by Shana Abe
The room assigned to me at Iverson encompassed the top floor of one of the smaller stone turrets. It was round and crammed wall to wall with just a bed, an armoire, and a bureau. The other girls at the school all shared lavish suites bedecked in jeweled glass and rosewood and lace, but I didn’t think any of that compared to what I had been given: Privacy. Solitude. A window glazed in a thousand diamond pieces, with hinges that worked and a view to the sea and the mainland bridge beyond.
And the stars.
Oh, the stars, twinkling and winking at me.
come out, they sang, a celestial chorus only I could hear. come out, beast. come fly to us.
Somewhere belowstairs, from one the parlors perhaps, a clock began to chime, followed by a cascade of others.
Midnight. Perfect.
I stepped back from the window so my nightshirt wouldn’t blow away, took a deep breath, and Turned to smoke.
I’m not sure how best to describe what it’s like. Imagine all the weight of your body, all those heavy pounds of muscle and bone and fat, abruptly melted away. You still exist, but you’re vapor. Diaphanous coils, elegant and twisting, lighter than air. You can see and hear, even control your direction. You’re not cold or warm. You feel no physical pain.
Only the hunger to fly.
This is the first step to Becoming a dragon.
As smoke, you can sift through an open window, float out past the walls of a castle. You can spread yourself as thin as sea spray or bunch up thick like a cloud. You can rise and rise and hear the stars more clearly than ever before, pulling at you, celebrating you. Humming and praising.
You belong to them; they belong to you. And there will always be an aching, festering fragment of you that yearns to just keep going up, forever and ever. To never touch the earth again.
I glided over the smooth manicured lawn fronting the castle, the tidy rose gardens and the sinister huge hedges that had all been pruned into animal shapes, wolves and lions and unicorns. I might well have been an odd sliver of mist, or the creeping fog that uncurled from the woods to slink along the grounds. Except I moved as nothing else did.
I left Iverson behind me, soaring farther into the forested center of the island. Black spiky crowns of birch and beech skipped past, their leaves flashing purple. Meadows opened up and closed again. If I dipped too low, the forest’s branches would tear me into pieces. It wouldn’t hurt, but it wouldn’t be especially pleasant, either. I made certain to remain above the trees.
As compelling as the stars’ songs were, I had a different goal in mind tonight besides just flight.
I knew the way to the cottage by heart. It sat alone and empty in an uncivilized portion of the woods, a place none of the other students would dream to venture. As far as I could tell, none of the staff came out here, either. The windows were shuttered. The door was locked, but it was wooden and old and no longer quite fit the jamb. The gaps were easily wide enough for smoke to slide though.
I Turned back to girl on its other side. Nude. Chilled.
I didn’t like to linger here. It might have been my imagination or just a depressing truth, but the air inside Jesse’s cottage was still scented of him, and I didn’t like to breathe it. I think deep down I was worried that one day I’d breathe it all gone, and that would be the last of him. The last time I remembered his fragrance.
I removed a shirt and trousers from his closet, got dressed, and left by the door—then doubled back when I realized I’d forgotten the shovel stored by the woodshed. None of Jesse’s boots fit me, so I went barefoot along the trail that wrapped around the cottage and vanished into the trees.
Leaves and grass folded soft beneath my soles. The tip of the shovel made a soft chuck into the ground with my every other step. A breeze slipped by in fits and starts, ringing me in the perfume of wildflowers and bracken and mossy logs.
It was bloody dark. But I was able to find my way by memory … and by following the subtle, lilting music that was gradually growing louder ahead.
Dragons hear all manner of music that humans don’t. It was one of the reasons I’d spent a year of my life imprisoned in the hell of Moor Gate, because I kept asking the adults around me to explain all the unending songs. Songs from the stars, of course. But also from metals. From stones. Songs from stickpins or emeralds or iron bars, each one unique, strident or gentle, a ballad or a symphony—the music never ceased.
Not even when I was given the electrical shock treatments.
Not even when they submerged me in the ice baths.
Not even the morning they’d killed me because they could, and then forced my dead heart to beat again.
The music I followed tonight was muffled, because it emanated from several feet underground. I stopped finally at a tall rowan tree, leaned the shovel against it, and sat down at its base. I eased back against the trunk, dug my toes into the peat, and waited.
It wasn’t too much longer before footsteps approached.
Chapter 2
“Miss Jones,” Armand greeted me, winding his way through a strand of whispering beeches.
“Your Grace,” I answered.
“Not quite. That’s still my father.”
My eyes had adjusted to the night by then, and I was able to make out the pale folds of his scarf, the ghostly outline of his face and hands against his linen duster.
He would have driven from his mansion on the mainland to as far as the island bridge, then walked the rest for stealth. I wondered that he hadn’t gotten hot in that coat.
“Your … lordiness. Whatever you are now. I don’t know the proper address for a marquess, I suppose.”
“Lord Sherborne,” he supplied smoothly, coming close to the rowan. “Or simply my lord. But you can call me sweetheart.”
“I don’t believe I will.”
His teeth flashed in the gloom; I’d made him smile. “We’ll see.”
