The Cerulean

by Amy Ewing

  “That is very exciting indeed,” Leela said.

  “Novice Belladon has been helping me. She says I have a songbird’s voice.”

  The temple bells began to ring out and both girls jumped.

  “What has happened?” Leela asked.

  “I don’t know,” Elorin said. “But come, we must go.”

  Cerulean were spilling into the temple, and Elorin joined the other novices to help distribute prayer cushions. Leela made her way to her family spot, her orange mother looking delighted to see her already there when she arrived. Leela caught Kandra’s eye as she entered with Sera’s other mothers, and they exchanged a dark look.

  Once the entire City had gathered, the High Priestess emerged and crossed the chancel to stand behind the pulpit.

  “My children, a new blessing is upon us—Mother Sun has decreed it is time for a birthing season to begin!”

  Cheers of joy and cries of “Praise her!” echoed throughout the temple.

  Kandra had been right, Leela thought. But there was no sign of the sleeping sickness. Were they wrong on that count? Perhaps the sickness was a coincidence, unrelated to Estelle or the stairs or the High Priestess.

  But Leela did not think she believed in coincidences anymore.

  She saw Plenna weeping with happiness in Heena’s arms. Even Leela’s own purple mother seemed excited, though since Leela was still living at home, she would not be chosen to bear another child.

  “It has been so long since the laughter of little ones has graced this City,” she said to Leela as they left the temple. “I wonder how many new purple mothers will be showing up at our dwelling for tea and advice. The season you were born I felt we had at least two visitors a day!”

  “Three,” Leela’s green mother interjected. “The house was overrun.”

  Her orange mother laughed. “Indeed it was.” She sighed and put a hand to her heart. “My goodness, so much is happening so quickly. My head has not stopped spinning from the wedding season.”

  “Purple Mother, are you disappointed that I am still at home?” Leela asked, suddenly fearful that she was disrupting her mothers’ lives with her secret quest. “Would you like to have another daughter?”

  “Oh, my sweet girl,” she said, wrapping her arm around Leela’s shoulders. “I only want you to do what is best for you, and if that means staying with us, then so be it. I am in no rush to bear another daughter—and Cerulean are not bound by restriction of age as human women are, so I have many more years of fertility ahead of me. You are not depriving me of anything.”

  Her green mother took her hand and her orange mother said, “We love you more than anything, and that is all that matters.” Leela smiled and felt grateful that no matter what else was happening around her, there was one constant in her life, and that was the love between herself and her mothers. Regardless of the myriad ways her City was changing, that stayed the same.

  The advent of the birthing season meant that the temple was crowded day and night. Orange mothers were constantly at prayer and green mothers would leave food in the Moon Gardens, at the feet of the statues of Aila, Dendra, and Faesa, in the hopes that the purple mothers of their triads would be chosen. It gave Leela no opportunity to inspect the moonstone in private, nor could she search for the secret place Elorin had mentioned. Not that she quite knew where to begin. Perhaps it was somehow connected to one of the acolytes’ chambers. Acolyte Klymthe, maybe?

  Plenna was the first to be blessed by the High Priestess and sent to the birthing houses. Two more were chosen the following day. So Leela should not have been surprised when she ran into Kandra in the Moon Gardens the next afternoon.

  Elorin was chattering to her excitedly—tonight was the Night of Song.

  “Novice Cresha says we are to take the route that leads through the Night Gardens,” she was saying. “And to keep close by her side. I’ve been practicing the songs for two days. I hope I do not forget the words. Oh, look, it is Sera’s purple mother!”

  Leela turned away from the statue of Aila, where several green mothers were leaving offerings, and saw Kandra walking up to them.

  “Good afternoon,” Leela said politely.

  “Good afternoon, Purple Mother,” Elorin said, and Kandra could quite not hide her wince. “I have not seen you here outside of daily prayers.”

  “The High Priestess has asked to see me,” she replied. Her jaw was set, her eyes flat, and Leela felt a sinking in her stomach.

