Over her shoulder, Brock waves his shears at me sweetly.
I narrow my eyes. Ah. So it wasn’t rats that got to the curtains.
Just one rat in particular.
This work requires more than careful little drips of magic, and I imagine all the creative ways I might exact revenge on Brock the entire time I’m doing it. Eve is stretching in the ballroom, which Helene has turned into a makeshift studio. Eve dances in the mornings and meets with a tutor in the afternoons, drinking in lessons on mathematics, grammar, rhetoric, and Danish history. Helene herself sits with Eve to learn the history of the Danish West Indies—the 1848 slave rebellion led by a man named “General Buddhoe” Gottlieb and St. Croix’s resulting emancipation. Some evenings Eve sends for Jakob, and he teaches her about the stars and planets, medicines, and the mines.
I smile, thinking about the secret message I found yesterday, tucked into the slip pocket of one of her dresses.
· · / · - · · - - - · · · - · / - · - - - - - · · -
I love you
I sent her back directions in Morse. If she follows them, she’ll find the lavender wisps of wisteria that lead to the greenhouse behind the servants’ quarters.
Nina towers over me, inspecting my work with pursed lips when I’m putting the last stitches in place. I’ve taken a drape that looked like a limp, dirty mop and brought it back to a lush and patterned brocade.
“You’ve done it,” Nina says begrudgingly. The color begins returning to her face and my opening appears, as neatly as a carpet rolling out in front of me.
“Yes,” I say, following her back to the kitchen. “Now, about that day off . . .”
She quirks an eyebrow at me.
“Half day,” she says with narrowed eyes. “And you and Liljan can do some household errands I need done in town.”
“I’ll drive them,” Jakob quickly offers.
“Take the phaeton,” Nina orders, and turns with a huff.
* * *
In the morning, Liljan’s stockings have gone missing, as they seem to every other day.
“Go on. I’ll be down in a moment,” she promises, digging through her trunk on her knees.
Brock is in the kitchen, sifting through seeds and young plants Helene had sent from St. Croix: mint, coconuts, guavas, even pineapples. “How am I supposed to grow some of these when I’ve never even seen them before?” he mutters, examining their leaves.
“Better get them sprouting,” Dorit says. “Mrs. Vestergaard gave me recipes that call for incorporating those ingredients into the Christmas dishes.”
“Thank you, Brock, for helping me yesterday,” I say with sweet sincerity as I fill a silver canister with hot chocolate. Relishing the look of confusion on his face, I pull my coat on, waggle my fingers in a wave, and follow Jakob outside.
He helps me up into the open phaeton, his hand on mine but careful not to touch my clothes, and then hoists himself into the driver’s seat.
His breath feathers out into the air, and he fastens and unfastens the buttons on his gloves as if he’s nervous. I unroll two thick furs over my lap. “I’m sending my inquiry to Dr. Holm today,” he says. He pulls out a white envelope from his pocket. “I wrote it five times,” he admits, laughing a little. He clears his throat and puts the letter back in his pocket, and it hits me again how handsome he is.
I ask shyly: “Do you really think there could be a cure for the Firn someday?”
“If anyone can find it, it’s Dr. Holm,” Jakob says, turning toward me in his seat, his eyes lighting. “When Dr. Holm published his initial research, it changed so much. It helped people to not be so afraid or suspicious of magic and made us more hirable in houses like this one. It was the first time anyone would provide a solid answer about what was really happening to us.”
“Has anyone else tried to find a cure?” I ask. When I unscrew the silver canister, steam floods into the air like released spirits.
Jakob shrugs, thoughtfully stroking the reins in his hands. “The Firn isn’t something contagious, like cholera, that threatens the greater population, so there isn’t much urgency. It only affects those of us with magic—and almost solely the lower classes at that, because the rich never use magic enough for it to become truly dangerous—so a cure doesn’t receive much attention. Perhaps some people even believe we deserve it, because we make the choice to use magic.” I pour the hot chocolate into a tin cup, careful to keep my hand steady. It still feels unnerving, to discuss magic so openly. “But for some, magic means being employed, having a place to live, food to eat,” he continues. His hand brushes mine when I give him the steaming cup, and the touch sets off a fluttering deep in my stomach. “The choice isn’t always so straightforward.”
