The Cerulean

by Amy Ewing

  She slid off the bed and slipped her hand under the mattress, feeling around for the slit she’d cut into its underside, her fingers digging into it until they touched the sharp edge of her most sacred and illicit possession.

  Ever since she could remember, Agnes had wondered why there were no pictures of their mother in the house. Until one day, when she was eleven and playing at being the great Pelagan explorer Cadhla Hope, she discovered a whole box of them in the attic. There were letters, and pictures, and even a ring. But Swansea had found her—she’d only just slipped the photograph into a pocket she’d sewn on her skirt before she was yanked away and sent to her room.

  When she’d snuck back to the attic the next night, the box was gone.

  She pulled the picture out, leaning back against her bed. She didn’t know where it had been taken—somewhere in Kaolin, she assumed, but the countryside, not Old Port.

  Her mother, Alethea Byrne, was standing with a bicycle in front of a small stone cottage with an arched door. The roof was thatched, and there was ivy growing up one side. She wore a thick sweater, pantaloons, and high-laced boots, one foot put up jauntily on a bike pedal, one hand on her hip. Her face was alight with joy. The camera had caught her mid-laugh, and the wind was playing with her curls—red, Agnes knew, though they were dark gray in the photo. She looked vibrant and happy and carefree. She looked alive.

  On the back of the photograph, written in a looping scrawl, were the words:

  Taken by X, March 12. Runcible Cottage, the Edge of the World.

  Agnes traced her mother’s handwriting with a finger. She had tried to copy the style to no avail. Taken by X, March 12. Her father had taken this photograph. Of his wife laughing. With a bicycle. Wearing pants.

  She flipped it over and stared at her mother’s face. “I’ve been accepted to the Academy of Sciences,” she said. “Well, almost accepted—I passed the first round of admissions. Eneas said you would be proud. Would you, Mother? Would you be happy for me?”

  Her mother laughed and laughed but never answered.

  Finally, Agnes shook herself and returned the photograph to its hiding spot. She tucked the letter inside a book on her nightstand. Then she got into bed, her brain whirring, planning and plotting for what tomorrow would bring.

  11

  Leo

  LEO WAS EVEN HOTTER IN THE BACK SEAT OF THIS CRAPPY car than he’d been in the library in Old Port.

  If the temperature rose any higher, his skin would melt off. He could already feel it on his hands and face, a creeping red that itched and burned when he scratched it.

  There were no windows on the car, and only a canvas roof, so sometimes the sun would scorch him for hours and other times he’d be blissfully in the shade. His driving goggles were coated in dust. In fact, everything seemed to be covered in a fine layer of dirt—his brand-new boots, his shirt, his hair. Even his mouth felt grainy.

  They had left at the crack of dawn and hadn’t stopped driving since. The man at the helm of this expedition was a burly beast named Branson, and he had three men under him, all dour fellows. One had a constant lump in his lower lip where he kept his chewing tobacco. Leo’s back seat companion was a consummate nose picker. Leo didn’t know anything about the man driving the supply truck behind them.

  “How much farther?” he asked. He’d been asking the same question every hour for the past five hours. He couldn’t help himself. Why hadn’t they taken the railroad? It had a café car and large, comfortable seats, and there were plenty of stops in the Knottle Plains. And Leo always rode first class—one of the perks of being best friends with the future head of Conway Rail. But the more they had driven, the more he realized that they weren’t going to Alacomb or Oakbend or any of the cities in the more rural areas. They were driving right into the heart of the plains themselves, where there was nothing but grass and sky and more grass and more sky. But not nice, thick, green grass, like the fairways at the Old Port Country Club. This grass was tough and yellow, like straw. They’d passed streams and ponds that had all dried up, or had a trickle of sludge running through them at most. Many of the farmhouses looked abandoned. It was quite a depressing sight.

  Branson grunted from the driving seat. That was the only answer Leo had gotten since the last time he’d asked.

  Agnes would probably love it if she were here. She’d find a million weird insects to put in jars and dissect once she got home. Leo’s stomach turned just thinking about what might be lurking in the high grasses.

