Everafter Song

by Emily R. King

  “Lavey, we have to go,” Claret says, helping her inside.

  9

  Emily R. King

  In the distance, a warbling siren goes off. Jamison extends his hand to help me into the carriage. As I reach for him, something white and yellow draws my attention to the ground—a daisy.

  The little flower sits in a puddle, so out of place I almost look for another. I know who left the daisy, and I will not be swayed to respond to the message. I crush my heel down on the bloom and climb into the carriage. Jamison gets in beside me, and our driver takes off.

  The siren sounds again behind us. Claret presses her lips to

  Laverick’s temple and whispers something. The Fox hardly blinks, her gaze on the floor. Osric throws his soggy hat onto the bench beside him and drinks from his flask. The air inside of the carriage grows muggy with the curtains closed. Jamison loosens his necktie and unbuttons

  his collar.

  After we have left the city and the sirens fade away, I open the curtains, letting in more light and air. I notice a white daisy petal stuck to the side of my boot. I haven’t spoken to Father Time since before my uncle’s passing. The daisy in the street was the first time he has tried to contact me in over a month. I have nothing to say to him. Never again will he use me like a cog in a machine.

  I pluck the petal off my boot and flick it out the window into the

  rain.

  10

  Chapter Two

  This day will never end.

  After we arrived at Elderwood Manor from the city at a late hour,

  I ate a quick meal of bread and butter and turned in for the night.

  Lying in bed, I stare at the plaster molding along the top of the wall.

  The roses resemble bunches of knots more than they do flowers. My

  thoughts don’t stay on them for long. I keep seeing the constable lying in a puddle of blood in the alley.

  He chased us down because of the lies Queen Aislinn spread about

  me. The queen’s Progressive Ministry permits worship of Eiocha the

  Creator but not of Mother Madrona, who is known by believers as

  the Mother of All. Those who revere Madrona are accused of sorcery.

  The queen might as well permit her people to believe in the sun but

  not the stars and moon. The Creator, Mother Madrona, and Father

  Time work as one.

  I throw back my bedcover to let in the night air. Elderwood Manor

  is a grand home, but my inability to leave without risk of discovery has transformed these plastered walls into a cell. Someone deserves to be locked away, and it’s not me.

  All I wanted was to see Markham pay for killing my family. Even

  now, he continues to take away those I love. He killed my uncle to

  gain hold of the infinity sandglass, the most powerful timepiece in

  existence. Then my friends Alick, Vevina, and Quinn left to live at

  Emily R. King

  Jamison’s seaside cottage. Not knowing when Markham will return—

  when, not if—made them nervous. To stay in hiding, Alick has quit practicing medicine, and Vevina is separated from her cherished comrades Laverick and Claret. Quinn is becoming more of a young woman

  each day, and I’m missing it. I’m missing life.

  I slam my fist against the mattress. None of this is fair. Not the ridiculous allegations that I’m a sorceress, not the constable who was shot, not the anemic life that my friends now live. Fair would be Jamison and me in the same bedchamber as husband and wife, regardless of whether the record of our wedding nuptials was lost at sea. But it’s better that our marriage dissolve so our queen has no reason to suspect I’m here.

  I couldn’t ask Jamison to honor a marriage that doesn’t exist, especially not one to a wanted criminal.

  My finger twists around the open end of the silken pillowcase,

  over and over, knotting the fabric to resemble the poorly shaped flower plasters on the wall molding.

  I get out of bed. The hour is early, after the crickets have quieted but before the cock crows. I pull on my silk robe and slide into my

  slippers. My sword goes everywhere with me. I grab the blade and my

  uncle’s last bottle of whisky and step into the corridor. A violin melody swells up the stairwell from the main floor. Just as I thought, I’m not the only one who’s restless.

  Three doors down, lamplight draws me inside a chamber. Laverick

  is asleep in bed, and Claret is reading in a chair, her stockings and shoes strewn across the floor.

  “Can’t sleep again?” I ask from the doorway. During our first week

  in the manor, we had a late-night run-in in the kitchen. Claret had had a bad dream about her time enslaved by the merrows. I’d had a nightmare about my childhood home burning to the ground.

  She sets her book in her lap, and her tapered eyes lift to me. “I want to be awake in case Lavey needs anything.”

  12

  Everafter Song

  “I brought you this.” I hand her the whisky. “I thought you might

  be up.”

  “Eiocha bless you. Lavey took the last dose of the sleeping tonic

  Alick left me.” Claret uncorks the bottle and drinks, her naturally tan skin golden in the lantern light. “I wish Vevina were here. She always knows what to say when things go wrong. Lavey and I went into the

  alley today with good intentions.”

  “I know you did,” I whisper.

  Claret’s gaze wanders to the painting over the bed, a landscape of a dense evergreen forest with meandering pathways of amethyst wildflowers and sinister bowers of shadows. The manor is ful of ornate paintings of odd places and mystical creatures, and the old house itself is riddled with secrets. Laverick and I have found closets that lead to dead-end hallways and doors that go nowhere.

