Soul of Cinder

by Bree Barton

  Griffin’s eyes were blank. A practiced blankness, Quin thought.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Keep your gratitude. When your eldest daughter comes of age, she will marry my son. Keep my Hall of Hands well fed and no harm will come to her.”

  Quin’s eyesight blurred.

  She will marry my son.

  In those five words, his fate had been decided. The happiness he’d felt only moments ago lay dead at his father’s feet. The king’s latest victim.

  “What’s this?” Ronan said.

  He pointed, his shadow shifting across the catacombs. The breath caught in Quin’s throat.

  “Bring it to me.”

  A guard stooped and plucked something off the floor. Quin saw a familiar glint. A chill swept down his spine.

  “A button, Your Grace,” the guard said, handing it to the king. “A gold button.”

  Ronan held it in his palm for only a moment.

  “My son is here.”

  For years after, Quin would wonder how his father knew so quickly. As if he kept a catalog of all the gold buttons in the Kaer and knew exactly which were Quin’s. He did keep catalogs of other things: imported liquors, grain stores, names of the women whose hands he took.

  “Reveal yourself,” Ronan commanded.

  Quin was trembling so hard he couldn’t feel his feet.

  And then he felt Tobin’s hand on his arm. Toby gave a gentle squeeze.

  “It’s all right,” Toby whispered, and stepped out of the shadows.

  “Please, Your Grace. This isn’t what it looks like.”

  Quin followed, shamefaced, a few steps behind.

  “It’s entirely my fault,” Toby continued. “I thought we could explore the Kaer as a way of finding music in unexpected places. But I assure you, your son—”

  “Say another word and I’ll cut out your tongue.” Ronan turned to Quin, sneering. “Considering where it’s been, I should cut it out regardless.”

  The king was many things, but he was not a fool. He had a knack for sniffing out a person’s true crime.

  Ronan set his cold blue gaze on his son.

  “I’ve always known you for what you were. I prayed to the gods I would never have to see it.”

  He had the knife in hand before Quin could blink.

  The moment his father’s blade sliced into Tobin’s finger, blood spurting from the wound, Quin fell to his knees and vomited. He crawled behind the closest tomb, retching, as inhuman screams shredded the air.

  For months he had sat on the piano bench, lovestruck, as Tobin’s beautiful hands played the most exquisite music. Now he covered his ears, desperately trying to seal out the sounds of metal hacking into flesh.

  It didn’t matter. He heard them anyway.

  “You will watch,” Ronan roared, dragging Quin out from behind the tomb by his hair. “You will see what you have done.”

  So he watched. He saw. And he did nothing.

  Nothing.

  Nothing.

  He simply wept.

  Chapter 39

  The Way We Say Goodbye

  PILAR HAD NEVER SEEN Celeste’s working chambers. She’d done everything in her power to avoid the woman, and now here she was, seeking her out.

  She had paced the House for hours, thinking. Not about her conversation with Stone. She refused to think about that. Instead, all her rage and fury settled on Celeste. The woman claimed to want to protect the children of Manuba Vivuli from harm. But she was causing harm. Closing the Gymnasia and stuffing her own self-righteous belief system down people’s throats.

  Keeper. Pilar had to laugh. Keeper, her ass.

  But she had to be careful. As much as she wanted to punch the Keeper in her cute little nose, she knew that wasn’t the right tactic. It would only prove Celeste’s point.

  So she would do her best to play nice. Appeal to Celeste’s infinite wisdom and the abundance of the kosmos. Talk about what model citizens the students were, Shay most of all. Pilar would even cry if she had to. She was prepared to do whatever it took to win back the Gymnasia for her brood.

  Even if she had to pry it from Celeste’s cold, sage-infested hands.

  The hallway dead-ended in an empty room, in a wing she hadn’t even known existed. Pilar thought she knew the House pretty well by now. But it was still keeping secrets.

  The room was a giant fishbowl. Not just the shape—half of it was an actual fishbowl. Dozens of fish swam through the glass wall at her back. In front of her: seven doors.

  One was open.

