Just hours before the ball begins, three palace seamstresses rush into the studio with folds of fabric heaped in their arms. Normally, we would’ve been practicing in our performance full-suits for days, but since Gospodin only unveiled his plan for this ode-to-the-ocean performance a few weeks ago, we’ve cut it as close as we could have.
“Finally,” Adelaida says. “Try them on, quickly, so we have time to make adjustments.”
I pull mine on in the shelter of my bedroom. It’s tight and cool against my skin. The fabric is a dazzling and dark ultramarine, with an airy skirt that breezes over the backs of my legs and hangs open in the front. My legs are enclosed in fabric but my arms are free. The neck has a high collar and a risqué cutout from the base of my throat to my breastbone.
I stare at my reflection for a long moment. It’s the most daring full-suit—the most daring thing—I’ve ever worn. I inspect it for a moment longer, following the curve of the fabric up my hips, my shoulders, down to the seamless lines of my arms—
My reflection’s eyes go wide, realizing.
Sleeveless full-suits.
I run to the studio.
All the flyers have left the studio to try on their full-suits. Only Adelaida and the seamstresses remain.
“Oh, Miss Koskinen,” one of the girls says, her pink cheeks rounding. “You—”
“Do you have spare fabric?” I say. I hold up the trail of my skirt. “More of this?”
She ducks her head to her bag of scraps. “This?”
I gather all the gauzy fabric in my arms, start for the door, and loop back for a pair of scissors.
“In something of a frenzy, are we?” Adelaida says.
“Thanks,” I say to the seamstresses, and hurry out again.
I push open the door to the flyer bedroom. Gretta, half-naked, jumps and presses her full-suit to her chest. “Seas, Natasha.”
Ness bounces over to greet me. “Oh, Tasha, so pretty. Your hair with that blue.”
It doesn’t take long to count; four girls here. Ella is missing.
Katla and Sofie, as wings, are pulling on full-suits of vivid blue. Gretta and Ness wear a dusty, pastel shade. All lined up together, we’re a gradient, swatches of the ocean as the sun arcs overhead.
Katla tugs her braid free of the full-suit’s collar. “What are you carrying?”
I begin cutting long strips of the gauzy fabric. “Wrist scarves. Like all the fashionable Roenese ladies wear.”
“Won’t that make it harder to perform?” Gretta says.
“No. Give me your hand.”
Gretta looks at the other girls, like someone might jump in to save her from my sudden, aggressive interest in fashion. When no one does, she extends her hand toward me. I wrap a length of fabric around each forearm and tie tidy knots.
“Wow,” Katla says, “you got much better at that after bandaging your wrist twelve million times.”
“Thanks,” I say. “You’re next.”
When they’re all satisfactorily scarfed, I gather my fabric and knock on the door of the washroom.
“Um,” Ella says. “Just a second.”
“It’s me,” I say. “Natasha.” No response. “Can I come in?”
My heart is starting to hurry from one beat to the next. What if I’ve overstepped some sort of boundary? What if this is just like when I pushed up Ella’s sleeve and exposed her siren? Invasive, aggressive—
The door opens.
Ella’s full-suit is palest blue. The strap across her neck trembles as she takes a breath. Her hair is in a loose bun on top of her head. Across her stomach, her arms are crossed.
Adelaida said she wanted Nikolai to spend half the night staring at me. Why would anyone waste their time with that, once they’ve seen Ella?
I swallow. I hold up the fabric. “I . . . We’ve decided to wear scarves. On our wrists.”
Ella tips her head just barely to the side.
“You don’t have to,” I say. The words are clumsy in my mouth. “I just thought, if you didn’t want everyone to . . . you know, know. All the other girls are already wearing them.”
Ella watches me for a long moment. Then she extends her wrist.
“Thank you,” she says.
My fingers twitch against the smooth skin of her forearm. I bite my tongue against my lip to focus as I wrap, twist, tie. I can feel her pulse against mine.
“Your turn?”
She takes a length of fabric and encircles my wrist. Her eyelashes make long shadows across her cheeks. Her fingers are warm and careful. When she’s done, her thumb lingers against the base of my palm. She doesn’t look at me, just at her hand, my hand, our hands. I’m not breathing.
She steps back. My hand drops, burning.
“How do I look?” she says. “Sufficiently like a raindrop?”
My cheeks are hot. “You look like a character from Tamm’s Fables.”
Her lips curl at the corner. Seas. I did that. I made her smile. “Should we finish rehearsing?” she says.
I nod.
She leads the way back into the studio. My throat is dry. The seamstresses exclaim over our dashing new scarves and Adelaida meets my gaze with an expression that says I see what you just did.
We’re still practicing a few final elements when voices begin clattering through the window.
“That’ll be guests arriving,” Adelaida says, striding back into the studio. “Natasha, walk with me. The rest of you, go on ahead.”
Adelaida’s changed into her party dress—a shade of blue darker still than mine with a provocative neckline. On top, she wears a capelet with feathers, dyed cobalt and gold to match the rest of her ensemble.