  This painting is of the Black Forest, or so the plaque on the frame

  reads. It’s followed by an inscription in the tree alphabet, Mother

  Madrona’s language. Each tree—birch, hazel, holly, aspen, honey-

  suckle, and others—represents a letter. For the Children of Madrona, her believers, those symbols hold protective, sanctified, or enchanted meanings. They etch them into tombs and doorways or stitch them into clothes. I never learned the full tree alphabet.

  “The mark of the weeping cherry tree is a warning of danger,”

  Claret remarks of the symbol, her r’s rolling strongly.

  “You can read runes?”

  “A little.” She lays her palm over the book in her lap, a storybook

  about the seven worlds and our elf and giant siblings. Most of these books have been destroyed by the queen, burned just like the people

  who read and believe in their words. Claret watches Laverick sleeping.

  “Do you think she’ll be all right? The constable . . . we saw the severity of his gunshot wound. She’ll never forgive herself if he doesn’t survive.”

  “Laverick will be all right because you have each other,” I say.

  13

  Emily R. King

  These past weeks, I’ve done little but rattle around this big house.

  The Fox and the Cat have never been far, bringing me tea, taking me

  on walks, keeping me company while I carve figurines. They have made this time in hiding more bearable for us all.

  I pat her arm and start to go. Upon hearing a creaking noise, I

  look back. Claret has climbed into bed beside Laverick and put an arm around her waist. She nuzzles her nose against Laverick’s neck and long auburn hair. Their friendship turned romance is still fresh between them but stronger than ever. I slip out and close the door.

  The violin music is still playing. I follow the soulful strain down to the main floor and into the library. Jamison stands near the fireplace, playing his violin. Radella, our pixie friend, dozes on a pillow in front of the fire, her little wings tucked around her
azure body like a gossamer veil. A low fire crackles in the hearth. The mantelpiece is lined with my latest carvings—a horse and carriage, a sleeping cat, and the one I’m most proud of, a replica of the Lady Regina, the navy ship Jamison and I were wed on.

  I perch on the edge of a sofa to watch him play. His nightclothes—

  a tunic over loose trousers—are wrinkled from sleep. A large pile of untouched paperwork waits for him on his desk. He travels to the city twice a week to handle clerical matters regarding his inheritance. Every time he returns, he plays music in the middle of the night.

  He finishes one piece and switches to another, his bow stroking the

  strings with practiced finesse. The first measures of the new song send shivers up my arms. This composition has a broad sense of rapture. The call of life, the beauty of creation power, is so strong that my clock heart slows, ticking to match the cadence.

  Jamison enters the second refrain and pauses. He replays the same

  stanza four times in succession before exhaling loudly. “I can’t remember the rest.”

  “What you’ve played is lovely. And from memory too? You’ve a

  talent.”

  14

  Everafter Song

  He lowers the violin. “I like your robe.”

  “I’m still getting used to my new wardrobe.” I tug at the sash. These silks and satins and laces are lovely, but I don’t belong to them nor they to me. “I’ve never heard that song before. What’s it called?”

  “I don’t remember. My mother used to play it for my father on

  the pianoforte. She taught me the piece during my first years of violin lessons. I used to know the melody by heart. It’s been some time since I’ve played.” Jamison sets his violin on its stand. “I gave my resignation to my superiors today.”

  “You did? Why?”

  “I joined the navy before I learned how to run my family’s estates.

  My father had his flaws, but he ran our properties like, well, clockwork.”

  Jamison turns around so I can see his quirked lips. “Secretary Winters is expediting the papers.”

  Winters was with the queen when she sentenced me to burn at

  the stake. He’s also the one who confiscated my sword, which is reason enough to dislike him, but more so, I question his integrity. Queen

  Aislinn lost favor with her council after my escape, and Secretary

  Winters spoke out against her to keep the council’s favor. My personal feelings for Winters aside, I’m concerned for Jamison. “Won’t you miss sailing?”

  He ambles over to me, his strides languid and heavy. “I have too

  much to do here to think of the seas. Every day, I fall further behind.

  I have countless ledgers to review, and I haven’t even taken care of my father’s final wishes. We have a place on our property, a gazebo overlooking a pond with swans and lily pads and flowering rush. Our family would have picnics there to celebrate the summer growing season. My

  father’s final wish was to have the gazebo restored. I haven’t even found the time to ride out there.”

  “I’ll go with you,” I offer. His gaze sharpens on me, then his focus drifts away. “I meant I’ll go with you when you’re ready.”

  15

  Emily R. King

  Jamison rubs at his tired eyes. “I’m sorry, Evie. I’m distracted. I

  should be focused on taking over my father’s duties, but Killian is still out there. When will he act? When will his kind intervene?”

  “Osric expects a reply from his queen any day,” I say.

  “He’s been saying that for weeks. What’s she waiting for?”

  In truth, I hope Markham stays away longer. I have seen a glimpse

  of what Jamison and my life could be like away from the prince’s

  destructive aspirations. Our circumstances are far from ideal, but this forced exile has fueled my longing for normalcy. I could never forget Markham—the very tick of my clock heart denies me that pleasure—

  but when I look at the scars he has given me, I don’t want to think of how much they hurt. I want to rejoice in how well they have healed.