  “Pilar d’Aqila.”

  Celeste stood in the doorway. A curious smile on her face. Like she’d been waiting.

  “I’m glad you found me. I was on my way to find you.”

  Pilar cocked a brow. “Really.”

  “Really. Kaara akutha. Please! Come inside.”

  Pilar tensed as she walked through the doorway, bracing herself for the cheek kisses. But for once Celeste kept her hands and mouth to herself.

  Her working chambers were simple—two chairs, a wooden desk, and a single Black Rose in a vase. Walls mostly blank except for a few parchments with trite messages Pilar guessed were meant to be inspiring.

  When Celeste motioned her toward a chair, she sat.

  “Thank you,” she said, forcing herself to be polite.

  “You’re most welcome!” Celeste sat, too. “I understand the Shadowess has extended an invitation for you to accompany the caravan to Glas Ddir?”

  Pilar shifted, uncomfortable.

  “If you’re wondering how I know, it’s because she and I had previously discussed it. She felt it was a good idea to expedite your departure from the House of Shadows. I agreed.”

  Pilar frowned. From her conversation with the Shadowess, she’d gotten the sense that her presence was actually wanted on the expedition.

  “Are you saying she was trying to get rid of me?”

  “She was trying to do what’s best for the residents of the House. Your presence here puts vulnerable populations at risk. You don’t belong here, Pilar.”

  Pilar was staggered. Celeste wasn’t even trying to be nice. The niceties were clearly a show she put on for other people.

  To hells with politeness. Pilar opened her mouth to say some choice words—but different words came out.

  “You said all those who come to the House of Shadows are those who belong.”

  “Great sands, no! I didn’t say that. The Shadowess did.”

  She leveled a cool gaze at Pilar.

  “Did you tell Stone to hurt my daughter?”

  “No. Never. That’s not what I—”

  “An hour ago Shay came in here absolutely distraught. My daughter has a tender spirit. She’s fragile, and for some reason she looks up to you. But thanks to your ‘teachings,’ that boy broke her heart.”

  “I didn’t mean to teach him that,” Pilar said weakly. “Mia had just left, and I . . . I wasn’t in my right mind.”

  “Is it really any different from what you’ve been teaching them for the last month? You’ve shown them a variety of ways to hurt and wound one another. These are children.”

  “I was trying to teach them to protect themselves. I want them to be safe.”

  “And did these lessons keep you safe, Pilar? On Refúj?”

  Pilar froze. She forced herself to breathe.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong,” Celeste went on, “but wasn’t Orry the one who taught you how to fight? And in the end those lessons proved quite . . . ineffectual.”

  Pilar’s hands went numb. She hadn’t talked about her past to anyone at the House. Not a soul.

  She stared into Celeste’s icy blue eyes. Realization dawning.

  “You can see . . .”

  “Your memories?” Celeste was fighting back a smile. “Yes. I simply have to touch you first. A quick peck on the cheek works just fine.”

  Pilar’s stomach twisted. In her mind she saw Celeste greeting everyone who came to the House of Shad
ows. It’s the way we say hello in Pembuk. A kiss on each cheek.

  “I’m the Keeper. It’s important I know what kind of history our guests bring with them. Some people’s memories are easier to see than others. Yours, for example. So raw! Poor thing.”

  Pilar shrank. She was back in the snow palace, Lord Dove prying into her head. Feeding off her most private pain.

  “You used my own memories against me.” She choked down the bile rising in her throat. “You invited me to the circle so you could say Morígna’s exact words.”

  Celeste let out a long sigh.

  “I feel for you, Pilar. I do. Orry harmed you, as did Morígna, as did your Dujia sisters. It wasn’t right. But I can’t have you damaging the young, impressionable souls here at the House, all because you haven’t worked through your own damage. What kind of Keeper would I be? Can you imagine?”

  Fondly, she reached out to stroke the Black Rose. The petals curled inward at her touch.

  “I’ve given you so many chances to do the work,” Celeste said. “But you seem uninterested in doing so.”

  Pilar’s world was spinning. She reached out to steady herself on the desk.

