Give the Dark My Love

by Beth Revis

  We rushed toward the administration building. In the center of the quad, a group of students huddled near the statue of Bennum Wellebourne. They held nails and files, and they made no attempt to hide what they were doing—scratching tiny arrows pointing to the sky into the iron that covered the statue.

  “We will rise up!” they called out after us, their empty revolutionary chant echoing ominously across campus as the darkness grew.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Grey

  Master Ostrum looked, for lack of a better word, frazzled. It didn’t suit him. He was typically grave, his hair smooth and tied at his neck, his suit immaculate. But now his skin was haggard and his clothes were wrinkled and limp. Despite the fact that we’d seen him just this morning, it appeared as if a sleepless week had passed for him.

  “The school is closing,” he said. “Temporarily.”

  “What?” Nedra’s voice raised. “Why?”

  “Parents want their children home,” Master Ostrum said. “They’re concerned about the plague. With the governor ill and the Emperor hiding, the administration thinks it best—”

  “Let the others go,” Nedra insisted. “We have work to do!”

  “Nedra.” Master Ostrum steepled his fingers. “The entire campus is closing. You’ll have nowhere to stay. You have to go home. The school will send for you—I will send for you—when Yūgen reopens.”

  I leaned in closer to her, gently rubbing my thumb on her hand. “Besides,” I added, “you could see your family.”

  “Just because you leave campus doesn’t mean you stop working.” Master Ostrum gave her a single book, slender and worn. Then he pulled out a parchment envelope and handed it to me. “You’re dismissed,” he said as I took the paper.

  I frowned but left anyway. “I’ll be waiting outside,” I told Nedra.

  In the corridor, I opened the envelope. My parents informed me that I was to meet the family carriage at the school gates by eight chimes. Word traveled fast.

  Nedra opened Master Ostrum’s office door a moment later, her head down, her bag slung over her shoulder, the book in her hand.

  “What did he want?” I asked.

  “He gave me some money,” she said, as if still surprised by it.

  “What for?” I led the way up the stairs to the door of the administration building.

  “So I could pay a skipper to take me to my village.”

  I was ashamed that I’d not thought of it myself. I had plenty of coin to pay for her travels. It would mean nothing to me and everything to her. But I’d not even considered it. “Nedra, I—”

  “I’m going to stop at the quarantine hospital on the way,” Nedra said. “Then take another ferry up to the north shore.”

  She paused, as if waiting to see if I would accompany her. “My parents are sending a carriage . . .” I said lamely.

  The air outside was crisp. Nedra leaned up on her toes and kissed my nose. “I’m horrid at goodbyes,” she said. “It’s better this way.”

  We walked slowly across the quad, then lingered in front of our separate dormitories. “Well,” Nedra finally said.

  I tried to hold her tighter, but I could already feel her pulling away. “It won’t be long,” I said.

  She kissed me again, lightly on the lips, but when she pulled away, the look in her eyes was distant. She was still right in front of me, but she was already gone.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Nedra

  I awoke with parchment stuck to my face and my nose pressed into the open spine of a medical tome.

  Maybe Grey was right. Maybe I did need a break.

  I peeled myself out of my desk chair and stood, my muscles aching and my spine popping. Grey had left the evening before, and I was glad that we didn’t have to linger over farewells today.

  I packed quickly, but my satchel was heavier now than when I’d first come to Northface Harbor. I carried with me not just my golden crucible, but also books—including the one Master Ostrum had given me last night. I’d skimmed through it, but even though the volume was thin, the text was handwritten and difficult to read.

  “This was Wellebourne’s,” Master Ostrum had said. “It’s been passed down through my family over the generations. Ancestors have added a few notes here and there. But it was his.”

  It felt odd, knowing that I would be reading Wellebourne’s own words, written in his hand—the same hand that I had held after it had been cut off and turned into a crucible cage. I’d read some of his work before—his poetry as a young man, his treatises as the first governor of Lunar Island. But nothing from after his descent into necromancy—they didn’t cover those writings in textbooks. A quick scan of the journal last night indicated that this was far more personal than an instructional manual.

  The last chapter had been written by Wellebourne’s son. The first part was a description of Wellebourne’s last days, particularly the hope his son had when he’d been called to his father’s prison, followed by the horror when he saw the bloody wound where his father’s hand should be. The rest of the chapter was a warning—not just to hide the crucible cage so no one could use it to become a necromancer, but also to avoid necromancy at all costs. It is a madness, the chapter concluded, one I hope is not in our blood.

  I was the last person to leave the dormitories. The cafeteria was already closed, nothing but a basket of apples on the doorstep for anyone who remained. Most of the students—even the ones whose families lived just a few miles away—left the school in fancy carriages, fine horses throwing their heads back, their hooves clattering on the street.

  I kept my head down, lost in thought, as I made my way downhill to Blackdocks. I was so distracted that I almost collided with the wagon being pulled up the street, bumping on the cobblestones.

  “Watch’er!” the driver shouted, yanking on the reins and pulling his cart up sharply.

