5
The air was full of salt and secrets. Tella took a deep breath, hoping the evening was also threaded with the magic that haunted Legend’s ship, La Esmeralda.
Everything about it breathed enchantment. Even its swollen sails appeared charmed. They blazed red in the day and silver at night, like a magician’s cloak, hinting at mysteries concealed beneath, which Tella planned to uncover that night.
Drunken laughter floated above her as Tella delved deeper into the ship’s underbelly in search of Nigel the Fortune-teller. Her first evening on the vessel she’d made the mistake of sleeping, not realizing until the following day that Legend’s performers had switched their waking hours to prepare for the next Caraval. They slumbered in the day and woke after sunset.
All Tella had learned her first day aboard La Esmeralda was that Nigel was on the ship, but she had yet to actually see him. The creaking halls beneath decks were like the bridges of Caraval, leading different places at different hours and making it difficult to know who stayed in which room. Tella wondered if Legend had designed it that way, or if it was just the unpredictable nature of magic.
She imagined Legend in his top hat, laughing at the question and at the idea that magic had more control than he did. For many, Legend was the definition of magic.
When she had first arrived on Isla de los Sueños, Tella suspected everyone could be Legend. Julian had so many secrets that she’d questioned if Legend’s identity was one of them, up until he’d briefly died. Caspar, with his sparkling eyes and rich laugh, had played the role of Legend in the last game, and at times he’d been so convincing Tella wondered if he was actually acting. At first sight, Dante, who was almost too beautiful to be real, looked like the Legend she’d always imagined. Tella could picture Dante’s wide shoulders filling out a black tailcoat while a velvet top hat shadowed his head. But the more Tella thought about Legend, the more she wondered if he even ever wore a top hat. If maybe the symbol was another thing to throw people off. Perhaps Legend was more magic than man and Tella had never met him in the flesh at all.
The boat rocked and an actual laugh pierced the quiet.
Tella froze.
The laughter ceased but the air in the thin corridor shifted. What had smelled of salt and wood and damp turned thick and velvet-sweet. The scent of roses.
Tella’s skin prickled; gooseflesh rose on her bare arms.
At her feet a puddle of petals formed a seductive trail of red.
Tella might not have known Legend’s true name, but she knew he favored red and roses and games.
Was this his way of toying with her? Did he know what she was up to?
The bumps on her arms crawled up to her neck and into her scalp as her newest pair of slippers crushed the tender petals. If Legend knew what she was after, Tella couldn’t imagine he would guide her in the correct direction, and yet the trail of petals was too tempting to avoid. They led to a door that glowed copper around the edges.
She turned the knob.
And her world transformed into a garden, a paradise made of blossoming flowers and bewitching romance. The walls were formed of moonlight. The ceiling was made of roses that dripped down toward the table in the center of the room, covered with plates of cakes and candlelight and sparkling honey wine.
But none of it was for Tella.
It was all for Scarlett. Tella had stumbled into her sister’s love story and it was so romantic it was painful to watch.
Scarlett stood across the chamber. Her full ruby gown bloomed brighter than any flowers, and her glowing skin rivaled the moon as she gazed up at Julian.
They touched nothing except each other. While Scarlett pressed her lips to Julian’s, his arms wrapped around her as if he’d found the one thing he never wanted to let go of.
This was why love was so dangerous. Love turned the world into a garden, so beguiling it was easy to forget that rose petals were as ephemeral as feelings, eventually they would wilt and die, leaving nothing but the thorns.
Tella turned and left the doorway before she could think another cruel thought. Scarlett deserved this happiness. And maybe it would last. Perhaps Julian would prove himself worthy of Scarlett and keep his promises. It did look as if he were trying.
And, unlike Tella, Scarlett wasn’t the one who’d been doomed to unrequited love by the Prince of Hearts.
The hallway shifted again as soon as Tella closed the door. The path of petals before her vanished and a new trail formed out of ginger smoke and incense—the scents that always lingered around Nigel.
