My feet start moving before I’ve consciously made a decision—they carry me back to the women’s dormitory. I pause outside the door and listen. If I’m not alone, I won’t be able to do a reading.
Tessa isn’t here. My breath sags from me.
I kneel down and search for where I’ve hidden the bones under my bed. I pull out the box, the spell book, a velvet cloth. My heart beats a staccato rhythm as I flip through page after page until I find the “well-being” spell I’m looking for. I arrange the bones just as they are on the pages—each bone touching at the center point and fanning out like the spokes of a wheel.
I place my hand over the bones and close my eyes, letting Bram’s face fill my mind—strong jaw, dark eyes, a messy mop of chestnut hair. The magic starts to tow me under when an image of Bram’s hands floats into my memory.
A sensation needles across my skin like ice. My fingers tremble, itch to move away from the bones and end the reading, but I force them to stay. I nudge my thoughts toward Bram’s face. I think of the day of the bone race—the concentrated set of his mouth as he worked, lips slightly pursed, his triumphant expression when we were the first to finish, the sharp hurt in his eyes when I refused to acknowledge that we’d worked well together. I don’t have time to process my regret before I’m swiftly pulled into a vision.
Bram walks on the grounds outside Ivory Hall. His hands are stuffed into the pockets of his black cloak, and he looks lost in thought. I study him for any sign of injury—a hint of favoring his right leg, a limp, a wince as he lands on his left. But I don’t find anything. Physically, he looks to be in perfectly good health. I keep watching. He softly kicks a pebble and watches it roll down the hill. He sits on a low stone wall and puts his head in his hands.
The vision fades. I don’t feel any of the pleasure I thought I might at completing my first bloodless reading. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but somehow witnessing such an unguarded, private moment makes me feel untethered instead of triumphant. I scoop the bones into my palm and deposit them in the box. Close the spell book. Put everything back in my hiding spot.
I sit on the edge of my bed and stare at the bone-white walls without really seeing them.
Bram isn’t hurt—that’s all that matters. Not the lack of color in this room. Not the sinking sense of disappointment over something I can’t quite name.
Maybe my readings are inaccurate. Maybe Bram was never hurt at all. Maybe he’s sitting in his room at this very moment.
There’s only one way to find out. I slide my arms into my cloak and rush out the door.
Bram is exactly where the bones said he would be.
He sits with his back to me on a low stone wall overlooking the city. The sun is setting and the horizon is blood orange. With his chestnut hair and his black cloak, he looks like a smudge against the vibrant sky.
If I leave now, he’ll never know I was here.
I don’t.
I take a step toward him. The toe of my boot catches a stray rock, sending it skittering across the cobbles. Bram turns, and for a fraction of a moment, his expression is utterly blank, as if his mind hasn’t caught up to his eyes. And then surprise washes over his features. “Saskia,” he says, “what are you doing here?” He moves to make room for me and I sit beside him.
“I was worried about you,” I say.
He cocks his head to one side. A question.
“Second Sight.”
His expression changes. He looks at me warily. “You saw me?”
“I did,” I say. “You were training. You got hurt.”
“I get hurt every day. That shouldn’t be a shock under the circumstances.”
My cheeks heat. I look away and study the city that lies beneath us, at the lights that spill across the valley, and wonder how many people are laughing at this very moment. How many are mourning? How much of what’s happening has a Bone Charmer already seen?
“Is your leg feeling better?”
“My leg?” He shifts on the wall. “I didn’t hurt my leg.”
“You didn’t?” I turn toward him and he laughs at my surprise. The sound is deep, melodious. It makes my stomach rise and fall.
“Maybe you need more practice,” he says, nudging my shoulder with his.
“Probably,” I say. But then realization settles on me like a layer of frost. The intensifier. Latham said it would increase my range. Maybe what I saw hasn’t happened yet. “Is there a Bone Breaker with a jagged tattoo on his neck? One that looks like a saw?”
