A Girl in Black and White (Alyria Book 2)

by Danielle Lori

  If learning that hadn’t ruined my day, seeing Weston’s face on every street corner would have.

  He wasn’t even these people’s prince. But since they didn’t have one—a sane one, anyway—and Titan was the closest neighboring city, they adopted him as their own. It gave me a bad taste, but I didn’t think anyone here would take the dead-girl-Fated-to-open-the-seal’s opinion. Too bad, really. Because Weston wanted exactly what they despised, yet he was the ‘oh so exalted’ Prince.

  Sometimes I felt like upchucking my food when I’d see women fawning over his poster. And fawn they did. One time I couldn’t help but say in passing, “Save it, ladies. He gets off on killing, not love-struck women.”

  They responded with something along the lines off, “I’d pay coin to even try and get him off.”

  Ugh.

  I had wished I kept my mouth shut. But, sometimes it took over—even now. A little dying couldn’t even keep it in check.

  Saying my goodbyes to Sunny after she told me every detail of her and her mother’s life, it seemed, I took my leave.

  The walk home was uneventful because it was only on the other side of the bay. Lanterns lit the way, and I pulled my hood back up, trying to remain inconspicuous. There was no reason to attract attention to yourself here if you didn’t need to. I met gazes with a couple of Untouchables walking past me on patrol. They were white-clad from head to toe, only a slit showing their eyes. I knew that they wore it because they could kill anyone but their own with only the tiniest touch.

  Truthfully, their presence seemed to make the docks safer when they were in the vicinity. Maxim might have held some twisted beliefs about selling women who came into his “protection,” but his men never took a step out of formation. Never harmed or raped like those raiders who I’d encountered.

  The remaining king’s guard had to go about their duties as usual. They had no choice even if they wished otherwise—not with an army of Untouchables in their midst. But there was a definite animosity there. Step between a glare from one to the other, and you could feel the hostility on your skin.

  Walking up to the large wooden residence, The Royal Affair—proudly, the classiest brothel in Southie—I skipped the red front door, taking a left around the building and into an alleyway instead. I followed it until I came to the back. There was no handy trellis, unfortunately; so I had to climb a stack of crates, do a little jump until I could reach the ledge of a window seal and pull myself up.

  I landed with a thud on the floor and froze.

  But when I didn’t hear a sound, I hung my cloak on a hook near the bedroom door, brushed my hair, pinched my cheeks, and headed out of the room, down the hall and wooden steps.

  In the center of the home, was a large stone fountain. In it, stood a naked woman whose life’s work was pouring water from a pitcher. Wooden beams, red carpets, and comfortable chaises and seats were distributed throughout the open room.

  The area was empty, and with a sigh and knowing I was late, I took a right into the dining room. Wall sconces glowed orange as eight pairs of eyes settled on me. Pulling in my chair, I ignored the heavy stares on my skin.

  “You’re late,” Agnes said from her spot at the head of the table.

  “Yes, I know. I have my monthly. Cramps is all.”

  Someone let out a breath of amusement, another of disbelief, and one of annoyance from having to wait for me.

  “You must have an affliction to have your monthly three times this month.”

  I lifted a shoulder. “I’m irregular.”

  A few snorts went around the table.

  Agnes sighed. When I first heard her name, I’d imagined a stern old lady; in reality, she was only ten years older than me, with mahogany hair and deeply tanned skin. “If you’re ‘irregular’ again, I’ll have to notify the Superiors.”

  I frowned, but knowing I didn’t want that attention, said, “I can feel it regulating as we speak.”

  “Good.”

  The front door slammed, and Agnes let out an exasperated noise. “What now?”

  A woman strolled into the room. “Sorry to interrupt! I know I’m late, but I haven’t had much time to stop by lately, and I thought I’d come for supper.”

  Not next to me. Not next to me.

  Agnes let out a breath. “There’s an open seat near Calamity.”

  I sighed.

  “Oh, splendid.”

  Splendid indeed.