Again, Tella sensed that Legend was toying with her as the smoking curls of incense widened into the shape of hands and waved her toward an open door.
Tella’s skin heated as she stepped inside. Waxy yellow candles lined the edge of the room, and in the middle of it all was Nigel, lounging atop a bed covered in a velvet quilt the deep shade of plum wine. His lips, surrounded with tattoos of barbed blue wire, stretched wide, not quite a smile, more like the opening of a trap.
“I wondered when you’d pay me a visit, Miss Dragna.” He motioned for Tella to take a seat against the mountain of tasseled pillows positioned at the foot of his temporary dais. Just like during Caraval, Nigel only wore a stretch of brown cloth, leaving all his vibrant tattoos exposed.
Tella’s eyes fell to the circus scenes depicted on his thick legs, transfixed by the vision of a woman with feathers for hair, dancing with a wolf in a top hat. Not wanting Nigel to interpret the meaning, she quickly lifted her eyes, only for them to land on his arm and the image of a broken black heart.
“What is it I can do for you?” asked Nigel.
“I don’t want my future told. I want information about Legend.”
The tattooed stars around Nigel’s eyes glittered like wet ink, eager and intrigued. “How much are you willing to pay for this?”
Tella pulled a purse of coins from her pocket.
Nigel shook his head. Of course he would not accept her money. Coins were not the preferred method of payment in the world of Caraval.
“Traditionally we perform once a year, giving us months to recover,” said Nigel. “This time Legend has given us less than a week.”
“I’m not giving you any days of my life.”
“I do not desire your life. I want your rest.”
“How much?” Tella asked cautiously. She had gone days without sleeping before. Giving up a few nights of rest didn’t seem too great of a sacrifice. But that was how these bargains always appeared. On the surface, Legend’s performers made them sound like insignificant inconveniences, but they were never that straightforward.
“I will take from you in proportion to what I give you,” Nigel said. “The more questions I answer, the more rest I will receive. If I give you no answers of value, you will lose nothing.”
“And when will you take my sleep?”
“As soon as you leave this room.”
Tella attempted to see every angle of the deal. It was the evening of the twenty-fourth and they were scheduled to arrive in Valenda the morning of the twenty-ninth. There were four days of travel left. Depending on how much sleep he stole, she’d be exhausted by the time they reached Valenda. But if he gave her concrete information about Legend, it would be worth it.
“All right. But I will only give you my sleep as long as we are on this boat. You cannot take anything from me while we’re in Valenda.”
“I can work with that.” Nigel retrieved a brush along with a tiny pot full of burning orange liquid from the stand beside his bed. “I’ll need your wrist to complete the transaction.”
Tella hesitated. “You’re not going to paint anything permanent on it, are you?”
“Whatever I draw will disappear as soon as you pay me in full.”
Tella stretched out her arm. Nigel moved with practiced skill; his cold brush swirled and twirled along Tella’s skin, as if he often used body parts as a canvas.
When he finished, a pair of eyes, exactly like hers, pee
red back at Tella. Round and hazel-bright. For a moment she swore they pleaded with her not to make this choice. But losing a little sleep felt like a small sacrifice if it would give her the information she needed to fulfill the debt to her friend and finally end the last seven years of torment that had begun the day her mother had left.
“Now,” said Nigel, “what is it you wish to know?”
“I want Legend’s true name. The one he was called before he became Legend.”
Nigel ran a finger over his barbed-wire lips, drawing a drop of blood—or was the blood tattooed on the tip of his finger?
“Even if I wanted to, I could not tell you Legend’s name,” said Nigel. “None of his players can reveal this secret. The same witch who banished the Fates from earth centuries ago gave Legend his powers. His magic is ancient—older than he is—and it binds us all to secrecy.”
Though no one was certain why the Fates had vanished and left the humans to rule themselves, there were mumblings they’d been vanquished by a powerful witch. But Tella had never heard anyone say this was the same witch who had given Legend his powers.
