by Jeff Wheeler
Sera stared at her governess, wishing again that she had been more guarded.
“I wish you wouldn’t read it,” she begged.
Hugilde arched her eyebrows, gazing down at her young charge and waiting for permission to be granted.
“Why cannot I have at least one secret?” Sera pressed.
Hugilde’s look softened. But she didn’t relent. “Princess, I know you will find it difficult to believe, but I was once a young woman, too. I know what it feels like to pine and sigh and daydream. But I am also older and wiser than you, and this is the reason that I am the governess and you are my pupil. Trust is as fragile as porcelain. It is beautiful and shining when it is whole, but it is worth nothing when it is broken. And how easily it breaks . . .”
The words struck Sera in the heart. She sighed and turned her back. “You may read it.”
While Hugilde perused Will’s letter, Sera finished buttoning her nightdress and then returned to the window seat, folding her arms around her knees, hugging herself. She felt like the loneliest girl in all the world. Someday, when she was eighteen, she would be granted a yearly income that would hopefully enable her to choose her own servants, her own household. And yet she feared it was just a fantasy. That her parents would choose a husband for her before she reached her majority. That she would be controlled for the rest of her life and live in misery as her parents did. Would she be as subject to their authority as Will was to his deed? As she waited for Hugilde to finish the letter, she let more tears creep out of her eyes again, seeping into the thin fabric at her knees. She liked feeling sorry for herself every once in a while.
“Thank you, Sera,” Hugilde said. She dropped the letter on the window seat in front of her and then fetched the brush and began brushing out Sera’s long dark hair. Sera kept her face tilted toward the window, too embarrassed to speak.
“It was a fine letter,” Hugilde went on after a while. “He expressed himself well. I assume that he wrote it during Commander Falking’s lesson?”
“Yes,” Sera whispered, surprised at Hugilde’s mild response. She didn’t seem so shocked anymore.
The teeth of the brush went through her hair, and Sera winced, scrunching her nose. She didn’t like the way it felt when her hair was tugged. It made her nose itch and caused little stabs of pain to radiate across her scalp. Hugilde knew she was sensitive and tried her best, but sometimes Sera wanted to shriek at her to be gentler.
“Well, I would prefer it if you’d write your response this evening so you can focus on your lesson tomorrow afternoon. Your father is paying for you to learn, Sera, and no one appreciates it when their money is wasted. Especially him.”
That was true. Father was certainly a miser. His good fortune in becoming the prince regent had done little to change that.
“That makes sense,” Sera said, still feeling disconsolate.
“After you’ve written it, I want you to give it to me to read. And then I will speak to Commander Falking. If he agrees, and I think that he will because he’s a worldly man and recognizes that you will be a powerful woman someday, he will give the note to Mr. Russell.”
Sera lifted her head and turned, her entire outlook brightening. “You will help me, Hugilde?”
The matronly woman smiled and leaned down to kiss her damp cheek. “As I told you, Sera. I do remember what it feels like to be young.”
A burst of happiness went through her, and she turned and hugged Hugilde close, burying her face in her governess’s waist. “Thank you, Hugilde. Thank you so much!”
Hugilde stroked her hair, and Sera felt a shimmer of peace. She pulled back and looked up at her governess. “Why did you never marry?” she asked. It was an impertinent question, but she longed to know the answer.
Hugilde’s countenance fell, but she did not stop stroking Sera’s hair. “When I was younger, eighteen, I was in love with a dragoon.”
Sera blinked in surprise. “I know what that means now,” she said, grinning. “Commander Falking would be so proud. They are the men who train with arquebuses and shoot from the sky ships. They are skilled at hitting their marks. I think that is what Will would like to become.”