  “Kandra Sunkeeper.” The High Priestess stood in the center of the gardens and beckoned Kandra to her with a warm and loving smile on her face. Leela felt her heart climb into her throat and hide there, pulsing against her neck.

  Kandra went to her obediently. “Yes, High Priestess. You called for me.”

  “I did. I have wonderful tidings.” The High Priestess placed her hands on Kandra’s shoulders. “You have been blessed by Mother Sun to have another daughter. You may leave for the birthing houses as soon as you are ready. What a joyful day for our City!”

  Elorin let out a tiny gasp. Leela could not see Kandra’s face but her own head swam, the trees around her taking on a pale glow, the temple growing fuzzy. How could Kandra bear another child so soon after losing Sera? It was wrong. It was cruel. Kandra was rigid as the High Priestess kissed her forehead and then swept off to return to the temple. Leela watched helplessly as Kandra left the gardens in a daze without a backward glance, her shoulders hunched and her back bent.

  “What a blessed day,” Elorin said, but the words sounded forced, more manners than feeling. “She will bear a child again.”

  “Yes,” Leela murmured. She could not quite feel her legs underneath her, and her fingers were numb.

  “I—I must get back to practicing,” Elorin said. “Excuse me.”

  Leela hardly noticed her go. She staggered through the juniper trees until she collapsed in the grass next to the statue of Faesa, landing on her backside with a heavy thump. A dragonfly lighted on her knee, its wings purple and blue and lined with green. Leela felt it was judging her with its beady eyes.

  Do something, it seemed to say, but she did not know what to do. It fluttered away to land on Faesa’s foot, then took flight and vanished.

  But Leela was not watching it any longer. She gazed at the base of the statue of Faesa, reaching out a hand to feel the faintest trace of cold air on her skin. Leela was willing to bet all her worldly possessions that there was a set of stairs beneath this statue.

  A pair of green mothers passed close by, talking excitedly with each other, and Leela pulled her hand away and stood.

  I will return, she vowed, looking up into Faesa’s wise eyes. And I will find the secret that lies beneath you.

  Part Five

  Old Port City, Kaolin

  29

  Agnes

  AGNES SPENT THE MORNING AFTER HER FATHER’S SICKENING demonstration carefully forging a letter of permission to the bank.

  The fact that Sera’s blood had healing power was beyond incredible. Agnes had already added several paragraphs on it to her essay for the Academy of Sciences. But the way the blood had been taken against her will, the ease with which Xavier had cut Leo’s hand . . . it had all made Agnes sick. Ebenezer Grange had looked disgusted. And the eagerness on the watching men’s faces made it even worse, the greed and the possessiveness, as if Sera was something to be purchased, something to be used.

  She finished the letter—her seventh attempt to get her father’s signature perfect—and sat back to admire her work. It was pretty near exact, and it had to be. She needed more money than originally planned. Because she was not going to Pelago alone. She was taking Sera with her. If this tether was really in the ruins, then maybe it could help Sera get back to her city in the sky. It was a start, at least. Agnes could not allow her father to cart the girl around the country, selling off her blood.

  The truth was, Agnes had never really had a friend. And though she hadn’t known Sera long, she cared about her, and fel
t that Sera cared about her, too. They had seen into each other’s minds, into each other’s memories. Sera knew who Agnes truly was and accepted her without hesitation or question.

  So she would purchase a berth on Vada’s ship for Sera as well. And for that she would need more than six hundred fifty krogers. Plus, she’d need money for food and lodging and travel to Braxos itself. Two thousand should cover their passage on the schooner. Vada would not be able to refuse such a sum, or so Agnes hoped. She decided to take out three thousand krogers total—it was the most she felt she could withdraw without arousing suspicion. She wasn’t quite sure of the exact figure her trust held, but it was sizable. Three thousand krogers would not make much of a dent.

  And privately, she could not deny that she was eager to see Vada again; she could not get those dove-gray eyes out of her mind.

