Drowned

by Nichola Reilly

  “How are you doing, by the way?” he asks.

  “Um, I’m doing...fine,” I sputter, the words feeling foreign on my lips. But am I? I suppose every day I am still alive is a good day.

  He gives me a sad smile. “Don’t lie. I know how much Buck means to you. So if you need anything, someone to talk to...” He looks away, his face reddening. “Well. I’m here. Okay?”

  Someone to talk to? About what? My breath catches in my throat. I don’t understand his offer. Nobody ever offers such things. But even as the proposition tangles up my brain, it also opens some small, hopeful part of me, a part that has longed for this kind of attention.

  “Thank you,” I say, voice faltering.

  “Coe, I know them. I fish with them every day. So I worry about you. We’ve lost enough people for stupid reasons. I don’t want you to be next,” he says, sliding out of the water and walking down the shoreline, toward them. The words I don’t want you to be next hang in the air after him, making me shiver. Sure, Vixby and Mutter have taunted me since my father left, but it’s never been anything too life-threatening.

  I sit up. “Finn, do you know something I don’t?” I call after him.

  He shrugs, but I already know the answer. Of course he does. Everyone does. He spends his time with other fishermen. I spend most of my time alone. No, you’re not supposed to trust anyone, but isolation can get you killed just as fast. I used to find out what I needed to know from Buck. Now it’s not just my deformity and my size that make me vulnerable.

  When I am done washing, I walk past the fishermen and think I’ll take refuge for a while near the platform, away from the sun, where the small bit of shade there will give my stinging eyes a rest. I relax, closing my eyes there until at once I hear movement. I open one eye for a moment and see four pairs of feet marching toward me. Guards. They always walk in tight formation, purposefully, unlike most of us, who listlessly meander about. I wonder what on earth they’re out for, but I know it’s probably nothing good, and for a split second, I feel sorry for whoever they’re after.

  That is, until they stop at my feet. I open the other eye and then sit spear-straight. Four of the eight palace guards are staring down at me. I try to choke out some words, but nothing comes. I’ve done a good job at making myself invisible. The palace guards have never approached me. What would they want with a Craphouse Keeper? I think, but at the same time I remember Princess Star inspecting me this morning in formation. This is the one, I thought.

  “Are you space two?” one asks me. “In the formation?”

  I nod, still mute.

  The first one looks at his mates. “She’s the one. Get her.”

  My hand tightens into a fist, though I’m not sure why. I wouldn’t strike any of them; I’m not suicidal. There are four of them. I’ve never seen this many of them together at once. I’m not quite sure why half of all the king’s guards have been summoned to retrieve me, the defenseless one-handed Scribbler Bait. I swallow. “What is this about?” I finally find my voice, as two of them reach their gloved hands under my arms and hoist me to my feet. They don’t answer, just lug me along as if I’m a beached fish they found on the shore, spraying sand as they march. I try to walk, but they’re moving too fast, dragging me inches above the ground so that my toes leave ruts in the sand. My face burns with a combination of humiliation and fear as the others watch me.

  Of course, no one steps in to help me. Where is Finn’s protection now, when I need it? I can’t see him anywhere. On the shoreline, I see Tiam casting out a drop line, tanned back to me. He turns at almost the second I wish he would, as if he hears me screaming for him in his mind, and then he breaks into a run.

  His long legs propel him across the sand so that he’s standing in front of them, spear drawn, in a matter of seconds. I expect that the next words out of his mouth will be, “What are you doing?” or “Leave her alone.” Instead, he says, very evenly, “Don’t hurt her.”

  The men have metal spears, weapons that could slice him in half with one swing. They move around him, and he grinds his jaw. He doesn’t look as if he’s planning to attack, but maybe he’s going for the stealth approach. In case he’s about to lunge, I hold out my hand. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “Just... My bag. Where’s my bag? Can you watch it for me?”