  Everyone waited until she got settled in, and then the plates began to arrive. Looked like carrot soup. Ugh. What I would do for an actual meal right now.

  I was tracing the scratches in the wooden table, waiting for the servants to finish bringing our plates, when someone nudged my arm.

  I sighed, glancing up. “What?”

  “Not going to say hello?”

  I really didn’t want to, but I was feeling generous since Henry was home safe. Besides, if you can’t beat ‘um, then kill them with rationality . . . or something.

  So, I acquiesced.

  “Hello, Mother.”

  Fornicating couples in dark lit corners.

  Lurid acts on the furniture.

  One or two naked patrons.

  Low cut bodices and spilling cups of wine.

  To be clear, none of this was occurring. It was what I used to think happened in a brothel at seven in the evening; the distant sound of the church bell rang once again to alert of the hour.

  Instead, the clatter of silverware and the sighing of seven jaded girls filled the dining room, our movements sluggish as the oppressive heat seeped through the jarred window, suffocating us all.

  I guessed that my assumption wasn’t far off; it just wasn’t happening between the hours of seven and eight, of which most establishments closed in Symbia for the evening meal.

  “I think I shall die in this heat,” Magdalena said, pulling her fiery-red hair off her neck.

  “One could only hope so,” Juliana muttered from beside her, twirling her spoon in, what was in fact, carrot soup.

  Magdalena only rolled her eyes, resting her chin on her hand.

  “Have you heard about the festival?” Sinsara asked. “It shall be a miracle to get out of this oppressive, stuffy whorehouse.”

  “You all have better things to be doing than going to a festival,” Agnes said. The looks she got from seven girls almost knocked her chair back, but she continued, “It’s only a month until All Sister’s Day. Half of you here haven’t decided what you’re going to do. No one will be going to the festival until I have an answer from everyone whether you’ll be pledging or petitioning for High Sistership. Those who have a bad track record—” Her eyes shot to me, “—better not even waste the time petitioning. Because you won’t be accepted.”

  I frowned, pulling off a piece of bread and chewing.

  “There’s going to be a menagerie!” Sarai exclaimed, sitting on my left with her feet up on her chair, reading a gossip rag against her legs.

  Agnes’ brows knitted. “Did you girls hear anything I just said?”

  “And dinghy races, five different dramas, and a lantern light show!” Sarai continued.

  “What are the dramas?” Carmella asked her younger sister. “Please tell me it’s that Queen Sephil’s execution! I’ve wanted to see that one.”

  “Any music events?” Marlena said.

  “Sarai, just give it to me,” her sister said, holding her hand out across the table.

  The sixteen-year-old frowned. “No.”

  “Well, it’s not even yours. Mother gave it to me, so give it back.” When Carmella reached for it, Sarai spun out of her chair and headed out of the room. Everyone else hopped from their chairs—disregarding Agnes’ protests—and followed to find out what events were taking place during the weeklong festival.

  I sat there in the silence, with only my mother and Agnes. Chewing my lip, I said, “This is a great sup—”

  Agnes shot me a little glare.

  I sighed, putting a spoonful of soup in
my mouth.

  Agnes rubbed her temples, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like, “Hate my life,” before pushing her chair back and heading out of the room.

  Without a glance in my mother’s direction, I got up from my chair and left the dining room.

  “Calamity, wait.”

  I sighed, reluctantly stopping on the stairs.

  I crossed my arms as my mother met me on the staircase. Her emerald-green dress was sleeveless, with a roundly cut bodice, and a thin leather girdle resting on her hips. Similar to mine, although I had a penchant for white; seemed to give me an advantage in my profession. The skirts were still ankle length, but compared to Alger, Symbia had a more liberal way of dressing. Not exactly Sylvian-liberal, but generous enough.

  There was a strangeness about looking similar to someone you hardly knew. Other than my mother’s eyes golden like ale, while mine were as dark as those costly coffee beans you could buy in Northie, our likeness was uncanny. She might have had a slightly more square and mature face, while mine was heart-shaped, but there was an undeniable blood tie between us, and I hadn’t quite figured out what I thought about it.