  The scent of blood and death hit me as violently as a punch. My eyes drifted down the side of the cart, to the grimy cloth covering lumpy contents. Behind him, the sun crept over the bay, glittering red on the water. The death cart was early, out even before the first shift of workers left for the factory.

  “You all right?” the driver asked.

  “Yes, sorry,” I said. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

  He tipped his head back. “I’ve seen you around. Where’s your city boy?”

  The corner of my mouth twitched in a smile. Mine. “He’s visiting his family.”

  The driver took in the pack strapped to my back. “That where you heading?”

  I nodded.

  “You’re from the north, yeah?”

  I nodded again. Our accents gave us away.

  “I can take you halfway there, if you want to save some coin.” When I hesitated, he added, “I mean, if you don’t mind . . .” He glanced over his shoulder, at the bodies on the cart.

  I hefted myself up to sit beside him. I’d intended to stop by the quarantine hospital on the way, but if I could save some silver, I could bring the money home to my parents.

  The driver clucked at his draft horses, leading them down to the docks. “So what’s your story?”

  “A student at Yūgen, going home,” I said.

  He looked impressed. “I wondered as much. Good to see a local girl not in a factory.”

  That was the way of the north; everyone there was local.

  “Scholarship,” I said, unable to hide the pride in my voice. I never spoke about the scholarship from the mysterious benefactor at school; it was too close to bragging, too likely to draw the kind of attention I didn’t want. But this man reminded me of Papa.

  “Good on you!” he said. “You taking alchemical robes and all?”

  “Maybe,” I said. Who knew if only one year at Yūgen would be deemed worthy enough.

  “Always a string, nah?”

 
We hit a bump in the street, and the bodies behind us thumped heavily. “Always a string,” I said.

  The cart clopped onto the dock, the horses’ hooves landing with a hollow thud. The driver had me get down while he unhitched the horses in front of a flat-bottomed boat, larger than any of the others out there. When we were ready to go, we pushed off from the dock.

  We stopped at the quarantine hospital. I thought again of getting off there, but before I had the chance to volunteer, workers emerged with more bodies. The driver tied up the ferry, then jumped down to help put the dead into the boat. I climbed down after him and moved to help.

  “Nah, you’re a lady; you wait up there,” the driver said, nodding to the boat.

  “I am not a lady,” I replied, reaching to help bear the burden.

  I am not one of them. My heart belonged to the north, my soul to the church, my hands to the hospital.

  The driver nodded appreciatively, and together we loaded new bodies onto the cart on the boat. The workers thanked us—one of them calling me by name—and the driver pushed off away from the stone steps.

  “So what’s your story?” I asked him as we crossed the open water, heading to the forest in the center of the island and the field Dilada had helped clear.

  “Parents worked in the mills.”

  “Which one?”

  “Grindhouse. Dust killed ’em.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  The driver focused on the boat, but we were gliding smoothly through the water. “Didn’t want that life. Tried to cut it as a farmer. Couldn’t. So here I am.”

  Bearing the dead to their graves.

  I looked behind us, past the quarantine hospital on its little island and toward the rocky cliffs upon which Northface Harbor sat. The southerners saw features in the dark spots—a face looking out at the bay—but the northerners saw features in the light parts. My grandmother used to say the cliffs held an image of a rabbit. I liked that story much better.

  As the sun rose higher into the sky, the bodies began to smell. I turned my face away, but there was no escaping the strange, sweetly rotting humid stench.

  “Yeah, it’s bad,” the driver said when he noticed my expression. “You get used to it, though.”

  I thought about the quarantine hospital.

  “I guess you can get used to anything,” I said.

  * * *

  • • •

  At the clearing, I could still see the small iron rings that Governor Adelaide had given us, spread intermittently along the rows of graves. More graves had been added since then, and more rings, too—it was good to know that someone was memorializing the dead. The smell of earth, fresh and damp, filled the air—a welcome relief from the stench that clung to the death cart.

  “Avoid any villages with black marks,” the skipper warned me when I disembarked.

  I knew this from Papa, but I nodded anyway and thanked him.

  Cutting through the forest and approaching my home village from the south was a different route than I was used to, but it was easy enough to stick to the coast and then veer up at the first village. I got lucky; I walked only about five miles before I ran into another cart that carried me for the next ten. I walked another three or so when that cart stopped at a village with sassoon blooms carved into its gate, and then joined a caravan that dropped me less than a mile from my own village. The sun had set by the time I passed under the gates with carved carmellina flowers. I breathed a silent prayer to Oryous; there was no black bunting on the tall wooden planks.

  In the spring, people from villages miles away would come here to celebrate the solstice, and carmellina flowers would pop up in the trees, huge and red and fragrant. In the winter, my sister and I would slide across the icy pond until fishermen cracked it open, dropping their lines below the surface. People knew our village because it was home to the flowers, and to the fish, and to my father, the only bookseller in the area.

  The main road gave way to the heart of the village. Stone houses and stores with thatched roofs, shared walls, and a covered walkway lined each side of the street. I peered into the dark windows, my heart singing. I spotted the dry goods store where we bought feed for the mule, the bakery where Mama sent Nessie and me to fetch bread when she was too busy to bake it, the church hall creating a dark outline against the stars.

