The Girl of Ink & Stars

by Kiran Millwood Hargrave

  ‘Stop!’ shouted Da, but it was no use. Panic had taken hold.

  I racked my sluggish brain for a plan, but no ideas surfaced. The water was still rising, seeping into the bottom of my tunic now, my trousers soaked and heavy. I felt a sharp scratch through the material, and reached into the pocket to find the thin gold key poking through.

  I pulled out the key ring. The six other keys glinted through the water. I tried to cry out, but still my voice would not come. I tugged at Da’s sleeve and held them up. He looked blank a moment, then saw the royal-blue crest on the key ring. He shoved me forward.

  ‘Go, Isabella. Run!’

  So I did, every muscle in my body screaming to stop. I pushed blindly through the crowd, ignoring the shouts of anger and yelps of pain as I trod on feet and raked my nails across the hands that tried to stop me. The steps seemed never-ending, but just as my legs started to shake I saw the trapdoor, illuminated by a lamp swaying from a panicked man’s arm. He was beating at the wood while another scratched at the lock, his nails bleeding, but no one came.

  I pushed up the last few steps and pulled at the man’s arm. He looked down, eyes wild, and I held up the ring of keys. He grabbed at them, but his hands were shaking so much he dropped them. They nearly fell off the step and into the crowd below. I snatched the keys up.

  A scream came from the base of the stairs. I could not help myself; I looked. The water was up to people’s waists. I shook my head to clear it, and reached up to test the first key, trying to ignore the tearing sensation in my shoulder.

  It did not fit the lock.

  I took up the next one, fingers trembling as the man beside me hissed fearfully, ‘Quickly, child.’

  More screaming was coming from below, and sounds of thrashing as the shorter prisoners fought to stay afloat, or were held up by their companions. The second key slotted into the lock but would not turn. Nor would the third.

  Finally, with a deep wrenching sound, the fourth key began to turn. The man yelped in excitement and helped me rotate it in the rusty lock. Then he and two others placed their shoulders against the trapdoor and started to push with all their might.

  They could not lift it.

  One of the men screamed, pointing at the edges of the trapdoor. Huge, rusted spikes showed through. ‘They’ve nailed us in!’

  Then he was being pushed aside as Pablo moved past and put his shoulder to the wood. He heaved once, the stitches contorting his face, and the trapdoor swung off its hinges.

  The light flooded over us like a wave, and the man behind me moaned, shielding his eyes.

  Pablo jumped up into the corridor of the Governor’s house, and helped me stumble out. I only had a moment to register that the torches were burning without a guard in sight, before Pablo grabbed me. He hugged me hard and I let him, gasping as my shoulder throbbed, his hands impossibly warm through my tunic.

  Then he pushed me behind him against the wall, running forward to help the first rush of people scramble into the hallway.

  A seemingly endless stream began dashing down the four corridors in an effort to make room, some joining Pablo in helping the elderly or injured out of the steep stairwell. The faces grew more and more harrowed, the clothes more and more soaked.

  ‘Where’s Da?’ I croaked, as Pablo helped a woman out, wet-haired.

  Before I could stop him, Pablo was gone, pushing down the stairwell and into the sloshing darkness of the Dédalo.

  I wanted to follow, but the throb in my shoulder had intensified and I stayed pressed against the wall. Opposite was the pinned butterfly and I kept my eyes trained on it as bodies rushed past. How could so many people have been in the Dédalo? An ancient-looking man emerged with a long beard wrapped around his arm, his eyes unseeing. Masha collapsed out of the hole after him.

  Finally, I saw the top of Pablo’s head, black hair flattened by damp, pulling someone’s arm. Da emerged, dripping wet and sucking his cheeks in the way he did when he was in pain, and Pablo slung his arm across his shoulders to help him walk. It made me remember Lupe doing the same for me in the maze and I cried out as they hurried towards me. There were two more men behind them, and they seemed to be the last because together they heaved the trapdoor closed.

  I was numb to everything except Da. I pulled away from the wall and forced my feet the few steps to him, falling into his arms.

  An ear-splitting grinding spread through the house, a fierce tremor that ripped lamps from the walls. I tumbled to the floor, Pablo throwing himself over me and Da as the lamps smashed on to the cloth, spilling their fire.

  We were helped to our feet and ran, all of us, down the corridors of the house like ants fleeing a nest. The flames were ripping at the ground, making quick work of the elegant tapestries and paintings. I felt like as if I was back in Yote’s lair, and wondered whether we’d be crushed before we burnt.

  The ground wrenched again, shaking the house. A huge crack opened in the wall of the corridor and my legs were quaking, skittering beneath me. But suddenly we were outside in the courtyard by the stables, and it was raining harder than I had ever seen it rain before.