  Several beads of sweat trickled down his lower back, pooling unpleasantly under his backside. He was aching for a shower. As it turned out, the Knottle Plains were boring. Maybe this was why his father hadn’t gone on the actual expeditions himself. He delegated it to ruffians like Branson. Did that make Leo a ruffian in his father’s eyes? No. He refused to believe that.

  Perhaps you’ve got more of me than your mother in you after all.

  Leo couldn’t shake the conversation he’d overheard between his father and Kiernan. The Pelagan man seemed to think the sprites were dead. If that was true, then why even bother with this search in the first place? And what did he want another Arboreal for? And what was that island he kept mentioning? There were too many questions, and Leo didn’t know if he’d ever get any answers.

  What felt like hours later, just as the sun was beginning to kiss the horizon and the sky lit up in searing pinks and fiery oranges that might have been pleasant to look at if Leo’s ass didn’t hurt so much, Branson turned off the car engine. “All right, boys,” he said. “Everybody out.”

  The relief Leo felt at standing upright was indescribable. He moaned with pleasure as his muscles unwound, raising his arms above his head and giving his back a good long stretch. Branson opened up a map and spread it out on the hood. Chewing Tobacco and Nose Picker gathered around him. Leo took a swig of lukewarm water from his canteen, wishing he could call on Swansea to bring him an iced tea.

  The man in the supply truck came out to join them. He was a thin, nervous-looking fellow with a twitchy mustache. He lit a cigarette and glanced back at the truck as if he were frightened it might drive away on its own.

  “Here,” Branson said, shoving a small, crumpled piece of paper into Nose Picker’s hand. “This is what them sprites look like. They light up at sunset, so this is the best time to find them.”

  “Don’t much like looking for these bastard Pelagan creatures,” Nose Picker complained as he studied the drawing. “They shouldn’t even be in our country anyway.”

  “They’re gonna make the boss money and that makes us money,” Branson said. “So shut your mouth and do your job.”

  Nose Picker handed the paper to Leo. He stared at a crude drawing of a tiny creature who looked like . . . a blade of grass. Grass with tiny arms and legs and some kind of weird crown on its head. Leo looked up at the endless prairie stretching out in all directions.

  This was going to be impossible. He didn’t know the first thing about how to find a sprite. He hadn’t known sprites were things to find until about twenty-four hours ago.

  “Someone must stay and look after the car,” he said. “Right? And these sprites may be close by. Why don’t I, uh, search this area? And I will keep an eye on our belongings as well. Does that sound amenable to you gentlemen?”

  Chewing Tobacco spit a long stream of disgusting reddish brown at his feet and Branson smirked.

  “Good idea,” he said. Leo had the feeling he was being mocked. “We’ll see you back here around calamity’s hour.”

  Leo had no idea what calamity’s hour was, but he couldn’t very well let these men know that.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Calamity’s hour. And best of luck to you lads. We better get looking while there’s still some light.”

  “Too true,” Branson said. “We’ll just grab a few things and be on our way.”

  Leo spent just enough time kicking at tufts of grass and making a big show of looking for sprites until Branson and his crew fad
ed to small dark specks in the distance. Then he threw himself down in the shadow of the car and promptly fell asleep.

  He awoke in darkness, sudden and alert, aware of some figure creeping around nearby.

  “Who’s there?” he called, his speech slightly slurred. His tongue was clumsy in his dry mouth. Blades of grass were poking at him through his pants.

  The figure froze, and then a familiar voice muttered, “Crap.”

  “Agnes?” Leo gasped. He was feeling completely out of sorts. The expedition, the sprites, it was all coming back to him in a rush.

  “Where is Branson?” he demanded. The car and truck were still here, but there was no sign of the men. “They said calamity’s . . .” His stomach gave a loud growl. “Where—what are you doing here?”

  “I hid in the supply truck and bribed the driver,” Agnes said unapologetically. Her hair was tucked up under a newsboy cap, and she wore boys’ clothes. “Calamity’s hour is midnight, by the way. It’s long past.”