  She thrust a letter toward me, and I only glanced at it with a frown before crossing my arms. “I don’t want it. In fact, I remember quite clearly telling you not to give them to me anymore. Not unless Grandmother decided to visit me or disclose her location.”

  “Well, she won’t do that. Because you’ll try to leave and come to her. And she isn’t ready to return yet. She’s visiting Aunt Deidre. Don’t you think that’s acceptable after living like a recluse in that nowhere town for twenty years?”

  “She’s had six months! If she wants to speak to me, then she can come do it in person. No more letters.” I was not budging on this. It felt like I’d been dumped off with my mother and I didn’t like the feeling one bit.

  She sighed. “Is this about that incident at Mother’s?”

  Ha. That incident.

  This was why I often times avoided my mother when she visited. She either wanted to pass messages off from Grandmother or her pledged. And I never wanted to hear what he had to say.

  The first letter I’d gotten from Grandmother was handed to me by my mother before I’d even arrived at this brothel. The words in it changed my perception on everything I’d known in the past year.

  My mother was never a prostitute.

  My Grandmother had written that Reina was slightly freer with her favors than she would have preferred, but she never accepted coin for said services. I thought after getting to know my mother, that might have been an understatement and decided Grandmother was in blatant denial.

  My mother was also never sick from the Pox.

  She’d pissed off the wrong witch, which after getting to know her, made perfect sense.

  So, what was my mother?

  A really good performer. I’d told her she could join one of those traveling dramas, but she’d only responded that she’d rather die than work for her own coin.

  “Are you ever going to forgive me for that night?” she asked.

  “Mm, probably not.”

  Honesty is the best policy, right?

  “It wasn’t only my fault, you know. Mother made me go along with it.”

  I let out an exasperated breath. “Grandmother might have done just that, but she gets more leniency when it comes to these sorts of things for raising me.”

  There were some important parts to this story I’d learned in the last few months:

  1. I was a Sister. Not a sister as in familial. A witch. Funnily enough, one Untouchable Prince had asked me close to a year ago, and at the moment I denied it, I would have laughed if told otherwise.

  2. My grandmother convinced my mother to go along with the destitute-prostituting-mother-who-would-steal-from-her-own-child story all to cover up who we were and the real reason Reina would rip a silver cuff off my wrist.

  3. Sisters were not allowed to share their identity with anyone and had to magically swear when being avowed into the Sisterhood on All Sister’s Day.

  There was a childhood phrase real prominent in my memory. It went like this:

  If you hear a witch’s cry, stab her through the left eye, burn her to a crisp and let her ashes fly.

  In fact, after mass, the girls held hands, spin in a circle and chant that adorable phrase. I might have participated. And now Grandmother’s disapproving—more disapproving than usual—stare made more sense than ever. But the fear surrounding witches did make sense of why the Sisterhood kept it a secret.

  4. Being a Sister came with its up and downs. Silver being one of the downs. The aforementioned Untouchable Prince had told me silver was the witches’ metal. Now, that wasn’t because we liked to boil it down and cook children in it; it was because it sparkled just right, its texture so smooth. It was a curse after a woman arrived from Elian long ago and decided to extract more magic than the land would grant her by burning it, creating the first Sister. One cannot take without taking a burden as well, I’d learned. It was the reason my covetous mother took my cuff off for a better look and ruining my life as I knew it.

  5. And lastly, minus some small details, my grandmother—and possibly mother—were lying.

  See, there was a problem with their story. I was Fated to open the seal when I was six, so why had I worn the cuffs beforehand?

  I twisted the one silver cuff I had left on my wrist absently in thought. The other was probably on the bottom of the ocean somewhere. I wasn’t sure of the consequences of having it off, but nothing untoward had come of it yet.