  Leo knocked on her door for the third time that day, and she was jolted back to the present.

  “Agnes,” he said. “I really need to talk to you.”

  She ignored him, carefully folded the letter, and put it in her purse. Then she pinned a Solit brooch to the collar of her blouse, fixed a small golden hat to the bun on the crown of her head, and gave herself a final appraising look. Pious, conservative, professional.

  She opened the door and found Leo with his hand poised to knock again.

  “I’m going out,” she said, pushing past him.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said again, following her down the stairs.

  “I don’t have time right now. I’ll be back tonight. We can talk then.”

  She couldn’t imagine what Leo would have to say that would be of any importance. Shouldn’t he be happy Father was including him in this scheme? Though she did remember fleetingly the look of horror on his own face throughout the demonstration.

  She decided to walk to the bank, so she would not have to concern herself with Swansea calling her a hansom cab. The last thing she needed was for her father to find out.

  She made her way through the quiet streets of Upper Glen, and when she finally reached Jevet’s Park, she found herself wishing she’d brought a parasol. September was almost here, but you wouldn’t know it from the weather, which seemed determined to resist any shifting of seasons. The sun beat down on her as she strolled the tree-lined gravel paths, sweat trickling down her spine. A harried-looking servant with six dogs on leashes passed her, and a young couple canoodled on a bench in the shade.

  She took one of the southern exits out of the park and entered the financial district, bustling with men in suits and bowler hats, carrying briefcases and walking about like pompous peacocks shaking their tail feathers. She got lots of nods and tips of hats and good days. There weren’t very many women on the streets, and Agnes felt as if there was a spotlight on her.

  When she saw her father’s motorcar parked in front of the offices of Conway Rail, her knees locked and her heart dropped. Eneas sat in the driver’s seat, reading the paper. Agnes kept her face down and walked quickly, not daring to look up, blink, or even breathe until she had reached the steps of the bank.

  The interior of the Old Port branch of the Kaolin National Bank was all green marble, with onyx and gold decor. Great columns held up the arched ceiling, and a long table ran down the center, where men stood filling out deposit slips or writing checks. There were leather couches set around oak tables decked with glass ashtrays and neat assortments of newspapers. The headlines were still all about the ruins—the Seaport was filling up with fortune seekers, and the first Kaolin ships were getting ready to depart for Pelago. She wondered when the first Pelagan ships would reach the shores of Braxos—Pelagans had the shorter distance on their side, as well as more skill at sailing.

  Several men stared at her as she got in line for the tellers, and she had to resist the urge to fidget. She could feel her mouth going dry, her confidence folding in on itself. The line felt interminable. By the time it was Agnes’s turn, she was sweating more than she had been in Jevet’s Park. She dabbed at her hairline with a silk handkerchief.

  The teller who sat behind the golden bars was a young Kaolin man whose nameplate proclaimed him to be Mr. Wilder.

  “Good afternoon,” he said, his eyes automatically darting left and right, searching for a chaperone. “How may I help you?”

  “Good afternoon,” Agnes said. Her tongue felt swollen and clumsy. “I would, ah, like to withdraw some money from my account. Three thousand krogers. Please.”

  “Certainly. Is your husband with you today?”

  “No, I am not married.”

  “Your father then?”

  “I—I have a letter of permission.” Why could she not stop stammering? She fumbled in her purse and produced the forged document, sliding it under the barrier.

  When Mr. Wilder opened it, his eyes went wide. “You are Xavier McLellan’s daughter?”

  “I am,” she said, jutting out her chin. It was something she’d seen Leo do before, but she didn’t think she had the swagger to pull it off.

  “And he was not able to accompany you today?”

  “Unfortunately not.”

  “May I ask why?”

  Agnes had not thought up an excuse. “My father is a very busy man.” Oh god, what if he came into the bank while she was here? She should have scouted the exits.

  Mr. Wilder studied the document for a full thirty seconds. “Excuse me for a moment,” he said, and then left the window.

