automatically, mechanically—she’s too used to nagging me.
The man is dragged to his feet. Malthe stands, chest heaving, sweat shining across his skin. He addresses me now. “Elskerinde Lund,” he shouts, calling to me; heads turn, and the assassin’s gaze flicks to meet my own. “This man is too dangerous to keep.”
I know what Malthe implies. If I were a true kongelig, I’d have Malthe execute him now, just to show what happens to anyone who attacks my guardsmen. The man is silent. A clearing in the center of a tangled wood. The still waters of a mangrove surrounded by a churning tide. Blood trickles from his nose, his mouth. He should be executed, beheaded, whipped to within an inch of his life, at the very least, for attacking the head of my guard—for killing Friedrich, and attempting to kill me.
My voice carries on the breeze. “Bring him inside for questioning.”
I turn my back, walking into my chamber and its heat. Marieke is beside me.
“Why do you keep him here?” she asks, voice low. “He’s too dangerous. He could break free again, kill everyone in the house—kill you, as he’d initially intended to do.”
“I don’t need to explain myself to you, Marieke.”
She’s offended by this. Marieke raised me for more than half my life, and now here I am, thinking I’m beyond heeding her advice. She’s the one who held me on the nights I woke screaming, memories of my family’s deaths overtaking me; she’s the one who wiped my cheeks when I cried, telling her that the voices of others were driving me to madness. I shouldn’t dismiss her, not so easily. I apologize, and Marieke presses her lips together, looking away in annoyance, but my apology is accepted. I can feel her regret as she leaves my room.
I close my eyes. I need to know who the boy is, and which of the kongelig used him to have me killed—but this power he holds over me, his ability to block my kraft. The curiosity for him fills me.
Malthe tells me that he has brought the prisoner to the library. There wasn’t anywhere else to hold him. The walls are lined with shelves, the smell of mold and dust hanging in the air. The spines bloat in the heat. The books remind me of hiding away in the libraries of my mother’s manor with Ellinor, begging Inga to read us fairy tales, picking up the books ourselves and attempting to sound out the words, filling in the sentences we couldn’t decipher with our own imaginations.
A shadow moves, and I see the prisoner standing beside a far shelf, book in his hand. Islanders aren’t allowed to read. Punishment has often meant the loss of an eye. I wonder again about his lineage: His skin is a light brown that reminds me of Claus, but if he is an islander, he shouldn’t be able to read. The bruise on his cheek is yellow, and the cut on his lip is scabbed. His nose swells, blood dried on his skin. He’s washed since he attempted to kill me in the groves, by the looks of his hands. The silence that surrounds him remains. He looks up at me from the pages of the book, his dark eyes hardened. I can only assume that the hardened emotion in him is rage. Hatred. Disgust. His lips twitch into a smile, even with such an angry gaze. A challenge, perhaps? Yes, I think so—he means to let me know that he’s fully aware of what my kraft is, and that he’s the only person who can resist it.
“I didn’t take you for a poet,” I tell him, seeing the cover of the book he holds.
He shuts the book and returns it to its shelf. “I’m not.”
“Has Malthe been treating you well?” I ask.
“He threatens immense pain and death,” he says.
He’s laughing
at me. That, he allows me to sense.
It’s infuriating, not knowing what the man feels and thinks. Infuriating knowing that I can’t take control of his body. I should be afraid of him. I should be terrified that he could try to kill me again, and I wouldn’t be able stop him; and I am, but I also feel curiosity. I have questions for him, yes, many questions about which of the kongelig sent him to kill me—but more than anything else, I want to know why my kraft stops with him.
“Do you hate me for bringing you to Hans Lollik Helle and keeping you against your will?” I ask.
“I’m grateful,” he says, leaning against a table, arms crossed, blinking as curls fall into his eyes. “I’d probably be dead if you hadn’t taken me prisoner.”
I can’t tell if he’s being genuine.
“Though you could still have me killed whenever you wish.” He watches me carefully, trying to see the answer on my face, but I’m expressionless.
“I don’t hate you,” he goes on. “I feel sorry for you.”
I know that he’s baiting me. I take the bait anyway. “Why do you feel sorry for me?”
“Your own people hate you. You’ve betrayed them. Abandoned them, for coin and comfort, while they’re enslaved and raped and tortured and murdered around you. No one has any love for you, even if you pretend they do. Even if you force them to. You have no true allies or friends. Those closest to you want you dead.”
“Are you trying to anger me so that I’ll have you killed?”
“You’re an island woman who fancies herself a royal. The kongelig laugh at you. They see you as a goat in a dress. Amusing, kept alive for entertainment, until you become too inconvenient.”
“I won’t have you executed, if that’s what you want.”
“You asked me a question, and I feel compelled to answer it as honestly as I can.” He smiles, a sliver of white flashing in the dim light. Laughing at me again, always laughing at me.
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