have children?”
“No. I would never bring a child into this Creator-less world.
Living in a cursed world, locked away from the rest of Avelyn . . . I wouldn’t do that to an innocent babe.”
The cart slows to a halt.
“We’re here,” says Corentine. “You can come out now, but stay
behind us.”
I get out of the cart. We’re in an alleyway off a courtyard with an
old clock tower as the centerpiece. The timepiece’s glass face has been shattered, and the clock gears are gutted or left to rust. The giants have been locked away for so long they’ve lost hope of ever getting out.
Clocks must be a reminder of how long they’ve been held in purgatory.
The Esen sisters lead me out of the alley to the front of a building, shielding me with their hefty frames. A few strides later, we stop at a frosted glass-pane door embossed with fancy gold letters that read, Nightingale Music. Underneath, in smaller letters, it says, Handmade since the beginning of time.
Bells jangle as Corentine pushes the door open and shoves me
inside. The reek of the city hovers a moment, then dissipates. In its 134
Everafter Song
place comes the pungent smell of drying lacquer followed by the light scent of sawdust. Shelves extend from the shiny black-and-white marble tile floor to the ceiling. They are packed with wooden creations, from marionette dolls to cuckoo clocks to jewelry boxes. Their craftsmanship varies from classically simple to ornately engraved and painted with elaborate designs.
“How has this shop been here all along and we’ve never seen it?”
Mistral whispers.
“You’ve never seen it before tonight?” I reply.
The giantess shakes her head. “We found this place after you sug-
gested we look for luthiers.”
Petite wooden boxes are set out in a neat merchandise display
around the clerk’s desk. The layout of the storefront is not unlike my uncle’s clock shop, except the space is filled with ceiling-high shelves.
One of the boxes by the desk is tipped open. Inside, a pixie figu-
rine stands on her tiptoes, her iridescent wings outstretched. The lovely construction is highly detailed, with finishings that could only be done by a master carver. Just one of these boxes would take the maker several days to complete. The individuality of the detailed pieces alone astounds me. The accumulated hours spent to construct each creation in the shop must add up to a remarkable amount of time.
Music starts to play somewhere off to the right, behind more
shelves. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I haven’t heard this song in a long while. It’s the tune Carlin played for my mother on her birthday—the night they were murdered.
Mistral bumps into a table and nearly knocks over a lady mari-
onette. She grabs the doll before it hits the ground, and her hands tangle in the strings.
“Put that down,” Corentine hisses.
“I’m trying.” Mistral starts to pull free and entangles herself more.
Corentine tries to help her, and I wander toward the sound of the
music. The rows of shelves continue, the shop much bigger than it
135
Emily R. King
appears from the street. Finally, seven rows later, I find the box playing music on a middle shelf, its lid open. A piece of glass inside reveals the moving gearwork. A cylinder spins as a metal comb hits it, producing chimes in various notes. I look around to see who would have turned
the lever, but no one else is here.
“Everley!” Corentine calls. “Where are you?”
“Coming.” I bring the box with me.
Mistral has detangled herself from the doll and is now preoccupied
with a hummingbird music box on the desk. The delicate painted bird
dances from side to side and sings a lullaby, the same tune Jamison has struggled to remember, only in another key. His version is moodier,
sadder than this sweeter melody.
As the music approaches the final stanza, the cylinder slows to a
halt, and a small figure appears in the doorway of the unlit back room behind the clerk’s desk.
“Hello?” I ask. “Are you the Bard?”
The figure walks out into the light. She’s a human-size marionette
doll with hinges in her arms and legs and a straight neck, with facial features painted on in a permanent, eerie smile. Her dress is painted on too, except for the bottom, which is cloth from the waist down. No strings move her. She walks on flat wooden feet that clack against the marble floor.
The marionette doll waves us forward.
“Sister?” Mistral says, her voice jumping nervously. “I think she
wants us to follow her.”
Corentine hesitates, glancing between the marionette and the front
door. She wants to leave. They both do. I don’t blame them. But I’m
not afraid, not as much as I should be. Perhaps I’m not afraid because I think I know how the marionette was given life. Maybe because I’ve seen and done so many strange things in the past few days that this
stranger thing doesn’t frighten me. Or maybe I’m not deterred because 136
Everafter Song
my heart has begun to spin, a signal that whatever awaits me beyond
this threshold is not of this world, and I must seek it.
This is a moment appointed by destiny, an event that will play in
a glowing sphere on my timeline. Climbing the skystalk, hiking across the Silver-Clouded Plain, sneaking into the city of giants—these events were meant to happen. I was always going to follow this marionette
doll.
“Wait here,” I say to the Esen sisters, then go to greet my fate.
137
Chapter Fifteen
I step into the workshop. Tools and scraps of wood cover the work-
benches, and crates overflowing with cogs and gears are stacked in the corners. I spent years of my life in and out of my uncle’s workplace, listening to him hammer, chisel, and saw wood. Running my finger
across one of the dented workbenches, I endure a fresh swell of grief.