Hugilde smiled and nodded. “They have great skill, and it is difficult training. Well, I had gone to school with this boy, and he was learning the Mysteries of War while I was studying my subjects. We were from the same rank, so there would not have been an impediment there. I think Father liked him well enough.” Her smile faded. “When I was twenty, there was a brief war. A rebellion in one of the kingdoms of the empire. Those seem to occur repeatedly, no matter how hard we strive for peace. Many young men lost their lives. Including my beloved. He fell to his death after his sky ship broke apart.”
Sera’s eyes bulged. “How awful!”
Hugilde nodded in agreement, her eyes distant. It was an old pain. But Sera could see it still throbbed. “There were so many deaths that year. And not enough young men for all the young ladies. In my generation there are many like me.” She smoothed Sera’s hair again and planted a kiss on her forehead. “It’s not Mr. Russell’s fault that he’s indebted. I have seen it happen often enough.”
Sera’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? Are you saying it was deliberate?”
Hugilde frowned and resumed brushing her hair. “You are still very young and have enough outrage to last a lifetime. I’ve lived in this world long enough to see corruption for what it is. I’ve heard enough conversations among our kind. It was different when the Ministry of Thought was in power. I was little then, but I remember it as a gentler time. The people below are kept there for a reason. When one of them shows enough ambition or skill to rise, they are rewarded and encouraged and praised. They are fattened, like a hog to be butchered. And then they are brought to their knees. Men prey on other men. They gain some inherent satisfaction from devouring each other financially. That is the Mysteries of Law, despite Master Eakett’s protestations and talk of delegation of authority.” She sniffed with cynicism. “Those are just words they’ve invented to soothe their guilty consciences. Everyone who’s mired down below has a deed in some form. And like the masters pulling a puppet’s strings, the wealthiest make them dance to the tunes that they play through the walls. We are corrupt, Sera. But we pretend to be virtuous.” As she finished the final strokes with the brush, she set it down and quickly tied Sera’s hair into a night braid.
“Write your letter,” Hugilde said. “Give it to me in the morning.”
Sera wanted to weep for her governess. She wanted to weep for Will Russell. In all the lectures she had listened to, with their outlandish vocabularies and nuances and dry-as-dust details, she had never heard her society summarized in such an eloquent and shattering way. The size and weight of the injustice felt like a mountain crushing the earth.
There was a reason her parents wanted to keep her ignorant, she realized, and it sickened her. They wanted to preserve the natural order of things—or what they felt was the natural order. The suffering down below was calculated. It was overseen.
It was administered. It was no accident that someone from Lockhaven had let Will’s father take the fall for his bad dealings. Who cared if an honest cabinetmaker suffered so long as a sky manor kept floating? And her father, who’d made his attitude toward the working classes quite clear, meant to ensure that it stayed that way. She clenched her small fists.
Poor Will, she thought disconsolately. His father had tried to escape the game, only to end up yoking his son to the same fate. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right.
Sera’s heart burned with anger. And that anger filled her with resolve on one thing. She would be a free woman. No matter what her father said or did, she would not marry before she was eighteen. She would make her own decisions.
And she would find a way to help those living in misery down below.
Hugilde stroked Sera’s hair and looked into her tear-swollen eyes. “It has been like this for a very long time,” she said.
Sera struggled to maintain her composure. “I know. But that doesn’t make it right. It doesn’t mean that it cannot change.” She paused, then added, “And I do mean to change it.”
CETTIE
They say that fortune favors the bold. To gain greatness, one must risk disaster. Some, like Brant Fitzroy, refuse the game entirely and so are left without the greatest prizes. Others step forward willingly and grasp the reins of opportunity. Some will stand. Some will fall. But the thrill is in the risk. When one defies the odds and emerges triumphant, there is no greater reward. It was not always this way. Back when the Ministry of Thought ruled, debts were forgiven. The idle were indulged. But those old practices have changed. The possibility of gaining riches stimulates the mind of rich and poor alike. Both strive for it.
Some people gamble with coin. Some gamble with reputation. From the lowliest of footmen dicing in the street to the most austere advocates betting on the outcome of a trial. Those who rise in the ranks of society can rise quickly. If they only dare enough.