Armand had nearly everything in the world he could possibly want. He had money, social status, and inhumanly good looks. His family owned the castle and the island the castle sat upon, along with most of the mainland nearby. He lived in a monstrosity of a manor house perversely named Tranquility, a few miles inland. He was intelligent, brooding, and dangerously magnetic in that way somehow unique to young men born to power. He’d been booted out of Eton twice and I still couldn’t think of a single girl at Iverson who wouldn’t give her right arm—or, more specifically, her left-hand ring finger—to him at the drop of one of his expensive hats.
Especially since his older brother, the previous Marquess of Sherborne, had been so accommodating as to go and get himself killed in the war. So the future Mrs. Armand was guaranteed a duchess’ coronet.
I used to think it was selfishness or just boredom that had him constantly showing up at Iverson to seek me out. The desire to rebel against his father and Westcliffe and all the sticky spiderwebs of rules that entangled us both. I was hardly a seemly companion for the son of a duke, and everyone knew it, especially me.
Then we’d found out. About being dragons, I mean. And about how it would be in his nature to hunt me like this till the end of time.
I don’t which of us was more appalled.
But Armand’s drákon blood was thinner than mine, and his powers were only just emerging. He couldn’t Turn to smoke or dragon yet, so at least I had the advantage over him there. He knew if he pushed too far, I’d Turn and leave.
“Bloody dark,” he commented, settling down beside me. He was holding something bulky in his hands.
“I hadn’t noticed.”
“Really?” He stilled. “Is that a dragon trait? You can see in the dark?”
Now I was the one smiling, though I was glad he couldn’t tell. “No, my lord. It is bloody dark.”
“In that case …” He rummaged through the bulky thing, a
nd suddenly I smelled cheese and salty olives and bread and smoked fish.
“Good God,” I said, my mouth beginning to water. “Did you bring a picnic?”
“A small something, perhaps. And …”
And a lantern, as it happened. He struck a match; the delicious food scent was briefly overwhelmed by sulphur, and then the amethyst shadows retreated against a small yellow glow.
“That’s better,” he said.
I drew my knees up to my chest. “Someone might see.”
“Who the devil,” Armand responded cordially, replacing the lantern’s glass, “is going to see all the way out here in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night? I’m not going to attempt to eat Russian caviar in the dark, Eleanore. It stains. And this is a new coat.”
“Very well.”
He sent me a glance from beneath his lashes. With the light cast up from below, he was all stark jawline and cheekbones and diabolical dark brows. I saw the dragon in him then as clear as could be. Only his eyes were reassuringly familiar: rich cobalt blue, the color of oceans, of heaven’s heart.
“Hungry?” he asked, soft.
There was an implication in his tone that he meant for something other than food.
“I’ve never had caviar,” I said deliberately.
His gaze fell from mine. “Then I’m honored to be the one to offer it to you now.”
And that is how I discovered that caviar is one of the most purely revolting substances ever to exist. I actually had to spit it out and wipe my tongue clean with a fresh piece of bread to get the disgusting fish-jelly flavor out of my mouth.
“Charming.” Armand was smearing more onto his own bread with a delicate silver knife. “Glad to know all those lessons in deportment aren’t being wasted.”
“What josser was the first person to slit open a sturgeon and see a slimy blob of eggs and think, Right, I’m going to eat that?” I swiped again at my tongue. “I never thought there existed a food I wouldn’t like, but you, my lord, have proven me wrong.”
“A first!”
“And last. What else did you bring?”
Ten minutes later, I realized I was the only one still eating. Crickets had begun to chirp sleepily from the bracken, filling the silence. I glanced up to discover Armand watching me, his face shadow-sharp and inscrutable. The last of the bread and olives lay untouched by his feet.
“Westcliffe doesn’t want you coming back next year,” he said abruptly.
I brushed some crumbs from my shirt. “That’s hardly a revelation. She thinks I’m your doxy.”
“She’s sent letter after letter to Reginald, implying it’s time to find a new scholarship girl. To cut you loose.”
Reginald was the duke, and my sponsor at the school. I’d only ever heard Armand refer to him as “dad” once. Right after His Grace had tried to murder me.
“What does he write back?” I asked.
“Nothing, so far. I’m afraid all her letters have been regretfully mislaid.”
I smiled, shaking my head. “You can’t keep that up.”
“No, I know. Eleanore—Lora—listen.”
But he didn’t say anything else, just kept staring at me, fierce. The flame of the lantern maintained its small, steady burn between us.
Crickets. Leaves rustling. Very dimly: the surging pulse of the sea.
“Don’t worry.” I tried to sound confident; I was an excellent liar, but Armand had a hardness to him that wasn’t easily fooled. “They’ll probably send me to another orphanage, but just for the summer. It won’t be for long, and I’ll be fine. You know I’m not nearly as helpless as I seem. I’ll land on my feet, no matter where I end up.”
“Another orphanage—or worse.”
“No.” I was pleased my voice didn’t crack. “That won’t happen, I assure you.”
Hell would freeze over first. The moon would plunge from the sky, cats would bark, and dogs would weep tears of rubies and pearls. I would never, ever return to Moor Gate, or any place like it. I would never let demented people like that have control over me again.