“That would be Viktor,” Bram says. “He’s built like a mountain and has a temperament of a bear who’s just been shot in the hindquarters with an arrow.”
I smile. “Not a great disposition for a Breaker.”
“Oh, you know us Breakers. We’re all brutes.” He says it lightly, but there’s a note of bitterness in his voice.
The air between us chills. And it’s all the more biting because of the warmth that came before.
I find a loose thread at the hem of my sleeve and wrap it around my finger. “Be careful of him,” I say.
Bram’s gaze finds mine. “I don’t need your advice.” His voice is soft in the way a snake moving through the grass is soft—quiet, but still dangerous. It stirs up memories of the same words coming from my own mouth. I resented it every time my mother gave me a warning based on a reading. Her admonitions always felt like ropes tying me down, binding me to one path or another. And now, as I look into Bram’s defiant eyes, I wonder if she felt the same helpless sensation I do now.
My mother’s advice always felt like her trying to impose her choices on me. But maybe she was only warning me to be careful of my own.
I stand up and brush invisible wrinkles from my cloak. “Viktor doesn’t fight fair,” I say. “Just be careful.”
He makes a soft noise that indicates he heard but promises nothing.
“And, Bram?” I touch his shoulder. “I don’t think you’re a brute.”
As I say it, I realize it’s true. My perception of him has gradually shifted over the last few weeks. Like the way darkness moves toward dawn in hundreds of small moments—each one looking identical to the one before—until suddenly you open your eyes and find the world transformed.
I’m still not sure who Bram is, but I know he’s not who I thought he was on the day of the kenning.
My fingers fold over the top of his scapula. “I’m sorry that I misjudged you.” I swallow. The next words are harder to say. “And I’m especially sorry if I let other people misjudge you too.”
He lifts his hand, and for just a moment I think he intends to touch me. That he will place his hand over mine, and we’ll be able to start over. But he rakes his fingers through his hair instead. Chooses a different path. Drops his hand to his lap.
I let my fingers slip from his shoulder. And I walk away without saying goodbye.
Saskia
The Tutor
Audra’s small boat glides silently through the still black waters of the Shard. The two of us sit facing each other, though we don’t speak, don’t meet each other’s eyes. The only sound is the gentle splash of the oars as two of Audra’s servants row us toward a town I’ve never visited.
In the distance I can see the ship, nothing more than a dark shape against the night sky. I’ve been running from danger for years, and now here I am sailing toward it. But if there’s even a chance to find out what happened to the rest of my father’s bones, I have to take the risk. I adjust the hood of my gray cloak to make sure that my face is in shadow.
“You won’t get close enough to see anything if you’re recognizable,” Audra said before we left. “And if we get caught once we’re on board, they won’t let us leave alive.”
My braids are pinned at the back of my head, and a dark scarf covers my bright hair. I wear a pair of Audra’s satin elbow-length gloves to hide the petal-shaped tattoo on my thumb.
Audra is often surrounded by servants, so her showing up to the shadow market with a maid
to help her carry her purchases won’t be unusual. But it’s still risky. Even though we’re unlikely to see anyone from Midwood, it’s not impossible. Someone stole those bones, which required at least one visit to our town.
Maybe I should have gone to my mother and the rest of the council instead of chasing down a ship full of criminals. But it’s hard enough to get scraps of information from my mother about my own life. She’d shut me off from this completely.
I think of all the things that might go wrong—my hood could fall and expose my face. Someone might recognize me even in disguise. Audra could slip and give us away—she’s far from the steadiest person I’ve ever met.
Her thoughts must be dancing with my own, because she leans forward. “This is a terrible idea. It’s not too late to turn back.”
She can’t lose her nerve now. She holds my life in her palms.
“If we turn back, your fate is sealed.” The reminder fastens her lips together as surely as if I had smeared them with hot wax. She straightens and looks away.