  Home.

  I broke into a smile as I left the main road and veered toward my parents’ house. Every window was dark, but not theirs.

  I ran the last few steps, and the front door swung open. My sister stood in the light from the door, and even though I couldn’t see her face, I heard her laugh. “You’re home!” she called, running down to greet me. “What are you doing home?” She wrapped her arms around me, laughing, saying that Mother was already asleep, and I closed my eyes.

  I wanted to be nowhere else in the entire world other than here.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Nedra

  Ernesta and I crept through the house, careful not to wake my mother. Papa was still out on his latest book run. My bed was all made up, as if I’d never left, my sheets crisp with sprigs of dried lavender tucked inside. “This is heaven,” I said, throwing off my clothes, slipping into a camisole, and falling into bed.

  “Those fancy beds in the city no good?” Nessie said, grinning at me.

  “Nothing is as good as this bed,” I said, sighing heavily as I rubbed my face against the sheets.

  “Not even that boy you wrote me about?” Nessie’s eyes twinkled mischievously. I considered throwing my pillow at her, but decided it wasn’t worth the loss.

  We talked late into the night, just like when we were little kids. Our beds were so close that we could reach across the distance and touch each other’s fingertips. When I woke the next morning, I was curled up to the very edge, one hand slung across the valley between our beds, resting on the corner of her pillow.

  Ernesta was gone. But at the foot of my bed was a simple brown dress, the hem embroidered with red flowers. I threw back the covers and tossed the dress over my shoulders as quickly as possible, then snuck out of my room. I crept down the hallway, toward the sound of voices—my sister and my mother, eating breakfast in the kitchen. Bookshelves lined both walls of the hallway, and I breathed deeply. Nothing was as intoxicating as the smell of old books.

  I caught Nessie’s eye through the doorway, and she winked. She was wearing the exact same brown dress with red flowers on the hem. Her black hair was braided in a crown, just like mine.

  “Excuse me, Mama,” Ernesta said politely. “I forgot something in my room.” She got up and left the table, heading down the hall to me. She paused, grinning, and I couldn’t help but mirror her smile. That’s what we were—mirror twins, identical in almost every way.

  Ernesta stayed in the hall while I walked to the kitchen, sitting down at the table.

  “I’m going to have to tell the boy to bring more milk next time,” Mama said, her back to me.

  I bit back a grin. Ernesta and I hadn’t tried this trick in years.

  “I want to make a cake for when your father gets back,” Mama continued. “But for tonight, I’d like to make that stew Papa likes, the one with lamb. Can you go to the butcher for me?”

  “Of course, Mama,” I said, careful to keep my voice light like Ernesta’s.

  Mama whipped around, squinting at me.

  “Is something wrong?” I asked innocently.

  Her eyes narrowed a fraction more.

  Just then, Father’s cart rumbled outside the kitchen window. Mama rushed to the door, slinging it open as Papa unhitched Jojo. I followed Mama outside.

  “Bardon!” Mama called. “You’re home early!”

  Papa beamed at her. “I missed my girls!” he said. And then his eyes fell on me. “Nedra! What are you doing here?”

  “Nedra?” Mama glared as I burst int
o laughter. Ernesta ran from the kitchen, cackling. “Nedra!” Mama screeched. “I knew it was you, but you—oh!” She growled in frustration, but Papa whirled her around, spinning her in the air and kissing the anger out of her.

  Ernesta punched my shoulder. “She fell for it!” she said, laughing. That was no small accomplishment; Mama almost never mistook us.

  “Honestly, Mother, how can you not tell the difference between your only two children?” I asked in a superior tone. Ernesta wove her arm through mine, and we pressed our cheeks together, smiling up at our parents innocently.

  “You demon-children!” Mama shouted, but she was laughing. She took a book from Papa’s cart and threw it at us.

  “Not the books!” Papa said, snatching for it, but it was already out of his reach. I easily caught the tome—a history of the Oryon religion—and placed it back on the cart.

  Mama grabbed me, wrapping me in a hug. “Nedra,” she whispered. “My Nedra.” She squeezed me tightly. “But what are you doing back now?”

  Joy slipped from my face. “The plague—” I started.

  Mama smoothed my hair and pulled me back into her hug.

  “We worried about that,” Papa said. “Here and in the city, if reports from Hart are to be believed.”

  “They are,” I said.

  Mama squeezed tighter. “And to think,” she said, pulling back. “I was worried I wouldn’t recognize you when you came back from the city.”

  “Technically, you didn’t,” I pointed out.

  “Inside!” Mama announced. “Food!”

  After we helped Papa put Jojo into her stable, we gathered in the kitchen and Mama started cracking eggs into a hot pan. Ernesta had drilled me yesterday about the city, and I had to repeat almost all of it, describing everything from the food to the clothing to the people.

  “And I met the governor,” I said.

  “You didn’t!” Mama gasped.

  “You didn’t tell me that,” Ernesta grumbled.