“Stockings acquired,” Liljan announces triumphantly, climbing with a bounce into the phaeton.
“Oh good,” Jakob says. “So glad we are back to talking about undergarments.”
Liljan laughs and unwraps a bundle of æbleskiver—round doughy treats stuffed with lingonberry preserves—and I hand her a cup of hot cocoa. “Helene sprinkles gold flakes in her cocoa for special occasions,” Liljan says. I take a hot, rich sip of chocolate down my throat to cover the onslaught of sudden nerves as Jakob jolts the horses to a start. We are on our way. I’ve thought of little else for the past week, running over and over what Jakob said those nights in the library and under the stars.
Why would you murder half your work force and then cover it up?
You wouldn’t.
Unless it was to hide something you wanted to make sure never, ever came to light.
“How shall we pass the time?” Liljan asks. “Gruesome trivia, of course!”
“Gruesome trivia is Liljan’s favorite,” Jakob says solemnly over his shoulder.
“Christian IV got peppered with shrapnel to the face in the Battle of Kolberger Heide,” Liljan tells me as the phaeton plunges into the dark patch of forest. “It cost him an eye,” she says, shuddering almost gleefully. “When the doctor removed it, Christian IV asked him to extract the shrapnel and then he made it into earrings for one of his lovers.”
“No!” I swipe her with my napkin. “That cannot be true.”
“It is,” she insists. She snaps me back, sending several crumbs sprinkling into my hair. The air around us smells rich with pine and chocolate.
Though my stomach is tightening into larger and larger knots, I smile. I’ve never done this before—had a cocoa on a day trip to Copenhagen, laughing with friends. It feels even more luxurious to me than a hundred nights spent going to the ballet.
“And the royal throne chair is made with unicorn horns,” Liljan continues.
Jakob clears his throat. “Actually, those are narwhal tusks.”
“You’re such an insufferable know-it-all,” she says affectionately, and gives him a hard flick on the ear. “Perhaps Dr. Holm will actually find it endearing.”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. He hasn’t accepted me yet,” Jakob says stiffly.
His hands are gripped around the reins and I feel a twinge that I try to ignore. I never wanted to fall for anyone who could be taken by the Firn. Though, if someday he could actually cure it . . . I allow myself the barest flare of hope, then pull it back. Hoping for things in my future feels frightening, like sewing with a thread that will unravel at any moment. My resignation to a life at the Mill and at Thorsen’s felt bleak and so much safer. Now I’m surrounded by Helene and Eve, by Philip and the royal family, by Jakob and Liljan—all people who have such high hopes for changing the future.
I swallow the final bit of cocoa, where all the bitterness has settled at the bottom. I’m the one still looking at the past.
When we arrive in town, Jakob ties up the horses and we part—he giving us a salute and turning toward the post office, Liljan and I hurrying away along the lamp-lined streets to the tailor’s shop. But first, I take a detour to the Nationalbanken. If I’d been here a hundred times before, the memories would have all flowed t
ogether and perhaps been lost, as slippery as a thousand grains of sand. But since there was only that one day, it shines back at me as singular and clear as a penny dropped through water. I can see Ingrid twirling around that lamppost. Me dropping my sesame bun.
“Should we pop in and say hello to Ivy?” Liljan asks as we pass the glass shop. The windows are clear, like panes of fresh water running down the walls, except for the top strip, patterned with the red and gold of our national coat of arms. Three blue lions, nine crimson hearts, topped with King Christian V’s crown.
“I—” I say, and the words die on my lips.
Just beyond the glass is a familiar figure.