  “I don’t like to use my magic unless it’s absolutely necessary. But the kosmos has granted me certain gifts. There are times when, for the good of the residents and guests here at Manuba Vivuli, I am called upon to use them.”

  Pilar couldn’t look at her. She was afraid if she did, she’d see Morígna looking back.

  “Don’t misunderstand me, Pilar. It’s not your fault you are the way you are. Each of us is formed by our unique experiences—our parents, our childhoods, the things we’ve suffered. But some people are so sick, there’s nothing we can do to heal them. Not even at Manuba Vivuli.”

  Celeste rose. She stepped around her desk, smiled—and cupped Pilar’s face in her hands.

  Pilar jerked away. She didn’t want to be touched. Not now, not ever.

  But Celeste held on tight, bending down to kiss one cheek, then the other.

  “It’s the way we say goodbye in Pembuk.”

  With a look of smug satisfaction, Celeste released her.

  “Goodbye, Pilar. Salu karaa. May you find abundance. I trust the kosmos will provide.”

  Chapter 40

  Explorer of Worlds

  THE BABY SAT ON Mia’s lap. Burbling, cooing, nibbling on Mia’s fingers, now sticky with spit.

  “I’ve never been good with babies,” Mia said, afraid that any minute the child would slip and hit the floor.

  “You’re good with her,” Angie countered.

  Every few seconds, it would wash over Mia anew: that she was in a castle, with Angelyne, holding her sister’s daughter.

  And none of it was real.

  Even as Mia held on to the baby’s wiggling legs, she could feel the wrongness of it. The little body was too light to be made of flesh and bone, the skin so pale it was almost diaphanous—yet there were no veins beneath the surface, no blood being shunted to and fro. The girl’s hair was feather fine, but far too long for an infant, blond curls already spilling halfway down her neck. She smelled of lavender and sweet roses. It was as if Angelyne had imagined the way she thought a baby would look and feel and smell, then conjured this fantasy child from the aether.

  “It took me a while,” Angie explained, “to understand how the island worked. At first all I did was take long walks on the beach and watch all the horrific things I’d done. There were more intimate memories, too: Mother stopping her heart, or the day I sent Quin to follow you and Pilar. I got used to the pain. I even came to enjoy it. It was no less than what I deserved.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut, slowly releasing her breath.

  “But the longer I spent here, the more the memories began to shift. The mist was transforming them. I never killed anyone. Mother didn’t die; we watched her grow old. I set Quin free. But he came back and chose me, because he loved me. I was a good queen.”

  The baby hiccoughed, then let out a cry. She reached for Angelyne.

  “But I didn’t just want to be a queen. I wanted to be a mother. I’ve always wanted to be a mother.”

  She scooped up her daughter, then unclasped the bodice of her gown, bringing the infant to nurse. Her breasts were fuller than they’d ever been, plump with milk. Something Angie had said long ago drifted through Mia’s mind. What I wouldn’t give to have a porcelain swell of breast. How hard they’d laughed.

  “Her name is Fin Morwynna. I named her after Mother. And after you.”

  Mia’s chest ached. She could see what was happening. Her sister had done unconscionable things, and when she wanted to punish herself, she held up her black gemstone and walked the shore of death. When it hurt too much, she faded back into the fantasy world she’d created. Back and forth she cycled between them, an endless cycle of attack and retreat.

  But Mia’s chest ached for another reason. Angelyne looked so happy, sitting there. Like she was always meant to be exactly where she was, in this pretty castle, a good queen, not a wicked one. Angie in a green gown with a baby cradled in her arms.

  “Angelyne Rose,” Mia murmured. “Queen of the Castle, Mother of Fin.”

  “I always wanted to get married and have children. You thought those things made me a failure as a woman. But that was your failing, deciding for all women what we were allowed to want.”

  The indictment landed hard. Her sister wasn’t wrong. Mia had proclaimed herself the savior of women, in a world where she felt confident women needed to be saved. She was only now beginning to understand that she had merely prescribed her own belief system. As if women were a monolith. As if they should all want the things Mia wanted.