  The ground was churning mud, shaking so hard it was impossible to stand. I fell as there was another violent twist and a monstrous crunching sound that vibrated through my whole body.

  A noise like thunder scraped the air. The stalls in the market square, pocket-small at this distance, were crumbling, sending up dust into the torrential rain. The Arintara was already bursting its banks to the north, flowing over the rubble, and the well in the centre of the square was sending water pluming upwards like a fountain.

  ‘The sea,’ shouted Da through a mouthful of mud. ‘It’s pulling Joya free!’

  The sea seemed to give a last, brutal tug. The ground rocked from side to side, and I saw huge waves breaking over the bay below, sucking broken houses into the water. The blackened shell of the Governor’s ship pitched and strained at its moorings, but I could see no other boats.

  Wind whipped at our clothes, beginning to draw the rain clouds back like a curtain. They disappeared, the rain swept away with them, and we were suddenly dazzled by sunshine set against the usual blue.

  The tremors slowed, then ceased. The ground stopped rocking, as if the island were finding some balance. I was winded, lungs useless as I tried to catch my breath. Around me, people were standing up, starting to call out to each other. Behind us, the Governor’s house was shattered, the roof collapsed.

  ‘It’s floating,’ said Da. ‘Joya’s floating. Isabella, what did you do?’

  I could still not find my voice. The sea, the sea that Lupe had freed, had scooped out the base of Joya, snapping the island from its stem like a water lily. I had heard of floating islands, circling the world like living ships, at the mercy of the current. I had been entranced by those stories, but now I did not care.

  As the blue of the Joya sky spread above me, and fathoms of sea flowed beneath, I closed my eyes, and wept.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY~FIVE

  Do you know how fast a floating island moves? I do.

  Some days it’s like riding a giant sea turtle, slow as sleep. Other nights, when the moon is close and full, and the waves rise high as mountains, making Pep yowl, it’s like running quick as the wind.

  So the answer is: a floating island moves as fast as it wants to.

  I think even Da thought we’d have reached some other land by now. According to his calculations, the current is taking us west. Towards Amrica. Da could board a passing ship and get there faster, but he says, ‘Why leave a ship that is also our home? We’ll get there one day soon.’ Every day he charts our progress across the Western Sea on our walls. We’ve gone in so many circles it looks like Miss La’s tracks.

  She found her way home with Pablo, who regained consciousness after Lupe and I started walking the labyrinth. He called and called and was sure we were dead. When he reached Gromera, he told the Governor’s men what had happened, tried to get them to go back a
nd help, but they didn’t believe him. They threw him in the Dédalo again, and it was only when the surviving Banished arrived that they realized he had been telling the truth.

  That’s when they nailed down the trapdoor, boarded whatever boats they could find and left for Afrik with Señora Adori. I am glad Lupe never has to know how easily her mother abandoned her.

  Otherwise, less than you’d think has changed. My hair is a year longer, my shoulder nearly healed. My voice came back eventually, though I still don’t like to use it much. Pablo’s face has two thick scars across it, and I tease him that he’s almost as lined as Masha. But really, I think he looks fine.

  Da has built me a small room in the garden to work in. It’s made of rushes and mud and we invited my class from school to paint it – only on the outside, though. Inside, I’m starting my own map wall.

  With the port open again, we trade with passing ships, and most people have rebuilt their houses the same way. Da even bought some green paint for our new door, and a whole aviary of songbirds from a junk from Chine. We released them last week, and now they sing in every tree.

  There’s a tiny, jewel-blue one tweeting loudly outside, in Gabo’s tabaiba bush. It’s flowering again. The storm washed out a lot of the other plants, but this one only grows and grows. Buried beneath it are the Governor’s keys.

  I still don’t honestly know what happened in the labyrinth. I told Da what I could, about the Tibicenas and the map’s hidden layer, though he has only my word. The map is destroyed and the demon dogs vanished. Perhaps the sea swallowed them, as it swallowed their master.

  It’s hard to know the facts, or even if facts matter with an ending like a floating island. But I do know Lupe saved my life with her sacrifice. Saved all of us. Saved Joya, like Arinta did a thousand and one years ago.

  There is no way I can say a true goodbye to her. But I can say thank you. I am finally about to finish my map of Joya, the island as it is now. Da and I have made three trips to see what I missed, and some of the villages are already populated again.

  The forests are thick and green, and all the Gromerans got together to buy boar and deer from a ship from Europa. I saw a fawn on our last trip, drinking from the pool beneath Arintan. The waterfall is back to its full might, but I didn’t go behind it to see where Lupe and I fell through. I don’t like to be in a dark where stars don’t shine.

  Where the Governor’s house used to be, a dragon tree has been planted. It grows higher each day, roots threading through the remains of the Dédalo.