I see his honey hair, the striking curve of his handsome nose. I grab Liljan’s arm and duck out of the way just as he turns in profile.
“Is that Philip Vestergaard?” I ask, heart racing. Today of all days. I straighten and steal another glance.
He didn’t seem to notice us. I see him turn back and smile at Ivy.
She gives him a sweet smile in return.
What is he doing here?
“Why do we have to hide?” Liljan hisses. “We’re just going to the tailor shop.”
“No,” I say, and when I’m certain neither Philip nor Ivy is looking, I hurry on toward the Nationalbanken on the corner. “I have to stop in here first,” I say to Liljan. I take care to make sure my coat completely hides my Vestergaard uniform.
“What for?” Liljan looks at me. “I’ll come too. Then we can go get the fabrics together. I’ll need your help.”
“All right,” I say. She follows close behind me as I pull open the heavy doors and approach the counter. It is dimly lit inside, and I clear my throat at a man peering down at papers through a monocle.
“Yes?” he asks, looking up at me.
“I wish to access my account.” I remove my gloves and try to speak with authority. “The name is Gerda Olsen, and the account was opened by Claus Olsen in 1856.”
He looks into his files and then disappears. I can feel Liljan’s eyes boring into me.
“Gerda?” she whispers. I shush her.
When he comes back, he says, “And what would you like to do with the account today, Ms. Olsen?”
I feel like throwing up. I’m trembling with excitement and dread. My father was here. He left something for me.
“I’d like to close it out, please,” I say.
“Very well.”
I fill out the paperwork with a shaking hand. The man hands over an envelope filled with a small bit of money—it’s the combined amount my father meant for both Ingrid and me, and it’s gained interest over ten years of sitting untouched. It’s modest, but it still represents more than I’ve ever held in my life. Perhaps even enough to help me bridge the gap if I ever need to leave the Vestergaards’ in a hurry. Thank you, Papa, I think, and blink back sudden tears. It’s the first time I’ve felt watched over or taken care of by someone else in so long. I almost forgot what it felt like.
Then the attendant says: “There’s something else here.” He examines a note in the files. “Unusual. We’ve held on to something additional. The account owner was supposed to come back to claim it, and it appears that he never did.”
He holds out a small package that fits neatly into his palm.
It’s as light as an egg when he hands it to me.
I exit the bank and stride past the glass shop. Philip appears to be gone. I find a tight, narrow alley, out of sight, and stand in the gently falling snow, with Liljan peering over my shoulder.
Inside the package is a small folded pocket hastily sewn out of muslin.
But the stitches aren’t just stitches. To the untrained eye, they would just look like a messy job. But when I look at them, I see something different. A message.
“If you find this,” the hem reads, “it means you are both very clever, and I’m either imprisoned or dead.”
It was a series of bread crumbs that only we could have found.
Because Ingrid would have known that portions of my father’s letter were a lie.
And I would have known how to read the Morse.
I turn the pocket all the way around. And when I do, a small red jewel drops into my hand.
* * *
I close my fingers around the stone and trace along the rest of the dots and dashes my father left.
They run around the length of the seam, and I have to squint to read them, even more so when tears prick my eyes and threaten to spill over. Discovering new, unread words from someone who has been in the ground for ten years is like finding the most precious kind of lost treasure.
The mines are costing Danish lives. I’m not sure how far up it goes. Find a way to get this message to King Frederick. Even if you have to use your magic. Be very careful, and anonymous if possible. Tell him to find these stones in the mines and not to stop until he has seen them with his own eyes. Or more people will die.
I hold up the jewel, darkly glittering in the sun.
- - - - - · - · · / · - - · · - - - · - - · · - · · · / · - - · · · - · · · - · · / - · · · · ·
More people will die.
Another tear falls on the muslin pocket. Did he mean himself? The miners who lost their lives in the landslide?
I scrunch the fabric in my hand.
Or could he have meant something else?