  “Here,” Ange went on, “in this place, I didn’t have to feel ashamed of wanting these things. My life was mine to design. I could live however I wanted, with whom I wanted. You saw Mother already.”

  So the white-haired woman was indeed their mother—or, rather, an echo of their mother. Mia scanned the nursery. Wynna had either left the room or simply faded away.

  “She was a tremendous help when the baby was born. The king is around here, too, probably out in the orangery. Quin loves the orange trees this time of year.”

  Mia’s heart lurched.

  Quin was here.

  Only, he wasn’t. None of these people were. They were ghosts, mere shades of the real thing.

  And suddenly Mia understood why her sister had chosen Quin as her companion in this strange, dreamlike place. It ran deeper than some girlhood crush. As the snow palace fell, Angelyne had found her own fury and suffering reflected in Quin’s eyes. In that moment, she had seen him, known him, and, perhaps more important: she had felt known herself.

  And rightly so. They had both felt powerless to change their stories. The world had tried to crush them—and had, in many ways, succeeded. Quin and Angie had paid close attention, then done the only thing they knew how to do: crush others to survive.

  “Come back with me, Ange.”

  Mia hadn’t known what she was going to say until she said it. She hadn’t even known she wanted to go back herself. More than that, she wasn’t sure she could. No one had ever returned from Prisma. Was it really as easy as stepping onto the Bridge and returning to her old life?

  She heard the echo of Pilar’s voice in the Creation Studio.

  We have to go back.

  Pilar was right. It wasn’t even Pil’s kingdom, and yet somehow she’d known what they had to do. As opposed to Mia, who had run in the opposite direction, wanting only to forget.

  “Come with me to the river kingdom, Angie. We can save Quin from turning into his father. I know we won’t be able to undo everything that’s been done. But we can still set things right.”

  For a moment, Angelyne held her gaze. Silent. Unmoving. Then she drew a finger over her nipple, unlatching Fin’s small, hungry mouth.

  She placed her daughter softly back in her crib. Turned to face Mia.

  “We’re so tired of
being angry, Mi. Tired of waking every day to shame and regret.”

  A trickle of unease slid down Mia’s spine. Her sister had shifted again from I to we.

  Angie strode across the nursery. She rearranged the cushions on the checkered window seat, then situated herself, motioning Mia toward the glass. Outside, the orangery was in bloom.

  Mia crept closer. For just a moment, she saw him, wending his way through the orange trees. A flash of golden curls glinting in the sun. Ghost or no, she could feel herself leaning toward Quin.

  “Oh, Mi,” Angie said softly. “Do you think I haven’t wished a thousand times that I could go back and undo what I did? I meant what I said. I deserve to die. It’s better for everyone if I let go.”

  “No.” Mia shook her head furiously. “I refuse to believe that. You’re not evil, Angie. You understand the things you did were wrong. You can still atone for them.”

  “People come to the Isle of Forgetting to let go, Mi. It’s why you came, too, remember?”

  “I was wrong. I thought I wanted to leave my life behind, but I don’t. Because this?” Mia waved her hand around the nursery. “This is beautiful, Ange. It’s magical.” She gestured toward Fin. “She’s beautiful. But it’s make-believe. If you come back with me, you can have these things in the real world. You can still be a mother.”

  Angie looked wounded.

  “Maybe it’s make-believe to you. But it’s real to us. And once we let go of the rest, we’ll have it forever. I won’t be the sister you remember. We’ll be unrecognizable to you. But the world will be better for it. I’ll be better for it. We are not afraid.”

  Angelyne’s smile was beatific, with no trace of bitterness.

  “If you want to leave, Mi, leave. But you have to let me go.”

  Mia’s heart flailed in her chest.

  “I’m not leaving you behind.”

  “Maybe I want to be left behind. That’s the part you always got wrong. You wanted to save me. Now I get to save you.”

  “Please don’t do this, Angelyne. We can get through this. We’ll find a way. You don’t have to sacrifice yourself for the things you’ve done. I forgive you.”