  I left this to last. The final landmark to be filled in. I carefully stitch it into my map as a golden starburst, using the same spool as I did for Lupe’s bracelet.

  You’re so sentimental, Lupe would say.

  Next to it I write two words.

  Lupe’s Tree

  I sit back, vision blurry from so many days crouched over the map. But when I blink down at it, rolling my sore shoulder as I trace the green of the forests, the blue of the rivers, the faint stitch of star lines – I don’t just see ink and thread on paper. There’s something else there – something close to the same life Da’s maps have. Maybe.

  Don’t get big-headed on me, Lupe warns.

  ‘Isabella! Breakfast’s ready,’ Da calls from the kitchen. The porridge smells as burnt as ever.

  ‘Coming.’

  I look down at the completed map, wondering whether to cry or laugh.

  No point just standing there.

  And I will not. With Joya pulled in the wake of an unknown current, I will never stand still again.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Every book is a team effort, and this one especially, so bear with me.

  First thanks always to my family. To my parents, Andrea and Martyn, and my little brother John, for taking me on adventures around the world and around my head, for supporting and encouraging my writing, for being my friends, editors, proofreaders, cocktail-makers, travel-buddies, antagonists; whatever I needed at every stage. It all started with you believing I could.

  To Yvonne and John, the least traditional grandparents in the world and therefore the best, for supporting whatever I’ve wanted to be however far-fetched, from first woman on Mars to poet.

  To Sabine, for making me want to write stories you’ll love.

  To all the Hargraves and Millwoods and Karers and Kakkars and Slomans around the world who have given me books and stories and inspiration.

  To Izzy, Hatty, Cecily, Ruth and Jess for your support, and for lending your various wonderful qualities (and in one case, name!) to my heroines.

  This story is the last in a long line of drafts. Thank you to Amal Chaterjee, who set the assignment that started the story, and to Rebecca Abrams who gave me the tools to finish it.

  To all my beta-readers who read multiple drafts: Andrea Millwood Hargrave, Tom de Freston, Janis Cauthery, Miranda de Freston, Madelaine Furnivall, Max Barton, Daisy Johnson, Sarvat Hasin, Joe Brady and Amy Waite. To Pablo de Orellana for checking my Spanish and helping me with pronunciation. To Tom Corbett for your kindness and belief. To the Unruly Writers – thank you for being cruel in your criticism and generous with your drink. Thank you to all the writers, reviewers and bloggers who have already been so supportive, especially Abi Elphinstone, Melinda Salisbury, Emma Carroll, Celia Rees, Lisa Heathfield, Lucy Saxon and Fiona Noble.

  Sarvat and Daisy – one of the best parts of all this was writing with you two and becoming friends in the process. I’m so jealous proud of you both.

  To my wonderful publishers on both sides of the pond. Melanie, your support has truly changed my life. Thank you to you and all the team at Knopf and Random House for your belief in the book. Victo Ngai, thank you for creating a cover that gives me butterflies every time I look at it. I hope to come visit again soon!

  In Chicken House, the book has found a truly wonderful coop. Barry, Rachel L., Rachel H., Elinor, Jazz, Laura S. and Kesia: I have felt involved, supported and cared for every step of the way. Thank you. Rachel H. and Helen – thank you for a cover I have fallen completely in love with. Thanks to Daphne, copy-editor extraordinaire, and to Laura, for being a patient, thorough and supportive publishing manager. To fellow Chicken M. G. Leonard, for the encouragement and pep talks.

  Thank you, Barry, for seeing potential in a confused manuscript, and thank you, Rachel L., for making it the book I always wanted it to be. Please always feel free to call on a Sunday evening to argue your case – you were right!

  My agents: Hellie Ogden and Kirby Kim, and everyone at Janklow & Nesbit. Thank you for finding brilliant homes for my story. Hellie – thanks for having such confidence in me that I had no choice but to have confidence in myself.

  Thank you reader, for choosing this book.

  Last thanks always to Tom, my inspiration, my best friend, the reason I started writing and many other things besides. I hope you know this book is because of you – and your now patently disproved statement: ‘You’re too lazy to write a novel.’

  Text © Kiran Millwood Hargrave 2016

  First paperback edition published in Great Britain in 2016

  This electronic edition published in 2016

  Chicken House

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  Kiran Millwood Hargrave has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

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  Produced in the UK by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY

  Cover and interior design by Helen Crawford-White Cover illustration: silhouette, adapted from a photo by Buffy Cooper/Trevillion Images; waves © Miloje/Shutterstock Inside illustrations: compasses © Vertyr/Shutterstock; ships/sea creatures/map icons © pavila/Shutterstock

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication data available.

  PB ISBN 978-1-910002-74-2

  eISBN 978-1-910655-58-0