  I really don’t know if it’s okay, or if I’ll ever have the chance to see my bag again. But I know attacking the guards is simply stupid, even if he is going to be king one day. His eyes bore into the guards for a moment. “Don’t be afraid, Coe,” he mouths. Then he walks toward the base of the platform and picks up my sack, pulling the strap over his head so that it joins his own on his back. He never looks at me, just stands like stone as they drag me off.

  I watch Tiam, standing motionless. Don’t hurt her. He knows. He knows where they’re taking me. Why they’re taking me.

  We move beyond the sleeping quarters, the craphouse. Meanwhile, all the people we pass look at me as if seeing me for the first time. And then I look up and see the castle towering over me. The castle. I know I’d played there as a child, but my memories all seem like dreams. I can’t remember ever being this close to it. It’s towered over the island for so many days of my life, in its shimmering splendor, just like the moon; lovely to look at, impossible to visit. I’ve always thought of it as this fantastic mirage in the distance, that if I ever got this near, it would disappear. But here it is, enormous, a hundred times bigger than our sleeping quarters.

  The guard slides open the door, and I find myself kissing the floor. But something is strange... There’s no sand there. It’s the color of sand, but smooth and cold. I quickly straighten and bring myself to my knees, then gasp.

  The room is bigger than anything I can imagine, the color of a seashell, with sloped ceilings that glimmer like a pearl. There is no furniture, only a pink mat on the floor. Princess Star is sitting there, cross-legged, a bowl in her lap. She’s wearing a lace thing over most of her face, but I can see her jaw working. She’s chewing on something. “Keep her over there,” she calls across the room as I avert my eyes. “I don’t want her near me until she washes.”

  Near her? Why would I go near her? “I’ve washed,” I say softly.

  She laughs. “I can still smell you from over here. You’ll have a freshwater bath.”

  Freshwater? Freshwater! My heart catches in my throat. I value my skin too much to have it burned off my body. Is this some kind of punishment? “For...for what?”

  “To be my lady-in-waiting, of course.” She pulls the lace veil back from her face and studies me. “Or do you like cleaning the craphouse?”

  “I’m... Me?” Surely she is mistaken.

  “Yes. Governesses are for babies. And I’m an adult. This is my seventeenth Hard Season. My father said I could choose one servant. And you come highly recommended.”

  “Me?” I sputter. Who would recommend me? “But your governess. What will become of Kirba?”

  “Look at me,” she instructs, ignoring my question. Kirba has seen more than thirty Hard Seasons and is one of the eldest on the island. Surely, though, Star will have compassion for the lady who raised her. Hearing the iciness in her voice, I’m not so sure. “My lady-in-waiting may look me in the eye, from time to time. And I need to see your eyes to know if I can trust you.”

  I raise my eyes to her, slowly, and as I do, she blows a puff of air that makes the lace thing over her eyes billow out. I imagine even her breath is sweet. When she stands, I see that she is wearing a short, tight-fitting garment over her breasts, with a silky cape that descends over her hips. Open to view in a small window is the smooth white skin surrounding her perfectly round navel. Her navel! I’ve never seen another woman’s navel before, except for my own, and that only rarely, as doing so also affords me a look at my horrible, deep scars.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, my eyes falling to the
floor. I can’t do it. I’m afraid my looking would turn into gawking like mad.

  She motions to a servant, who brings her a cloth napkin and retreats to the corner of the room. She dabs her mouth daintily, and all the while I can’t help thinking that her napkin, this piece of cloth she wipes her mouth with, is finer and more delicate than anything I’ve ever even touched. “You’re not the first person who has had trouble, but no mind. Your eyes... They are unusual. They do work, don’t they? Can you see quite well?”

  I nod. “Well, they hurt some in the daylight,” I mumble.

  “That is no mind.” She continues, “What I need is someone who can draw me my bath every day and dress me. Who can take care of my needs. Who can dine with me when I choose and carry on a conversation and be at least somewhat interesting. Obviously that rules out most of the people on this godforsaken island.” She laughs, a bitter but still delicate sound, and I feel her eyes running over me. “I’m still not convinced you are. Interesting, that is. But you’ll have to do.”