We pull alongside the dock, and the two oarsmen hold the boat steady while we disembark. Audra leans toward me and hisses in my ear. “Keep your head down and don’t speak. Not a word.”
The pier is populated with a half dozen men. If I didn’t know that the ship in port housed an illegal shadow market, I would think nothing of the scene before me—one man out for a bit of late-night fishing, two others deep in conversation, a fourth gazing out over the water lost in thought, as if he’s nursing a broken heart or worrying about how to pay off a debt.
Instead I see the men for what they are—sentries, strategically placed to guard the ship from every direction.
Audra makes eye contact with one of the men and touches a finger to her temple. He acknowledges her with a subtle dip of his chin. We’ve been granted access.
I follow Audra up the gangplank, my heart thundering so loudly in my chest that I’m sure the first person I encounter will hear it, suspect me, stop me, and rip the hood from my head. But when we make it to the top, the deck is vacant and as ominously quiet as a graveyard. I’m about to ask Audra what’s going on when she cuts me a sharp, silencing look.
As we round the corner, I see the reason for her glare. The main deck isn’t completely empty after all. A man sitting in a wooden chair guards the ladder that leads belowdecks. His fingers are interlaced behind his head and he’s leaning back—balancing the chair on only two legs. When he sees us, he stands and the chair lands on the deck with a thud.
“Lady Ingersson,” he says, “back so soon?”
She gives a light laugh as if she doesn’t have a care in the world. “What can I say? I have an insatiable appetite for fine merchandise.”
“And excellent taste, too.” He peers around her to get a glimpse of me. “Who’s your friend?”
Audra waves a dismissive hand in front of her face. “Not a friend. A maid. I can’t really be expected to carry all my own bags, can I?”
“I’m supposed to clear any new patrons with the boss. She better wait up here with me until you’ve finished your business.”
“She’s not a patron, Max.” Audra’s voice drips with disdain. “She’s a servant. Now, if you’ll please let us pass. I don’t have all night.”
Max shifts on the balls of his feet. He runs a hand across his brow.
“I spend more than your next ten customers combined,” Audra says. “I’d think twice before you turn me away.”
Max sighs and steps aside. “Fine. But next time—”
Audra pushes past him without waiting for the end of the sentence, and I scurry behind her, positive I look exactly like a timid maid would.
We descend the ladder and step into another world—one bustling with people talking in hushed voices, stalls overflowing with merchandise, men and women sitting at tables, eating, drinking, silently laughing at whispered jokes. It’s the kind of setting that should be bursting with noise. But instead it’s a vision of chaos with the sounds of a sober garden party. The juxtaposition is unsettling.
Lanterns hang from hooks on the walls, casting the market in flickering light that only adds to the eeriness.
I keep my face in the shadow of my hood as I examine the stalls we pass. One has trays full of rare gems—probably stolen, since each is one of a kind, and some are set in jewelry with initials already carved into the gold. Another stall has potions made from bone powder—some that promise to cure illness, others that guarantee beauty, potions that claim to deepen feelings, and potions that claim to make you stop feeling at all.
We pass a vender selling artifacts made of bone—plates and spoons, sculptures and wreaths. Bile rises in the back of my throat. Now I truly understand my mother’s frustration with the way Audra spends her coin. Before I started working with Audra, I never gave much thought to the way bones were used, but now, thinking of how some are drinking from teacups made of bone while others are too poor to afford a proper kenning makes me feel ill. The shelves are brimming with merchandise. How many bones were sacrificed so that the wealthy can flaunt their riches? How many children grew up without the benefit of seeing where their paths might lead so these bones could be molded into something useless?
I shove my hands into the pockets of my cloak to keep them still. I have a nearly irresistible urge to take a swing at the display, to send all these profane trinkets tumbling to the ground and watch them smash into a thousand pieces.
The next stalls are worse.