—Lady Corinne of Pavenham Sky
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
OUTCAST
Something had changed because of the visit to Lockhaven. Cettie had sensed it while walking away from the prince regent’s manor back to the sky ship. Fitzroy’s mood had altered noticeably, and while he was as courteous and polite as ever, he was also brooding. His eyes were wrinkled with disappointment. And she didn’t know why.
She and Anna stood at the edge of the tempest, watching as the floating city shrank behind them, constantly swiping hair out of their faces as the fierce winds battered them. Anna pointed out the various manors and named who ruled them. But it was too confusing to remember any of them. The tempest shuddered at the sudden gusts, and there were creaks and groans that Cettie hadn’t noticed before.
“There’s a storm coming,” the captain told Fitzroy in a warning voice. “I can smell it.”
“Oh, there’s already been one,” Fitzroy answered dryly, but it was obvious he wasn’t referring to the weather.
“That one is Angelica,” Anna said, pointing to a large brick manor. “Named after the old master’s wife.”
Cettie leaned over the rail, trying to study Lockhaven, knowing she may never get a chance to go there again. It was the seat of the empire, the repository of all the wealth of its dominions. The opulent manors she had seen while flying south were dwarfed by the sheer size of the place. The City cowered beneath it, wreathed in fog, but a few towers protruded up through the clouds. Though she had heard City folk complain about the shadow cast by Lockhaven, it felt different to actually see it—it was as if a massive mountain had been turned upside down and lifted into the air. She could only imagine the size of the shadow it cast over those who lived below. The floating part of the City was crammed with towers and manors, though there were small swatches of green for the tiny parks. Some of the manors were built into the side of the rock, and there were a dozen or so waterfalls that cascaded off the sides of the massive edifice, the water flowing down below. Fitzroy had told her that most of them emptied into the river that ran beneath in the City.
A sudden break in the cloud cover gave Cettie a look at the wide stretch of tenements lining the river, so smothered with fog and smoke as to be nearly invisible except for chimney stacks. It was not the Fells, which were up in the north, but her stomach twisted into a knot all the same. She feared she would end up back there despite all her efforts to be honest and obedient.
Lockhaven was encircled with hurricane and tempest sky ships, some moored and tethered by long, thick chains. Several ships were either docking or leaving.
“There are so many people living down there,” Anna said, gazing down at the spectacle. “I don’t think it’s possible to number them all.”
“I can never get used to the view either,” Adam Creigh said, startling Cettie. She hadn’t heard him approach and sidle up next to her. Nor had Anna. There was a certain wariness in his tone of voice. Anna’s cheeks began to flush.
“It’s beautiful,” Cettie said, still struck with amazement.
“Lockhaven? Yes,” he answered gravely. “But I was commenting on those living below. The mass of human suffering down there. We’re too far away to hear it, but I’m sure if we were closer, it would be nothing but coughing and sickness.” He gripped the edge of the railing, his mouth turning down into a frown. “What can be done about it? When there are so many in need?” He sighed and straightened. “And this is just one city in the empire.” He vaguely gestured at the scene with his hand. “It’s like this everywhere, in every court overseen by every archduke. Grand balls, beautiful music, talks of politics and the weather. Yet at what cost?” He looked at her with sympathy. “What do you see when you look at it?”
She didn’t know why Adam was addressing her and not Anna. Maybe the incident in the grotto had changed something between them. Maybe it had earned her his compassion. Whatever the reason, she was grateful for his company; in a way, he was an outcast, too.
“I see so much,” she answered, shaking her head. “The waterfalls, for example. Some of them land in the river, but the ones on that side”—she demonstrated by pointing—“fall on the city itself. The people who live down there must think it rains every day. What must it be like to live under a shadow so vast, knowing that the floating part of the City could fall at any time and crush everything you’ve ever known?”