  I swallow. I have no idea what I’d converse with her about. It’s doubtful she’d want me to go into detail about how to clean a craphouse.

  “You’ll begin training right away. Of course, next season, your sixteenth Soft Season, you will be given Kirba’s position in the formation. Space twelve. I’ve not made much of a study of the formation, but it’s quite a valuable piece of real estate, or so I hear,” she says.

  Space twelve! Space twelve! I’d always assumed that once I reached adulthood, I’d be cast into the outer ring of the formation. Space twelve is very nearly at the center. I am sure I am salivating. “But...what will become of Kirba?” I repeat, softer this time.

  She laughs. “I am offering you the world, and you are inquiring about a scrap of seaweed?”

  I swallow. “No, Your Majesty. I just—”

  “Kirba is not your concern, but she will be placed in the formation according to her new duties, since you must know. Kirba has always been like a mother to me, and I will not neglect her.” She pauses. “One thing, though. Since you will not look me in the eye, I need to ask. Are you trustworthy?”

  I open my mouth to answer in the affirmative, but she stops me. “What I mean is, you will be living in a new world now. In the castle. But of course you will travel out for various tasks, and of course for formation. You must never tell anyone outside what goes on within these walls, do you understand?”

  “Yes, Your Majesty,” I say, breathless. That, of course, goes without saying. My cheeks are already burning from the exhilaration. I can’t help feeling that no matter how many tides I have left in this world, when it all ends I will look back and remember today sweetly, as the day that my life—my real life, as someone with purpose—began.

  Four

  Fading Star

  I’m led down a never-ending, arched hallway, glimmering with mother-of-pearl everywhere. It’s so bright I almost have to shield my eyes. As much as I had heard and dreamed, I had no idea it was this amazing inside. I don’t think anyone on the outside could imagine this.

  Burbur, the head of castle housekeeping, scurries about the floor quietly, fussing busily over who-knows-what. I’ve stood close to her in the formation—she is number four—and she is always dressed very smartly in a plain, but always clean, white tunic. She’s about five Hard Seasons older than me, and her face is always pinched as if she’s smelling something bad. I’d always envied her, but now, things are different. I wonder why the princess didn’t pick Burbur as her lady-in-waiting. After all, she’s more refined than I am, and she has both hands.

  She leads me upstairs, past at least a dozen other rooms. Each one is blocked off by a red curtain, and there is a square tub outside each door. I wonder what the tubs are for. She takes me into a room that she calls my quarters. My own quarters! It’s about the size of the craphouse, but size is the only thing they have in common. There’s a mat in one corner and a large circular stone tub in another. Orange curtains swirl in the breeze, carrying the scent of the sea and the screech of seagulls. I walk over to the tub. There’s a strange white foam billowing in there, and when I inhale, there’s something I’ve never smelled before. Something beautiful.

  “Lavender,” Burbur says with a rare smile. “We have very little left in our stores. But the princess said you’d need it. And I have to agree.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Does it...”

  She laughs sourly. “Burn off your skin? Ridiculous. I am sure there are many rumors that you have heard on the outside that you will find to be untrue.”

  I blush, inhaling again and again until my nostrils burn and I feel giddy. There’s a pile of green cloth so thick and dry near the tub that I have to fight the urge to bury my face in it. I whirl around, trembling, wanting to scream my thanks from the top of the tower, when I suddenly come face-to-face with it.

  With me.

  I take a step closer.

  “It’s called a mirror,” Burbur says, but I already know what it is. I know it from a story I’ve read. Mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the fairest of them all?

  “Oh?” I murmur, feigning ignorance as I step so close that my breath creates a circle of fog at my lips. My cracked, bloody lips.

  “Everything you need is on the dressing table. Your new garment is hanging on the door. I’ll leave you now,” Burbur says, and disappears as if she can’t stand to be with my stench a moment longer.