Kenning bones priced by how powerful their owners were—metacarpals that claim to be from a Bone Healer, phalanges that promise they belonged to a Bone Mason. They’re obviously stolen, since those without deceased family of their own can buy kenning bones from the market in the town square. Honest people don’t need to sneak like a thief in the night to get them.
Another vendor sells stolen memories. A sign in his stall reads: EXPERIENCE THE DANGER, WITHOUT THE RISK! The memories are trapped inside small bones that are housed in colorful glass containers of various shapes and sizes. They are labeled by event: GO OVER A WATERFALL IN A WOODEN BARREL! CLIMB TO THE TOP OF MOUNT OSTA! SWIM WITH A WHALE! MAKE LOVE TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN!
My fingernails curl into my palms, cut half-moon shapes into my flesh. These memories were extracted from real people.
Audra reaches for my elbow. “Hurry along now,” she says in a singsong voice. But then she pinches me. Hard. My horrified gawking must be drawing attention. She leads me through row after row of stalls until finally she stops.
I lift my eyes and my ribs collapse around my heart. My father’s bones are displayed as unceremoniously as apples at a fruit stand—his ribs, his skull, baskets full of the bones from his fingers and toes. A sign on the wall proclaims: EXPERTLY PREPARED BONES! MULTIPLE USES!
Anger fractures my vision. I suddenly understand the desire that drives someone to violence.
Audra looks at me over her shoulder as if to say, You’ve seen them. Now let’s go.
“Buy them,” I say.
Panic sparks in her eyes. “Pardon me?” Her voice is indignant.
“Buy them all.”
Audra grabs my elbow and drags me out of hearing range of the vendor. “That wasn’t part of our bargain,” she says.
I fix her with an icy glare. “Either you buy every single one of those bones or I will make a scene so big that this whole ship will know you’re a traitor.”
She swallows. Her eyes are filled with both hatred and fear, but we both know which emotion will win. She pulls out her coin purse and makes her way back to the vendor.
“I’ll take the entire set,” she says.
The vendor gives a low whistle. “I can’t sell you all of them, lady. We’ll be out of stock.”
“My coin is as good as anyone else’s,” Audra says haughtily. “What does it matter?”
He leans forward and rests his elbows on the counter. “It matters because if other patrons come by and I have nothing to show, they might not come back again, under
stand?”
I’m about to yank my cloak off and cause a scene when another voice comes from the back of the stall.
“Go ahead and sell them. We have more coming in soon.”
There’s something familiar about the voice, but I can’t quite place it over the low murmur that buzzes through the rest of the market. I sidle closer to Audra and try to get a better look, but the back of the stall is too dark to see more than a shadow.
The vendor turns toward the voice. “You’re sure about that?”
“I’m sure,” he says. “Another full collection arrives tomorrow, and then in a few weeks we’ll score big. We just took down a Mixer in Midwood.”
My blood runs cold and my knees go weak. They’re talking about Rakel, about murdering her for her bones. And that voice—
It belongs to Declan.
Audra buys the bones. The vendor puts them in a burlap sack—the kind used for holding the dead. He gives the bag to me, as if I really am Audra’s maid, as if he isn’t handing me my own stolen heart. I clench my jaw, grind my teeth together to prevent myself from spitting in his face. I keep my head ducked inside my hood, and I don’t let my gaze wander to the back of the stall, where Declan lingers in the dark.
Silently, I carry the bag out of the shadow market and wrest it into Audra’s small boat. Her servants row us away. When the ship is out of sight, I lean over the side of the boat and vomit.
I tell myself that it wasn’t cowardice that prevented me from launching over the counter and fixing my arms around Declan’s neck. I tell myself that I have vital information to bring to the town council. Information that I can’t share if I’m dead. I tell myself a lot of things. But the trouble is, I can’t tell the truth from the lies.
I think of Declan’s hand sliding into mine. Of his breath against my neck as he told me he’d fallen for me. Of the hopeful way I’ve examined my wrist each day for any sign of a love tattoo.
The Bone Charmer Page 15