“That still doesn’t tell me anything about Legend’s true identity.”
“I’m not finished,” Nigel said. “I was going to tell you: Legend’s magic prevents his true name from being spoken or revealed, but it can be won.”
Spider legs danced over Tella’s skin, and one of the painted eyes on her wrist began to close. It fell swiftly, in a way that made her feel as if she was running out of currency, but also very close to the answer she needed.
“How do I win the name?” she asked quickly.
“You must participate in the next Caraval. If you win the game, you will come face-to-face with Legend.”
Tella swore one of the stars tattooed around Nigel’s eyes fell as he finished. It was probably all the ginger smoke and pungent incense addling her brain, giving her visions of living tattoos.
She should have left then. The eyelids on her wrist were more than halfway closed now, and she had the answer she needed—if she won Caraval, she’d finally have Legend’s name. But something about Nigel’s last words left her with more questions.
“Is what you just said a prophecy, or are you telling me that the prize for the next Caraval is the real Legend?”
“It’s a little of both.” The tattoos of barbed wire piercing Nigel’s lips turned to thorns, and black roses bloomed between them. “Legend is not the prize, but if you win Caraval, the first face you see will be Legend’s. He plans to personally give the next winner of Caraval their reward. But, be warned, winning the game will come at a cost you will later regret.”
Tella’s skin frosted over as the painted eyes on her wrists closed shut, and her mother’s familiar warning flashed back: Once a future is foretold, that future becomes a living thing and it will fight very hard to bring itself about.
Then it hit her. A wave of fatigue so intense it knocked her down against the cushioned bed. Her head spun and the bones in her legs turned to dust.
“What’s happening?” she panted, her breathing abruptly labored as she fought to sit up. Was there more smoke in the room, or was it her vision blurring?
“I probably should have clarified,” Nigel said. “The spell on your wrist does not take your ability to sleep, it makes you fall asleep so that you can transfer the rest you receive to me.”
“No!” Tella swayed as she pushed up from the bed, vision narrowing until all she could see where glimpses of scoffing tattoos and snickering candlelight. “I don’t want to sleep all the way to Valenda.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late. Next time, do not agree to bargains so easily.”
6
There were shipwrecks more graceful than Tella. As she stumbled away from Nigel’s quarters her legs refused to walk a straight line. Her hips continued to bump into walls. Her head knocked against more than one hanging lantern. The journey to her room was so perilous she lost her slippers, yet again. But she was almost there.
The door wobbled before her eyes, one final obstacle to conquer.
Tella focused all her strength to pull it open. And—
Either she’d entered the wrong room, or she’d already begun to dream.
Dante had wings. And, holy mother of saints, they were beautiful—soulless jet-black with midnight-blue veins, the color of lost wishes and fallen stardust. He was turned toward his nightstand washing his face, or maybe he was kissing his reflection in the mirror.
Tella wasn’t entirely sure what the arrogant boy was doing. All her blurring eyes could see was that his shirt and coat were gone and a massive pair of inky wings stretched across the ridges of his back.
“You could be an angel of death with those things.”
Dante tossed a look over his shoulder. Damp hair the color of black fox fur clung to his forehead. “I’ve been called many things, but I don’t know if anyone has ever said I’m an angel.”
“Does that mean you’ve been called death?” Tella slumped in the doorway, legs finally giving out. She hit the floor with a graceless thud.
A laugh, delicate and light and very female, came from the other side of the room. “I think she swooned at the sight of you.”
And now she was going to throw up. There was another girl in the room. Tella got a noxious glimpse of a jade-green dress and shining brunette hair before Dante’s body stepped into her line of her vision.
He slowly shook his head. “What did—”
Dante’s gaze landed on the closed pair of eyes painted on her wrist.
He made a jagged sound that could have been a chuckle. But Tella wasn’t sure. Her hearing was nearly as muddled as her head. Her eyes gave up and closed.