Elderwood Manor is a splendid home, but the estate doesn’t have the
same nostalgic ambiance as this simple workshop.
The marionette waits for me in the opposite doorway. My clock
heart spins faster as I follow her out of the shop, down a short corridor, and into a grand theater.
Hundreds of seats sized to accommodate humans face the raised
stage, and two tiers with viewing boxes line the left and right wings.
Sconces flicker light across the damask-covered walls, and chandeliers brighten the stage. How can a hall of this size exist inside the storefront we entered?
In the center of the stage sits a man—a human—strumming a
silver harp. He’s seated on a chair, his fingers gracefully flowing across the strings, serenading the empty theater with the loneliest song I have ever heard. My bones ache from the simple yet moving melody. I go
down the rows of seats to the base of the stage. The harpist is of variable youth, somewhere in his twenties, and wears an old-style three-piece suit with a dashing mustard-yellow necktie and a pocket-watch chain
Everafter Song
hanging from his vest pocket. His winsome good looks are traditional in taste, the arrangement of his features intriguing but not especially striking. He plays for so long I sit in the front row to rest my aching side until the last note hangs in the air.
“Please forgive me the indulgence,” says the harpist, his voice musical in tenor. “It’s been decades since I’ve had an audience.”
The marionette reappears and offers me a cup of black tea, which
I decline.
“Do you live here?” I ask the man.
“Yes, and except for my s
ervant, Maisie, I am alone.”
His marionette stands between us, her expression blank.
“How did you bring her to life?”
“Ah, but you already know the answer, don’t you?” He strokes the
strings of the harp again, playing a soft, ethereal scale meant to put me at ease. It doesn’t. “A long, long time ago, I animated Maisie with heartwood.”
I notice the piece then, the coin-size section of wood in the center of the marionette’s chest.
“Maisie and I have been together here three hundred and fifty years
or so, banished into hiding by the last Time Bearer.”
“You’re the Bard,” I state, and he nods. “Then you’re immortal?”
“Who can say what qualifies as immortality? Is immortality liv-
ing endless months and years? Is it resiliency to those years? Or is it an absence of time?” He squints at me in question. “You’ve seen time cheated, traded, gifted, and stopped. Why not stretched?”
I have no clue what he’s rambling on about, but he’s the luthier I’ve come for. “Why do you stay if you’re alone?”
“I was whisked away from the Land of Youth. Princess Amadara,
my dearest friend and an honorable Time Bearer, watched over me. Her dastardly husband was quite displeased when he learned the Creator’s luthier had been right under his nose and his wife never told him.”
139
Emily R. King
“You know Killian Markham?” I utter, my voice pitching in
confusion.
“Know him? He’s partly why I’m here.” The Bard quits playing the
harp and walks to the end of the stage, looming over me like the Esen sisters do. The two giants still haven’t mustered the courage to leave the storefront. The Bard sits, his feet hanging over the edge of the stage. “I recognize the sword of Avelyn in your grasp. You’re the Time Bearer, just as Amadara was. I loved her as a sister, whereas Eiocha is my heart and soul. Alas, our love was unequal. Oh, Eiocha cares for me, the same as any other creation, but I could never have her for myself. I was pushed from the womb of an acorn, born into worlds where I would die faster and age less gracefully than other creatures, where I would serve as a helpmate until I died.”
His bitterness tugs at my own. “You’re the firstborn man.”
“I was the first. While the other humans embarked for the Land
of the Living, I stayed at Madrona’s roots and fell in love with Eiocha.
I spent decades crafting a violin for her. She rewarded me with longevity, the ability to age so slowly that the cosmos would fall asleep waiting for my demise. I outlived my siblings, and for centuries I dwelled in the Everwoods, oblivious to the events in Avelyn—until the giants attacked.”
“You were alive for the triad war?”
“I didn’t take up arms. My hands create; they do not destroy. I put
everything I am into that violin. My whole heart, my talent, my love went into that creation, and then Eiocha destroyed it.” The Bard lifts his empty hands and balls them into fists. “Father Time hid me in a
faraway kingdom.” His hardened gaze rises to mine. “My location was
discovered by Killian, so I was moved here. While in isolation, I have spent centuries trying to remake my masterpiece.”
I lick my dry lips. “Did you?”
“I had enough scraps of heartwood saved for one more creation.”
The Bard rises and walks offstage. He returns a moment later with a
140
Everafter Song
violin case. He sets the case before me and opens the lid. Nestled on red velvet within is the most beautiful polished instrument I’ve ever seen.
He lifts the violin bow. “Each string is a strand of Eiocha’s hair—mare hair, from when she was in her mortal form.”
Someone behind us starts to applaud. Markham strides down an
aisle on the far side of the theater, clapping slowly. I draw my sword.
“Good evening, Everley,” he says.
I eye his approach. “You’re not welcome here.”
“Your manners are still appalling, but it’s always pleasant to see you.
Alas, you’re not why I’m here. I have business with the Bard.”
