The Cerulean
Page 36
“That should do for now,” she said, standing and rubbing her hands together. Then she sighed. “For now.”
She shook her head and her posture shifted; for a moment she looked old and bent, showing her years in a way Leela had never seen before. “This was not how I meant it to be,” she whispered, like she was explaining herself to the floor. “But it is up to me and me alone. As it has been for so many long years. I am doing the best I can.”
She held out her hands toward the tether like she was warming her palms over a fire. Leela watched in horror as pure white light began to glow from beneath her, from the circles where she had dropped the fruit. The ground started to shake and the High Priestess’s face contorted in agony, yet she made no sound or cry of pain. The tether shone brighter and brighter and Leela was reminded of the light in the clay bowl, the one that had been used to choose Sera for the sacrifice. It grew so bright it was painful to look at, and Leela squeezed her eyes shut and pressed herself against the column’s cold surface.
Then the light was gone and the ground went still, and she heard the High Priestess’s footsteps. She passed within a few feet of where Leela was hiding, and Leela held her breath so as not to make a single sound.
She counted to one hundred before she allowed herself to move. Her knees were stiff as she walked toward the tether. It was more beautiful than she could have imagined, sometimes blue, sometimes gold, its interlocking links so fine and fragile that no Cerulean jeweler would ever be able to replicate it. She could see the magic running across its surface, tiny bursts of sparkling light. She stopped at the edge of the pool. Some instinct told her this place was sacred but forgotten, and she felt as if she stood before a giant beast with a stick, steeling herself to prod it and wake it up.
There was a circle of ice at her feet and Leela crouched down to inspect it. What had the High Priestess been doing? The markings carved into its surface were not the same as the ones on the obelisk or the statue, though they vaguely reminded Leela of the ones on the temple doors. But as she stared at them, they seemed to form a word—a word Leela could read.
Estelle.
She gasped. Tiny shavings of ice were scattered about the name and she brushed her palm over the letters to wipe them away. Instantly, the ice turned from opaque to as clear as one of the pools. Leela cried aloud and fell, landing sharply on her backside.
There was a Cerulean inside the ice.
Estelle was naked, her body curled into the fetal position, her face tormented, as if trapped in a terrible dream. But her chest rose and fell. She appeared to be inside a stalactite—Leela could see the edges and point of its cone below Estelle’s curled feet. She reached out to touch her, to wake her, to ask her how she came to be here, to bring her back to the City above, but the ice was cold and unyielding. Her hand could not penetrate it.
Then something to the left caught her eye.
Another stalactite.
Quickly, she stood and moved to the next circle. Another name: Inora. Brushing her hand across its surface, she saw a different Cerulean, slighter than Estelle, in the same fetal position, bearing the same tormented expression. Leela pressed her face so close to the ice that her nose grew tight and numb. She looked left. Then she looked right.
Stalactites stretched out in both directions, surrounding the tether and beyond, sticking out from the underbelly of her City like icy candles.
And inside each one was a Cerulean.
Leela went from circle to circle, reading every name, gazing down at woman after woman curled in silent agony. But none of them was Sera.
Exhausted and overwhelmed, she sat back on her heels. The moonstone’s red-hot heart glowed at her, but she found no comfort in its beat. This strange place contained more questions than answers.
“I don’t know what you want from me,” she whispered to it, tears filling her eyes. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don’t know how to help these Cerulean or what the High Priestess is doing with them. I just . . . I wanted my friend back.”
She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. She had been wrong. Sera wasn’t here—she probably wasn’t even alive. It was a fool’s hope, and Leela felt her body sag as she stood to leave. It would be unwise to linger, lest the High Priestess return.
She walked past the large pool and the tether began to sing, a single beautiful strain more delicate than a violin. The music stopped her in her tracks as if compelling her, and her eyes were drawn to the pool’s clear depths, to the shapes of Kaolin and Pelago far below. Then the water rippled and another vision surfaced, stronger and clearer than any of the others, swallowing her up. She could feel her feet on the cold ground, and yet it was as if she had been transported to an entirely unfamiliar place.
She was on a ship, thick masts with sails hanging from them, billowing in the wind—Leela did not know how she knew this, never having seen a ship before, but she did, as certainly as she knew her green mother’s laugh or the colors of a minstrel flower. She stood on its prow, wind whipping through her hair, as waves crashed against the hull, sending up salty sprays and a bitter tang. Above her, the stars were nothing more than tiny pinpricks of light, so much farther away than she was used to.
Suddenly, another heart began to beat inside her chest, a pulse she was so very, very familiar with because it was the only one she had ever felt besides her mothers’. It was a pulse she would have known anywhere.
It was Sera’s heart.
For a half second that seemed to last an eternity, she caught a glimpse of her friend, her hair done up strangely, her eyes lifted toward the night sky. Sera’s face was filled with hope, her irises brighter than Leela had ever seen them, and as she gazed at the stars she whispered, “I’m coming.”
Then the vision vanished, the pool becoming clear again, and Leela fell to her hands and knees, gasping for breath. All the pieces felt like they were falling into place. Those strange rooms and people these visions had shown her . . . they were from the planet.