His mouth broke into a knowing smile that pleased her. “I’d never thought of that, but I’m sure it must be troubling. The river down there is so polluted with human filth that few are willing to drink from it. They see the water falling from Lockhaven as a Mystery.”
“It is a Mystery,” Cettie said, gazing back at the scene. “It is getting so small now. I feel like I could pinch it with my fingers.” She squeezed one eye shut and used her thumb and forefinger as if she could catch the entire floating rock between them.
Cettie awoke to the realization that she wasn’t moving anymore. A small squall had hit the tempest, and she and Anna had gone down below to rest while the winds raged around them. The lack of movement wasn’t the only change—the mattress she was on was much thicker than the pallet she’d lain on in the tempest. She lifted her head from a soft pillow and felt heat radiating nearby. Anna lay beside her, her face peaceful, her lips slightly parted in sleep. Cettie blinked and sat up. She was wearing the same dress as the previous day, but she was in Anna’s room, and a beautiful morning light streamed in through the gauzy curtains.
Instantly, she felt a spasm of worry that Mrs. Pullman was going to be angry with her. But Cettie hadn’t gone to Anna’s room willingly—she’d fallen asleep and been carried there. At least the keeper had not retaliated yet. She hadn’t been awakened by the bone-chilling cold of a ghost. Relief swelled in her heart.
She left the bed carefully so as not to wake Anna. Borrowing one of her friend’s brushes, she brushed her dark hair, using the vanity mirror, something she ordinarily didn’t have at her disposal. Then she set the brush down and went outside into the hall. Her stomach was grumbling.
She didn’t want to go to the kitchen and risk encountering Mrs. Pullman, so she walked down the corridor toward the sitting room, hoping there would be a tray of something to eat. Her footsteps slowed as she passed a closed door—one she’d never seen open. In an earlier tour, she had asked Anna where it led, but Anna had never been inside either. It was a room only Mrs. Pullman entered, and it was always locked. Cettie wondered what was inside it, because each time she passed the door, a strange feeling emanated from within. Something that made a part of her mind shrink. Something poisonous. She shrank from it without understanding why.
The elder Fitzroy siblings were already in the sitting room, talking in low voices, but Phinia cut herself off the moment Cettie walked in.
“There she is,” she said darkly to her brother.
Stephen, who was seated on the couch, turned, and his face instantly went from serious to angry. It was immedi
ately clear that something had angered the two siblings. More to the point, something to do with her.
“What are you doing here?” he asked in a challenging tone.
“Looking for something to eat,” Cettie answered in a quiet way, feeling the immediacy of trouble yet not understanding what was causing it.
“She’s hungry,” Phinia snorted.
What custom had she upset this time? Had they seen her wearing this gown last night?
Stephen rose from the couch and walked toward her. Phinia continued to glare.
“Don’t you understand what you’ve done by coming to Fog Willows?” Stephen said hotly.
“I don’t think she knows.” Phinia sounded surprised.
Stephen frowned, though his gaze looked no less angry than it had before. “It’s just like Father to not tell her.”
“Know what?” Cettie pleaded. “Please tell me.”
Stephen was close to her now. He wasn’t very big, but his nearness was intimidating. He looked down at her with bald accusation. “Mrs. Pullman told us that the prince regent offered Father the chance to become prime minister. And he refused . . . because of you.”
Cettie was no longer hungry. She felt an instant thrum of disappointment for Fitzroy. Who better deserved such a post than he? And then she remembered her first meeting with Mrs. Pullman months ago. This was the honor the older woman had long coveted for her master, and her dream had been shattered. Fear struck her in the heart—if Stephen and Phinia were this angry, Mrs. Pullman would be absolutely vindictive. Servants had been unceremoniously returned to the Fells for much lesser sins. And if she controlled the ghost, perhaps she also controlled the severity of its attacks . . .
“I don’t understand,” Cettie said, shaking her head. “Why because of me?”