  I take Jamison’s hands in mine. “This will come to an end,” I

  promise.

  “Then what?”

  “We live our lives how we wish.” I touch my lips to his, and he stills, letting me take the lead. I kiss him again, my fingers threading through his hair and pulling him against me. His hands slide up my throat to my jaw as he kisses me back.

  Something shivers under us.

  “Did you feel that?” he breathes.

  Another stronger vibration shakes the walls and floor. Radella

  wakes, shooting into the air and chirping in alarm.

  I don’t speak pixie, but I can guess her meaning. “I think the shak-

  ing is coming from outside.”

  Jamison and I go to the window. The pixie perches on my shoulder,

  and the three of us peer out at the misty dawn.

  “I don’t see anything,” I say.

  “There.” Jamison points at a man approaching on foot whose black

  cape is billowing in the dusky morning light.

  Radella growls and my gut turns to ice.

  Prince Killian.

  16

  Chapter Three

  Jamison marches across the room and grabs a musket from the gun

  cabinet. He checks that it’s loaded and braces the barrel against his shoulder, the stock in his hand.

  “Radella,” he says, “warn the others.”

  The pixie salutes him and zips out of the library.

  I take up my sword, and we enter the receiving hall just as the

  prince knocks. Jamison levels the barrel of his musket at the entry. I pull open the door.

  Markham grins, his wolfish eyes luminous in the lamplight. In his

  burgundy trousers, waistcoat, and overcoat, he looks as though he has come for a dinner party. “Good morning, Evie. Did I wake you?” He

  takes in my rumpled nightclothes and Jamison’s mussed hair, and his

  lips slide upward. “Or did I interrupt something else?”

  “Go sod yourself,” I say.

  He chuckles darkly. “Lord Callahan, you were raised with manners.

  Won’t you invite me in?”

  “You’ll find my conduct less impressive than hers,” Jamison answers, aiming his musket at the prince’s face.

  Undaunted, Markham enters the hal , a bag slung over his shoulder,

  and notices Osric at the top of the stairs. “Osric, my old friend. I didn’t think I would find you holed up with humans. Have you completely

  lost your dignity?”

  Emily R. King

  Osric walks stiffly down the stairs. “I’ve more dignity than you,

  old friend.”

  The two of them have not been friends for centuries, and even

  then, they were more like partners, smugglers of the charm apples Osric depends on.

  “I’m here to speak with Everley,” Markham replies.

  Jamison’s grip tightens on his trigger. “You’ll speak to all of us or show yourself out.”

  “Very well. Good day to you all.” Markham tips his head in farewell

  and turns to leave.

  “Wait,” I say. “Five minutes.”

  “Twenty,” Markham counters.

  “Fifteen, and that’s all you’ll get.”

  “Everley,” Jamison warns. “Need I remind you—”

  “I know what he is.” A disrupter of peace. A mercenary of life. A

  bad omen. But this cat-and-mouse game must end. “I want this in the

  past.”

  Jamison works his jaw from side to side and directs the prince to

  the study. Markham strides in ahead of us and peruses the room. I stay at the threshold and repress the urge to gut him just so I can watch him writhe on the floor. His momentary pain would be a waste of m
y

  strength. The prince’s evergreen youth and unnatural healing ability provide him an impossible advantage, for he can feel pain but he cannot bleed or die.

  Osric rolls up his sleeves as if preparing for a brawl. “Be careful, Everley. Killian has trod more paths in his six hundred years alive than you could possibly fathom. He only heads down a path if he knows

  where it ends.”

  Jamison’s gaze sears into mine. “Fifteen minutes.”

  I nod and step inside. They shut the door behind me.

  The prince pours himself whisky from the decanter. The grandfa-

  ther clock in the corner reads the hour, a quarter to seven o’clock.

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  Everafter Song

  Markham swallows the spirits and lifts his glass. “Care for a drink?”

  “Don’t pretend you came to socialize.”

  He makes a wounded expression. “Your quick temper will get you

  into trouble.” His attention slides to the grandfather clock. “How is Father Time?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You two aren’t on speaking terms?” Markham wags his finger at

  me. “I told you not to trust him.”

  I rub the back of my neck, achy from my sleeplessness. “What do

  you want, Killian?”

  “The same thing you do—I wish to return home.”

  “I am home.”

  He tips his head back to evaluate me. “Humans will never accept

  you, sorceress with a clock heart. You’ll never belong to their nobility, no matter how much silk you wear.”

  “Is that what you came to tell me?”

  Markham runs his fingertip across the back of the sofa while he

  considers the gold-framed portrait of Jamison’s family over the hearth.

  “You know the purpose for my visit. Muriel showed you what’s to

  come.”

  The sea hag would have required a payment, years off my life in

  exchange for a vision of my future. I had no years to spare to pay her, nor would I do such a thing. Time is too precious.

  “The sea hag didn’t read my fortune,” I say.

  “No?” Markham picks up one of my carved figurines from off the

  console table. I once struggled over whittling the half-fish, half-human body, but after spending time with the merrows, my depiction of them is almost as good as my uncle’s. “The last time I met with Muriel, she said she had a contract to offer you.”