Leela felt dizzy and pressed her forehead to the cold ground. If what she had just seen was true—and she was far past the point of doubting herself in the face of such overwhelming power—then Sera was alive. But she would not be found in this cold underbelly of her City, or floating in the wide expanse of space.
She was on the planet. Somehow, some way, she had survived the fall.
Shaking, Leela rose to her feet, her heart pounding forcefully as if it had absorbed Sera’s beat into its own rhythm. The fiery orb inside the moonstone pulsed along with her two heartbeats, connecting Leela with the very roots of the City that she loved so dearly. She felt a determination set in, a conviction as cold and strong as the columns surrounding her.
Whatever the High Priestess’s schemes, she had not managed to kill Sera.
And Leela was going to find a way to bring her home.
Acknowledgments
This book challenged me in ways I could never have begun to guess when I started writing it. It broke me down and built me back up again, and I am beyond proud of what it became over that process. But, of course, books are not written in vacuums, and this one would never have been what it is without the help and support of some truly incredible people.
Karen Chaplin, editor extraordinaire, thank you for guiding me through yet another book and for suggesting the idea of restructuring, even though it made my brain want to explode. You always know exactly how to steer my stories so that they are the best they can possibly be, and I’m eternally grateful for that. Rosemary Brosnan, thank you for believing in yet another one of my weird, wild fantasy tales, and for being so wonderfully supportive. Bria Ragin, your insights and keen eye for trimming the fat on this book were invaluable. To my copyeditor, Valerie Shea, and production editor, Alexandra Rakaczki, you guys were so thorough and amazing. I could not have asked for a better team to keep an eye on every detail, especially the timelines, which I am just the worst at. David Curtis and Craig Shields, I have no words to adequately express
how in love I am with this cover. I am in awe of your talent, and thank you for wrapping my words in a package more stunning than I could have ever imagined. Huge thanks to the entire sales team, especially Andrea Pappenheimer; to the amazing marketing duo of Bess Braswell and Sabrina Abballe; and for the fabulous publicity skills of Olivia Russo.
Charlie Olsen, you are the best agent an author could ever hope for, and I’m endlessly grateful for everything you do. I raise a mug of the Green Dragon’s finest ale to you, sir. Thanks and hugs to Lyndsey Blessing for handling all things international.
I would not be able to complete a draft, much less revise and revise and revise, without the help of my incredible friends and beta readers. Caela Carter, thank you for handling my panic attacks with such patience and for reminding me that no, it is not actually possible to write one million words in two days. Alyson Gerber and Corey Ann Haydu, thank you for your wisdom and support and for always answering my frantic texts with calm reminders that everything is okay. Jess Verdi, I don’t know how I would ever write a book without you. Thank you for your endless insights, your shoulder to cry on, and your unflinching belief that I can actually do this. Compel.
To my author friends who kept me sane during this process: Heather Demetrios, Donna Freitas, Jill Santopolo, Lindsay Ribar, Alison Cherry, and Mindy Raf. Thank you all for putting up with me and sharing your time and your hearts. Erica Henegen, thank you for loving me just the way I am and for cheering me on even when I didn’t think I deserved it. Matt Kelly and Jared Wilder, there’s no one else I would rather drink wine and binge Parks and Rec with. Ali Imperato and Melissa Kavonic, I am so grateful for all your enthusiasm and unwavering love. Linda Hu, a million thanks for helping me design Agnes’s lab and answering all my science-related questions.
There are a couple of local spots in my neighborhood that I love to write at, so I have to thank Cherry and Derek at Mess Hall and Ryan at Vinatería for helping me cope with the writing of so many drafts of this book.
To my family—both Ewing and McLellan—I can’t thank you all enough for the support and encouragement you’ve given me throughout the years. Extra hugs and thanks to Ben, Leah, Otto, and Bea. And, of course, to my parents, who have believed in me since I was five years old and announced I was going to be an actress when I grew up. It didn’t quite work out that way, but you’ve supported every creative endeavor I undertook without a word of discouragement or warning (except maybe “please get health insurance”). I love you guys so much.
And to Faetra, my Moon Daughter of wisdom. I miss you every day.
About the Author
PHOTO BY MARLIES HARTMANN
AMY EWING earned her MFA in Writing for Children at the New School and received her BFA at New York University. The Jewel started off as a thesis project but became her debut novel. The other books in the trilogy are The White Rose and The Black Key. She lives in New York City. Visit Amy online at www.amyewingbooks.com or on Twitter @AmyEwingBooks.
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Books by Amy Ewing
The Jewel
The White Rose
The Black Key
The House of the Stone
Garnet’s Story
The Cerulean
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Copyright
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THE CERULEAN. Copyright © 2019 by Amy Ewing. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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COVER ART © 2019 BY CRAIG SHIELDS
COVER DESIGN BY DAVID CURTIS
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2018959807
Digital Edition JANUARY 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-249003-2
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-248998-2 — ISBN 978-0-06-290647-2 (intl ed)
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1819202122PC/LSCH10987654321
FIRST EDITION
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