  For the first time, I am completely alone, in a room of splendor and beauty. And yet all I can look at is the ugliest thing here. My reflection. It’s fascinating and shocking at once, more vivid than anything I could see in the tide pools. My eyes look like two empty pits, black walls with those two round pink eyes at the bottom, like festering sores. My shoulders jut away from my neck at an awkward, upward angle, and there are deep holes in my collarbones. I look like a skeleton. Except for the scars. Strangely, the scars make me look alive.

  I pull my tunic off my shoulders and let it slip to the ground so that I am naked. I can’t remember a time I was naked, since we are never alone. My breasts are shocking to me, high and white, and would probably be something to be proud of if not for the red lashes crisscrossing them. For the first time in a long while I can see, under my breasts, the worst of the scars. There are two deep red slits between my ribs on either side, windows to my rib cage, two hideous smiles that seem to grow wider every time I inhale.

  And the hair. Goodness, the hair. High tide isn’t for a long time yet, but I’d need a hundred tides to fix the wild, miserable mess above my eyebrows. It’s crisp and brackish and black like a dried piece of seaweed, matted with sand. There is a hairbrush on the table, a comb, some barrettes and ribbons like those Star wears... All useless. There are other things in jars, a small hand mirror and a few shells and stones arranged there...for decoration, I guess. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen anything for decoration. King Wallow thinks that’s useless. It wastes time. For commoners, anyway.

  I wrap my hand around a sharp piece of coral. What I need is to start over. To hack it all off. I bring it to the back of my neck, pull a tangled piece taut and am just starting to saw away when I hear, “Oh, no, you don’t!”

  I whirl around. Princess Star is staring at me from the doorway. Her eyes widen when she runs her eyes over my scars, as if she’s seen something terrible, as if I’m so much more hideous undressed than she’d possibly imagined. “Those lines on your body,” she gasps.

  “Scribbler scars,” I mumble. Instinctively I avert my eyes, then drop to the floor, searching desperately for my tunic, cheeks flaring.

  She stands there, confused. “Scars?”

  I nod, grabbing for the fabric. Surely she knows about the accident that nearly took my life. It was shortly after that I was forbidden to play with her. My father never said as much, but I knew the scars made me too hideous to be in the compa
ny of someone so ethereal.

  She rushes forward and tears the coral out of my hand. “I will not have my lady-in-waiting looking like someone’s bottom,” she says. She kicks the tunic away from my grasp and motions to the tub. “Get in.”

  Using my hand to shield my skeletal frame from her, I scramble into the tub. The water is warm, but any sense of pleasure I would have gotten from my first real bath ever is gone because she is here. Without warning, she pulls out a very menacing weapon, two horrific blades that move together in an awful, shrieking sound. “What are you—”

  “Quiet,” she says, bringing the blades close to my head.

  I can’t help it. I scream and duck my head under my arms. When I look up again, she’s standing with the blades in one hand and a knotted ball of my hair in the other. “These are scissors,” she says. “I do not think we will be able to salvage all of your hair, but we should be able to salvage most.”

  “Oh.” She continues snipping away, and soon little tangles of my hair blow about on the breeze wafting in from the large picture window. Then she reaches over, grabs my head and dunks me under. I come up, sputtering. “What—”

  The next thing I know she is pouring some nice-smelling green stuff onto my hair. She starts to rub it in. This is all so surreal. The princess is washing me. I thought she had servants to do that. I thought she had servants who washed her servants. “Very simple,” she mutters, working it in. I feel her picking through my hair with the comb. She groans. “Just stay still. It’ll all come out. Eventually. Goodness. Have you ever combed your hair?”

  “I’ve used my fingers. I do not have a comb.”

  “I do think most of the beach is in here.” She reaches over. More green stuff. It smells sweet, like the lavender, but different. Maybe another flower. My dad told me that there once were hundreds of kinds of flowers. I have a drawing of one of them in my book. She starts to comb again. My scalp screams. I think soon I will be bald, despite her best efforts. “I think you will be pleasing to look at once you get this under control. Even with those—scars.” She says the word as if it’s foreign to her, and I suppose it is.