  I hadn’t put my questions before my mother; because one, I was sure that she wouldn’t answer them, and two, I didn’t trust her. Not at all.

  “Just take it, Cal.”

  “No.”

  She shook her head. “You must have gotten that sensitivity from your grandmother.”

  “It was clearly not from you,” I said with a sweet smile.

  “Fine, don’t take it. But drop by the house if you change your mind. Clinton is curious how your schooling is coming along.”

  “Thanks for the offer, but I won’t be stopping by, and I won’t be talking to your pledged about my training, considering the tiny fact that he wants to sell me off to his son. You know, my brother.”

  My mother rolled her eyes. “Stepbrother. You aren’t related by blood. You’re only trying to find an excuse to dislike him.”

  I laughed. “Oh, please. I’ve plenty reasons to dislike him.”

  “What?”

  I faltered, hesitating. “Well . . . first off he has a girl’s name. I simply do not like light-haired men. And he’s slightly annoying.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Alis is the best match in the city. Besides you must take a pledged on All Sister’s Day.”

  Frustration seeped into my chest. I knew I had a short time to figure out what I would do as that day crept closer and closer, each step putting more pressure on my lungs.

  “I wish to marry someone normal,” I said stubbornly. “Like a blacksmith.”

  It was true. I didn’t want a man with magic after my little adventure. I just wanted someone human, most definitely.

  My mother snorted. “Thankfully I have the last say in it, then.”

  There were rules to the Sisterhood; most importantly that to keep the peace between us and our male equivalent—Druids—we each had to marry one. There were occasions when that was overlooked for a man in a higher position of power or simply someone who the Sisterhood thought would be an ally. But the worst part was that my mother had the last say in who I married completely. I thought she had a lot to make up for, though, and wouldn’t be forcing me to marry someone I didn’t approve of.

  “A blacksmith?” my mother muttered. “You’re either in your cups or Mother has accomplished her goal in brainwashing you.”

  Ironically enough, a blacksmith was who my grandmother had wanted me to marry in the first place. But no, her insistence didn’t brainwash me. I
just knew what a man with magic was like now. Sounded nice, until you had one pushing you around, telling you what to do . . .

  I smiled all teeth. “Well, at least she taught me something, particularly like how not to abandon one’s daughter for a good twenty years.”

  She pursed her lips, sighing, “And that’s my cue to leave.” She walked down a couple of steps, before stopping to say, “I heard forgiveness is really good for the soul.”

  “I imagine so is having a mother to raise you. I wouldn’t know, though,” I added, feigning disappointment.

  Ignoring that jab, she made her way to the foyer. “What is she thinking?” she muttered to herself. “A man without magic is weak.”

  “And so is Clinton for sending you so often to question me about my training.”

  She opened the wooden door. “It’s been a pleasure, daughter. Let’s do it again some time.”

  “I’m anxious already,” I replied dryly as she shut the door behind her.

  It was safe to say my relationship with my mother was rocky. Interesting. But rocky as hell.

  “If you look at the maps in front of you, the Sisterhood houses are all marked with a star. The big star being the Main House in Grover, near the Marshlands,” Agnes said as all us girls were in the upstairs drawing room, away from any debauchery that would be happening downstairs.

  “That’s near Latent!” Juliana said from her seat at the wooden table. “I’ve always wondered what it was like being with one.”

  “I heard it’s magnificent,” Sinsara replied with a sigh.

  “Who told you that?” Farah asked in disbelief. She was ever the cynic, but with her curly mane of hair, dark brown skin, tawny eyes, and the smoothest complexion you’d ever see, she always captured everyone’s attention.

  “My older sister,” Sinsara answered. “She’s seen the entire country.”

  “Slept with it too, it seems,” Farah countered.

  Laughter swept around the room.

  “Ladies,” Agnes chastised.

  “What does gre . . . gar-ious mean?” Sarai asked from her seat at the end of the table, a gossip rag in front of her face. She was the youngest here at sixteen and was always stuck in a book of some kind. Most commonly gossip.