“I’m surprised he got to you.” Dante’s words were very close now, and low.
“I was bored,” Tella mumbled. “It seemed like an interesting way to pass the time.”
“If that’s true you should have just come to me.” Dante was definitely laughing now.
* * *
The next several days were a blur of unfortunate hallucinations. Nigel took all of Tella’s dreams, but he left her with the nightmares. There were terrifyingly realistic images of her father forever taking off his purple gloves, as well as visions of shadows and shades of dark that did not exist in the mortal world. Cold, damp hands stroked her hair and others ripped out her heart, while bloodless lips drank the marrow from her bones.
Before experiencing death during Caraval, Tella would have said the dreams felt like dying over and over again. But nothing felt like death, except for Death. She should have known better than to think Death wouldn’t haunt her after she’d escaped. Tella was amazing; of course Death would want to keep her.
But although she’d dreamed of Death’s demons, when Tella came to consciousness, she was greeted by a goddess.
Scarlett stood next to her bed holding a tray of treasure, one laden with cream biscuits, eggs fried in butter, nutmeg custards, thick brown-sugared bacon, and a mug of spicy drinking chocolate.
Tella stole the fattest cream biscuit. She felt groggy, despite sleeping for days, but eating helped. “Have I told you how much I love you?”
“I thought you would be hungry after what happened.”
“Scar, I’m sorry, I—”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. I understand how easy it is to be tricked by Legend’s performers. And everyone on board this ship thinks Nigel took too much from you.” Scarlett eyed Tella, as if hoping she’d confess exactly why she’d gone to the fortune-teller.
Although Tella wanted to justify her actions, she sensed this was not the time to bring up the deal she’d made with her friend. Scarlett would be horrified to learn her sister had been writing to a stranger she’d met through Elantine’s Most Wanted, which was a shady establishment at best.
Tella had been telling Julian the truth when she’d said she didn’t enjoy lying to her sister. Unfortunately, that didn’t always prevent her from doing so. Tella kept secrets
from Scarlett to protect her from worrying. Their mother’s disappearance meant Scarlett stopped being a carefree girl at an early age and became more of a caretaker for Tella. It wasn’t fair, and Tella hated adding to the burdens her sister already carried.
But Tella wondered if Scarlett had already found out what she’d done.
Scarlett kept nervously smoothing out wrinkles in her skirt, which seemed to grow more rumpled with every touch. During Caraval, Legend had given Scarlett a magic dress that shifted in appearance—and right now it looked as anxious as Scarlett. Her sleeves had been made of pink lace but now they were turning gray.
Tella took a fortifying sip of chocolate and forced herself to sit up straighter in the bed. “Scar, if you’re not upset about the deal I made with Nigel, what’s bothering you?”
Scarlett’s mouth tilted down. “I wanted to talk to you about Dante.”
Damn it all. It wasn’t what she’d expected, but it wasn’t good, either. Tella had forgotten about passing out in Dante’s room. He must have carried Tella back here and Scarlett must have seen him, half-naked and holding Tella close to his chest.
“Scar, I don’t know what you’re thinking, but I swear there is nothing going on between Dante and me. You know how I feel about boys who are prettier than me.”
“So, nothing happened between the two of you after Caraval ended?” Scarlett crossed the small cabin and picked up a pair of silver slippers, the same ones Tella had left in the forest. “He dropped these off last night along with an interesting note.”
Tella’s stomach turned as she plucked the thin sheaf of paper poking out from one of the shoes.
I’ve been meaning to return these since that night we spent in the forest.
—D
He really was a blackguard. Tella crumpled the note in her fist. Dante must have written it to torment Scarlett for rejecting him during Caraval.
“All right,” Tella said. “I confess, Dante and I did kiss the night of the party. But it was terrible, one of the worst kisses I’ve ever had, definitely not something I would wish to repeat! And I’m so sorry if doing that hurt you, I know he was terrible to you during Caraval.”
Legendary--A Caraval Novel Page 4