  “You aren’t supposed to be here,” Leo said, scrambling to his feet. “Father is going to kill you for this.”

  “He won’t if you don’t tell him I was here.”

  He smirked. “Nice try. I don’t tell him and he finds out anyway and then I’m dead, too. Don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll just marry you off to some low-class Old Port boy and wash his hands of you.”

  He knew that would touch a nerve—she seemed to deflate, turning away from him and gazing up at the sky. “There are so many stars here. It’s beautiful.”

  Leo had no interest in stars or their numbers at the moment. But Agnes kept staring at them as she murmured, “I had to try.”

  “Try what?” he asked. “Try melting in the back of a truck for an entire day?”

  She glared at him. “You wouldn’t understand.” She put her hands on her hips and surveyed the area around them. “I don’t think the sprites are here. And even if they are, the plains are too big. But I honestly thought I would find one.” She snorted, like she was disgusted with herself.

  “Kiernan thinks they’re all dead,” Leo said.

  “What? When did he say that?”

  “Last night. I heard him say it to Father.”

  “Then why—” She stopped herself and shook her head, as if she’d answered her own question before finishing it.

  Leo’s stomach gave another growl. “Have you eaten?”

  “They took the food,” Agnes said dully.

  “What? Why didn’t you stop them?” The thought of no dinner was a terrifying one.

  “Why didn’t you?” she retorted. “You were supposed to go with them. And then I could have explored the plains on my own and no one would have been the wiser. But no, you have to be the sulky spoiled rich boy they think you are.”

  “But they’re coming back, right?” Leo couldn’t even muster up irritation at his sister right now in the face of going without dinner.

  Agnes shrugged. “I doubt it. I bet that was why they took everything with them. To teach the boss’s son a lesson. I wouldn’t be surprised if Father told them to.” She sighed and Leo shuddered. That truth hit a bit too close to home.

  “But . . . but . . . what are we supposed to do, sleep out here? With no bed? And no meal?” He sat back down again and cradled his head in his hands. “This was a mistake,” he mumbled. “I’m not . . . maybe you’re right. Maybe this was what he wanted all along.”

  The pain was there, like it always was, waiting just offstage. Not good enough, it said to him. Worthless. No matter what you do, no matter how hard you try, you’ll never win his respect. Leo tried to focus on the quiet, and the sharp scent of the grass, but the fact was he would have to go home at some point and face his father empty-handed. After a moment, he heard Agnes sit beside him.

  “Here,” she said. “I have a bag of peanuts we can share.”

  Leo accepted the peanuts gratefully. They were good, crunchy and salty, and gone far too soon. Agnes didn’t seem to mind the lack of food, which made Leo’s irritation spike again. Instead, she lay back and started naming the constellations.

  And she wonders why she has no friends, he thought.

  “The Fire Starter. The Lady of Justice. The Winged Horse. Aetheus’s Harem—”

  “That’s not Aetheus’s Harem,” Leo said.

  “Yes, it is,” Agnes insisted.

  “No, it isn’t.” Aetheus’s Harem was the only constellation Leo knew because he had once seen a picture of the actual harem in a book when he was nine, and the women were all topless. The constellation was much less exciting than the picture, but still. It wasn’t something he was ever going to forget.

  “Leo, I think I know better than you.”

  “There are too many stars,” he said. “Look, it’s supposed to be that one, that one, that one. . . .” Leo pointed each of them out in turn. “But that star, that big bluish one, that’s not part of the harem.”

  Agnes was silent for a moment, which Leo took to mean he was right.

  “What is that star?” she said.

  “I don’t know, but it proves that that is not—”

  “Oh, get over yourself for one second. Look. It’s . . . it’s getting bigger.”

  “Agnes, I really don’t . . .” But his voice trailed off as he gazed at the bluish ball of light. She was right. It was getting bigger. And it was moving. When he first saw it, it was near the right side of the harem, but now it was definitely closer to the middle.

  “Maybe it’s a shooting star?” he said.