  Agnes’s pulse was pounding all over her body. Should she stay? Should she run? She spent so much time debating, her feet frozen to the pristine marble floor, that by the time Mr. Wilder returned with a man who looked to be his manager, her internal struggle was rendered moot.

  “Miss McLellan?” he said, peering at her over his spectacles. He had a very bushy mustache with a single rhinestone stud on the left side, and his black hair was parted in the center and heavily waxed.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I’m afraid I will need to contact your father before you may withdraw money from your account.”

  “And why is that?” she asked.

  “There is a notation in your file,” he said. “It’s standard procedure, you see.”

  “But you have his letter of permission.”

  “Unfortunately, your account does not accept letters of permission.”

  Agnes might not be a good liar, but she was sharp as a tack when it came to spotting inconsistencies. There was no reason for a letter of permission to be denied, unless . . . unless her father had explicitly stated it to be so.

  “I see,” she said with a poor attempt at nonchalance. “Do not bother my father. I will speak to him myself this evening.”

  “I’m afraid he will have to be informed, miss.”

  The room began to spin. Xavier could not, under any circumstances, know that she was here. As her brain whirred, trying to come up with an excuse, a familiar voice broke into her thoughts.

  “Agnes?”

  Ebenezer Grange was standing not five feet away. Agnes went from frightened to terrified in a heartbeat. Then, to her great surprise, Ebenezer came up beside her, took her hand, and linked it around his elbow.

  “Are they giving you trouble, darling?”

  She could only blink at him. Darling?

  Ebenezer smiled at Mr. Wilder and the manager.

  “We are hoping to take out a little extra money to plan our honeymoon. Agnes is my fiancée, you see.”

  Her head had the good sense to nod, she was pleased to note. Her brain was having a difficult time keeping up.

  “We didn’t tell him what the letter of permission was for—we wanted to keep a few things in our marriage our own. I thought he would have called ahead, as I was unsure whether I would be able to meet Agnes here today. I see Mr. McLellan was far too busy to make the arrangements. But then, he does have his hands full at the moment, doesn’t he, Mr. Inklet?”

  So Ebenezer knew the manager. Agnes was gripping his arm so hard she was probably cutting o
ff his circulation, but she managed a smile and hoped it looked demure. Or, at the very least, natural.

  “He does indeed. I did not realize you were engaged. I must have missed the announcement in the Telegraph. Congratulations, Mr. Grange.” Mr. Inklet looked down at the letter and back at Ebenezer. “There is a note on the account—”

  “That prevents a fiancé from giving permission for his future wife?”

  Mr. Inklet frowned. “Well, no, there are no exceptions for—”

  “Excellent!” Ebenezer gestured to Agnes with the arm that wasn’t currently being paralyzed. “Give her whatever she asked for.”

  “Of course, Mr. Grange. Right away.”

  Agnes stared up at Ebenezer’s slightly smudged glasses and hoped she looked desperately in love instead of desperately overwhelmed.

  When Mr. Wilder returned with the stack of krogers, Ebenezer’s eyes widened for a brief second before he pulled himself together.

  “Three thousand krogers, Miss McLellan. Shall I count it out for you?”

  “No, thank you. I trust you.”

  He put the money in an envelope and handed it to her.

  “That will make for quite a honeymoon,” he said to Ebenezer with a sly wink.

  “We can hardly wait,” Ebenezer replied.

  Agnes held her breath until they were outside the bank.

  “I . . . don’t know what to say.” She wiped the back of her neck with her handkerchief. “I mean, thank you. Thank you very much, Ebenezer.”

  “I take it your father didn’t actually sign that letter of permission?”

  She could feel the guilt blossoming across her face.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t say anything.” He shrugged. “It’s a stupid rule, in my opinion. It’s your money, isn’t it?”

  “You’re quite a progressive thinker for an Old Port society boy.”

  “I’m no society boy. We both know where my family stands on the social ladder, no matter how much my father would like to think otherwise.”