“What is that?” Liljan breathes.
I hold up the stone so she can get a better look. It’s red, like a garnet. It’s light, barely the size of a coin, but it feels so weighted with this horrible truth.
My father suspected something—enough to stop in Copenhagen, close our accounts, and open a separate, hidden one for us to find. He was planning to come back and get it, and contact the king of Denmark himself.
But he must have written that letter to Ingrid in the mines when he realized he wasn’t going to make it out. A hanging thread that I didn’t manage to find until now.
Jakob was right. My father’s death wasn’t an accident.
More people will die.
He knew something—and whatever he knew got him killed.
I close my hand around the stone. What am I supposed to do now that all these people are dead? My father wanted us to contact King Frederick, but that was years ago. Now he’s gone as well.
And . . . what if any parts of this message are actually a lie? My father expected Ingrid and me to find the note together. His words could all be backwards, the meanings flipped—the note could be telling me to do something when really it means the opposite. I clench my fists at my sides, like shells. Ingrid would have known.
“Let’s go,” I say to Liljan, tucking the stone away. “Or we’ll be late to meet Jakob.”
We walk through the curving lanes toward the tailor shop, but I pause in front of the glittering windows of a jeweler, thinking. Maybe this stone’s meaning is lost, long gone with the dead, buried with my father, with King Frederick, with Aleks Vestergaard—but it could be valuable enough to get Eve and me away from here, start a new life somewhere.
I want to find out what the stone is and how much it’s worth.
I pull it from my pocket. But Liljan swiftly yanks me back, and her face, for once, is deathly serious. “Not here,” she says in a low voice. “The jewelry shops are all tied closely to the Vestergaards. I wouldn’t let anyone know you have that.”
I back away from the windows, feeling confused, frightened, and so alone. Liljan steps forward and laces her arm through mine. This time her touch doesn’t spread color across the threads of my clothes. Instead it is the simplest touch of comfort, and it sends hope flooding through me.
“We’ll help you, Marit,” she whispers. And she stands with me there on a quiet street, with snowflakes falling around us and our breaths both faint with chocolate, and lets me cry.
Chapter Fourteen
“I . . . don’t know what this is.”
Jakob looks up from the lens of his microscope, his dark eyes deepening wi
th thought behind his spectacles. We’re sitting at the apex of the house, a nook nestled at the top of the servants’ quarters that is packed with trunks of old paintings and china. It’s where Jakob stores his books in tumbling stacks, where he’s set a rickety desk beneath a skylight. He moves the candle closer and peers down again at my jewel through his acorn microscope—a small bronze tool with a rounded top that is compact enough to fit in his pocket. “I don’t recognize it,” he says, squinting. “It has all the markings of a real jewel, for certain: it has these tiny imperfections—scratches and pits on the outside—and little inclusions of feathers when you look close enough. But I can’t tell which one it is.”
I let out a deep exhale and set aside my sewing, which I’ve been working on in the corner without an ounce of magic. Jakob gestures me over, and when I bend to look into the microscope, I feel the ends of my hair graze his arm. The jewel’s red surface suddenly becomes a stained glass that bursts with color when magnified: fractals of opulent blues, vibrant pinks, golds. Among them are pockets of darkness flecked with deep, shimmering silver, like the night sky.
“Only a limited number of red-colored gemstones exist in the world,” I say. “By process of elimination, we can narrow them down and then determine which one this is.”
I take another look at the stone, this time without the microscope, and with a curious twinge remember the flash of red when Queen Louise peeked into the velvet box from Philip at the ballet.
“One problem,” Jakob adds. “We can look up all the red stones in the library, sure—but my magic can only read words, not pictures. That’s going to add to the amount of time we spend searching.”
Time, I think, throat tightening. The one thing I don’t have. I feel my fear of the Firn in the taut muscles beneath my shoulder blades, in the pit of my stomach. Every day I stay, the more magic I’m forfeiting.
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