  “Shooting stars leave a trail as they enter the atmosphere.”

  “Well, I don’t know, what’s your suggestion?”

  Agnes didn’t get a chance to answer because the star flared up, streaking across the sky. Leo was about to rub it in her face that he was right, it was a shooting star, when suddenly, something crashed into the ground nearby. The car was lifted up in the air before thudding down again, and Leo found himself toppling over onto his sister. A wave of dirt slammed into his face, making him cough and choke.

  “What . . .” Agnes spluttered, pushing Leo up off her. “What was that?”

  “I don’t know,” he said, a sudden determination setting in. “But we’re going to find out.”

  Part Three

  The Knottle Plains and Old Port City, Kaolin

  12

  Sera

  SERA WAS FLYING.

  She’d felt frightened for only the first few seconds, when the City Above the Sky swirled in her vision as she tumbled through space. Its underside was a beauty—sloping sheets of sunglass that ended in long stalactites, hanging suspended like icicles with the tether nestled in among them.

  So that’s what it looks like, she thought.

  Her fall followed the line of the tether, and it was even more beautiful up close, an iridescent, shimmering chain of gold and silver and blue links. Sometimes it sparkled like dewdrops in the moonlight. Other times, it glowed like a Cerulean’s finger before a blood bond.

  Slowly, the City grew smaller and fainter. Then it disappeared. And she was flying among the stars.

  Of course, she wasn’t anywhere near close enough to touch one of them, but she sensed their presence as if they welcomed her to share their sky. Sometimes flying felt weightless. Other times, it felt like not moving at all. Sera marveled at how her lungs expanded and contracted, even as the air was so thin it didn’t feel like air, really, and how her body had acclimated to the strange, new, cold environment. It was just like her green mother had said: her magic allowed her to withstand all sorts of conditions. But this was not how Sera would have chosen to experience the unique phenomenon of her people.

  The planet came closer so gradually, she didn’t realize it at first. The familiar shapes of Kaolin and Pelago did not seem to get any larger.

  Until flying turned to falling.

  All the peacefulness evaporated. Falling was terror. Falling was upside down and inside out. She hit the planet’s atmosphere and her skin began to siz
zle.

  This is it, she thought. My blood will spill, the tether will break, and Mother Sun will take me.

  In the atmosphere, the tether was fire. It was red and orange, a flickering candlelight. The blood oozing from her elbows began to flow faster, boiling on her skin, little blue bubbles popping. Sera felt herself weaken. The bracelets on her wrist were like tiny balls of flame, but the moonstone necklace was a cool circle against her chest. The heat grew more intense, and just when she was sure this must be it, the end of it all, everything stopped.

  What’s happening? she thought. Her body hung suspended in a pearly mist. The heat lessened. Her blood stopped flowing out of the cuts on her arms. The mist was soothing on her skin, like a balm. The High Priestess had not told her about this part. Was there something else she was meant to do? Surely dying should be enough. Perhaps the High Priestess had made this mist to help her, to calm her mind, but if anything it was making Sera more frightened. The tether was just outside its pearly border, and she felt this must be the moment she was meant to break it. She reached toward it, steeling herself, waiting to see if it would be hot or cold, if it would dissolve at her touch or snap clean in two. . . .

  And somewhere in a place she did not want to give voice to, she wondered if it would hurt very much to die.

  But just as she was about to touch it, the mist shifted—it swirled and spun, wrapping tight around her like a cocoon, and she was wrenched back, as if by a giant elastic, and then catapulted forward so fast that tears filled her eyes and everything became a white-gray-blue blur. She couldn’t breathe. Deep down inside, she knew something was wrong. This was not what was supposed to be happening.

  She hit a solid surface and dirt filled her throat and ears and eyes and nose. Her lungs ached to breathe, and when at last the dirt was all coughed up, she drank the air in heaving gulps. The mist, whatever it was, had vanished. She lay back, reveling in the feel of her chest moving up and down, of her limbs on something solid. The cuts on her elbows had been seared shut.