The Bard places the violin bow back in the case. “Is it time already?”
“I’m early. Impatience got the better of me.” Markham hops up
onto the stage down the way and crosses in front of me to reach the
Bard. “You received my message.”
“It isn’t often that I get a letter from someone who should be dead.”
Markham gestures at the violin case. “Is this it?”
The Bard steps in front of him, blocking the instrument. “It’s
called Nightingale.” He closes the lid and locks it. “Did you bring my payment?”
Markham pulls out a coin pouch and shakes a pair of blue skyseeds
into his palm. “Plant them both, and they’ll take you far away from
here.”
“I want the infinity sandglass as well.” The Bard tips his head back, his gaze sharp. “Don’t try to trick me, Kil ian. I feel Father Time’s power on you. I know you have the mighty timepiece in your possession.”
“The skyseeds will take you where you desire,” says Markham.
“But I have to wait for them to grow. Like you, I’m impatient. This
is our bargain: the seeds and the sandglass for Nightingale.”
“Don’t do it,” I say. “Killian means to start a war and destroy my
world.”
“I’ve no loyalty to the Land of the Living,” replies the Bard. “My
home is in the Everwoods, and I’m no longer welcome there.”
141
Emily R. King
Selfish blaggard. He cannot return to his home, so he doesn’t care
if my people keep theirs. Is this what becomes of us when we live too long? We lose our humanity?
The Bard holds Nightingale out to the prince. The two grip the oth-
er’s treasure, and then the Bard yanks his hands back, taking everything.
The seeds fall from his grasp, hit the floor, and spill out of the bag.
Markham lunges and knocks him in the face. The Bard’s hold on the
violin case slips. The prince grabs it and leaps from the stage in front of Maisie. He shoves the marionette at me, and we stumble backward
together. The Bard jumps off the stage and pushes me aside to go after the prince, but Markham has disappeared through the workshop door.
I raise my sword and start after him. The Bard steps into my path.
“Father Time sent you to sabotage me,” he snarls, hoisting the sand-
glass. “I heard the rhythm of your clock heart the moment you stepped into my shop. I sense the power of your heartwood in every ticktock, Time Bearer.” The Bard pulls a carving knife from his pocket with his other hand, and his marionette moves closer behind me. He sets the
infinity sandglass on the stage and starts at me with the knife. “Hold her down, Maisie. Best not to let her heartwood go to waste.”
The marionette grabs me around the middle. I twist left and slice
down, severing her arm. Wrenching free, I swing around while sink-
ing low and cut her across the knees. She crumples to the ground,
twitching.
“No!” The Bard rushes forward and kneels beside her, cradling her
wooden face. “My dearest pet.”
I grab the sandglass and sprint up the aisle, through the workshop,
and into the storefront. Several shelves have been knocked over, the Esen sisters trapped under them. Corentine groans. I go to her and help her push off the shelf. Together, we unbury Mistral.
Mistral sits up, her head bleeding. “We heard a noise and went to
look,” she explains. “Someone pushed the shelves on us.”
142
Everafter Song
“Prince Killian, I assume.” I move out of the way as the giantess
stands. “He stole an artifact, and he’s getting away.”
Corentine draws her revolver. “I’ll kill him for making my sister
bleed.”
I hope I get to see her try.
I slip the sandglass into a pretty box I found in the shop and close it. The music box that plays the song haunting Jamison is on the floor. I stuff it into my pocket, hug the sandglass against me, and hurry outside with the sisters. A noise echoes from a nearby street—the barghest’s howl.
“What in the Creator’s name is that?” Mistral asks.
“The elven guard,” I answer. “Their bloodhound is hunting its
mark.”
The barghest howls again, farther away. Commander Asmer must
be tracking the prince. If they catch him first, Queen Imelda will have Nightingale.
I sprint toward the barghest, darting around carts and horses and
wagons. Giants release exclamations of surprise. Corentine raises her revolver over her head as she barrels through pedestrians, and Mistral carefully shuffles between them after us.
“Sorry,” she says as she bumps into others. “So sorry. Please excuse us. Oh, pardon me.”
Another howl. I slow down to listen, and Corentine charges
onward.
“This way!” she says.
“How do you know?”
“Their hound smells like dog, a delicacy for giants.”
Mistral runs behind us, huffing and puffing. More howling from
ahead, and then a train whistle. The platform comes into view. The
elven guard is there, and the guards and their barghest are causing a commotion. Ahead of them, Markham runs into an open passenger
143
Emily R. King
car, and the elves load on seconds after. The train starts to pull away from the station.
“I thought trains don’t run at night,” I say.
“This one travels north of the city,” Corentine answers.
Someone shouts from behind us. “Esen sisters, stop!”
Sheriff Ramiel chases us, his revolver ready, his trousers tied with a section of rope. We run onto the platform after the moving train.
Corentine jumps onto the back of the last passenger car and hauls
Mistral on beside her. I sprint after them, my hand outstretched for theirs, my other hand on the sandglass box.
Everafter Song Page 15