Armand ran a hand through his hair, leaving a muss. “There is another option. We get married. You stay with me.”
My attention zagged back to him; I’m sure my mouth had fallen open. “Married.”
“Yes. Kindly try not to sound so horrified.”
I covered my lips with both hands, then forced myself to drop them to my lap. “You—you’re not of age yet.”
“I will be in a month.”
“Well, I’m not of age yet. I haven’t the faintest idea when I’ll be eighteen.”
He frowned. “You don’t know how old you are?”
“No. I don’t even know my birthday.”
“How you could celebrate it if you don’t … ?”
I only looked at him.
“Oh. Right. Orphanage.”
“And the fact that I have no memory of my life before 1909. The only thing I know about myself at all is that I was born on a steamship. And only because Jesse told me that, and the stars told him.”
Armand picked up a fat green olive and held it between his finger and thumb, glaring down at it. “The stars, of course. Always the bloody damned stars.” He flicked the olive to the trees, and all the crickets went quiet.
Jesse had been a star. Of the stars, human-born but with all the sorcery of the firmament rushing through his veins. He’d been a creature caught between realms, like us, and had recognized what Armand and I were long before we two did.
Everyone at Iverson assumed Jesse Holms to have been nothing more than the simple hired hand he’d pretended to be. But he’d become my light and my guide into my drákon Gifts. It was because of him that the stars now spoke to me, instead of just singing their wordless songs.
“Don’t you hear them yet?” I asked gently.
“Yes, I hear them. I just don’t like what I hear.” Armand climbed to his feet, slapping noisily at the folds of his coat. “Look, waif, I haven’t got all night. I have to wake up early for another excruciatingly instructive meeting with my farms manager about some cows or something, so let’s get this over with. Did you bring the shovel?”
I rose to my own feet, lifting a hand to indicate the shovel, obviously just beside me.
He grabbed it, said, “Let’s go,” and moved off without another look.
I collected the lantern and the picnic basket and followed him. Neither of us really needed illumination to find the place where I’d buried my chest of gold a few weeks before, but I didn’t want to leave any evidence of our meeting behind.
Like me, Armand heard the music of the metal and strode straight to it.
I’d chosen an area that looked like any other in the woods, littered with decomposing leaves and pine needles, a few handy ferns growing lush and random around it. Oak roots pushed through ivy and peat, sinking gnarled tendrils all the way down into the bedrock.
There was a gap in the root system exactly wide enough for the chest. A little too far in any direction, and a treasure seeker would end up just slashing at wood.
Armand sank the shovel into the perfect center of the proper spot.
I would have done the digging myself, but he’d insisted. I hadn’t told him, but the truth was that burying the chest in the first place had made me so ill I’d actually passed out. I kept forgetting I was supposed to be on the mend.
“I’ve counted every piece,” I warned him, watching the shovel jab in, lift out, great mounds of moss and dirt piled to the side.
He didn’t glance up. “You think I’d steal from you?”
“Only once.”
“Your faith in me is gratifying.”
“Not especially wifelike, I presume?”
The shovel stabbed extra deep; his vo
ice came ironic. “No. Not especially.”
Minutes later the blade thunked into the lid of the chest, and all the gold song within went sharp in response. Armand straightened, tossed the shovel aside, and clambered out of the shallow hole.
“All yours,” he said with a sweep of his hand.
I lay flat on my stomach at the edge and reached down. The chest had no lock—I hadn’t thought there’d be a point to locking it, and anyway, I’d nicked it from Jesse’s cottage and didn’t have the key—so all I had to do was lift the iron tongue of the latch to raise the lid.
It was hard not to gasp. My treasure was beautiful, it really was. Gold glimmered and sang and gleamed up at me, magnificent even in the feeble light. But since it had come from Jesse, not pirates, it wasn’t anything ordinary like ingots or doubloons.
It was a jumble of solid gold branches and acorns and leaves, pinecones and flowers. It was the work of a naturalist, of an alchemist who had lived amid nature, who had appreciated the unspoken splendor of the wild.
Jesse’d been able to transform any living thing into gold, another secret he’d taken to his grave. The contents of this chest had been his final gift to me.
So technically I wasn’t impoverished any longer. I had all this. And I had it out here in the forest because there were maids and enemies and no locks on any of the doors at Iverson, and no reason on earth for an urchin like me to possess anything of value, much less a collection of sculpted golden objects.
Armand kept his distance. I could hear his heartbeat, though, how it had quickened at the sight of the treasure, a cadence that matched my own and the precise tempo of the music that lifted from the chest.
“Hurry,” he urged, low.
I picked up one of the pinecones. It was on top of the tangle, a cool and heavy weight in my hand. I scrambled back from the edge and held it out for Armand to see.
“Will this do?”
He nodded, not even looking at it. “Done?”
“Yes.”
He bent down and grabbed the shovel again.
It wasn’t until the hole was filled once more, the music muted, and we were on our knees carefully rescattering the old leaves and needles that Armand sat back on his heels and spoke.