“The seamstresses are really leaning into the feather look for you,” I say. “We’ll know they’ve taken the flyer thing too literally when they give you a beak.”
“Natasha,” she says, warning.
“You look lovely.”
She huffs out a breath. “Thank you.”
I glance over her shoulder as the last of the girls—Ella, her curls pinned back carefully—disappears out the door. A pang.
I look back to Adelaida. “Everything okay?”
She gestures with her head to the door. We walk slowly, out of earshot of the other flyers as they laugh, joke. “I overheard a few of the councilors talking when I went to check that our silks were set up right. It sounds like they’ve already decided they want Sylvia Kanerva as the next queen.”
I frown. “Kanerva? Like the Keeper of the Purse?”
“His daughter,” Adelaida says. “Keep an eye out.”
I’ve spent most of my life as part of a troupe with other girls, all competing to be the best, but supporting each other for the collective good. Adelaida’s warning sits uneasily with me. I don’t want to go to war with a girl I’ve never met.
“I’m not sure about that,” I say.
Adelaida stops. Gives me a hard look. “Nikolai’s birthday is in two months,” she says. “Get sure.”
28
ELLA
When I step into the Iron Hall, shame washes over me. It’s a riot of opulence—of waste—and a reminder of why Nikolai shouldn’t be on the throne. We’re a matter of months from the Flood, and the palace is wasting food on party appetizers?
I’ve let myself get distracted. By flying. By Natasha.
I amend the thought. By all the flyers. Not just Natasha. I need to focus.
I’ve never seen so many people packed into one room. A chandelier glitters from the ceiling. A quartet of musicians plays in the corner, and their music washes through the hall.
The most elegant women sweep through the room in little bubbles; their skirts are so vast that no one can get closer than arm’s length of them. There are plenty of more shabbily dressed women too, though, in clean but exhausted froc
ks.
The men wear suits. I can’t tell which are elegant and which are shabby, because all suits look the same to me.
Eyes begin to investigate my body. I glance around for the other flyers. Gretta has vanished among a circle of older guards, all of whom share her sharp nose and light brown skin. Katla is just ahead. I glance over my shoulder, hoping for Sofie or Natasha, but I’ve lost both of them. I consider hanging back by the door until they show up, but the memory of that night, practicing—of gazing down at Natasha’s upturned face, of letting myself cry—rears up. I hurry into the ballroom after the other flyers.
When I reach Katla’s side, she glances at me. “You look absolutely terrified.”
“Oh, I am,” I say.
Katla’s lips twist. “I’d be disappointed if you weren’t.”
“You’ve been to a lot of these parties?”
“The palace hosts a few every year,” Katla says. “Though usually more . . .” I watch her eyes scan the room as she waits for the right word to come. She purses her lips at a huddle of young women in simple dresses of identical mauve fabric, like they all stitched the gowns from the same bolt for the occasion.
“Aristocratic?” I say.
Katla snorts.
Though I’m a month into my time among the Royal Flyers, I still don’t feel like I know Katla well. I don’t blame her for keeping her distance this close to the Flood. The more people you care about, the more people you have to lose. This is the longest conversation we’ve ever had.
“I take it you aren’t of an aristocratic bloodline?” I say.
“Not unless you consider peat harvesting an aristocratic profession,” she says. “Most people don’t.” She turns her skeptical eyes on me. They’re outlined in black and drawn to feline points at the outside corners. “You’re not, are you?”
“Farmers,” I say.
“Thank the seas. I don’t think I could’ve stood it with another . . .” She tilts her head pointedly at Ness, who’s waving enthusiastically to a girl on the other side of the room.
The girl beams, excuses herself from a conversation with a man twice her age, and glides toward us. Of all the massive skirts in attendance, hers might be the biggest.
“Ness comes from money, then?” I ask.
She nods. A waiter drifts past with a tray of wine flutes. Katla grabs two and hands one to me. “You might need this.”
Ness throws her arms around the girl. “Oh, I’ve missed you! And this dress!”
When they detach, Ness gestures at us. “This is Katla and Ella. And this is Sylvia. She’s my dearest friend from Heather Hill.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Sylvia says. Her smile is slight, like she’s saving bigger smiles for more important introductions.
Sylvia and Ness have the same posture—a steady sort of confidence that says they both know they’re meant to be here. Sylvia’s long hair—dark black—is coiled around her head. One silky strand hangs loose by her temple. Her skin is beige, poreless. I wonder if Cassia ever told the servants to pour wine on her.
Ness grasps Sylvia’s hand in hers. “Love, I have so much to tell you. I want you to meet Twain. Oh, and your father! Is he here?” To us, Ness adds, “Sylvia’s father is the Keeper of the Purse. He’s an absolute dear. A true follower of the Sacred Breath.”
“As opposed to a fake follower of the Sacred Breath,” Katla says.
Sylvia’s eyes dart toward Katla, the space between her brows wrinkling for just a moment. But Ness keeps talking and Sylvia quickly smooths out her expression.
“How are you?” Ness says. “Tell me about your dress. Oh! And tell me what I’ve missed in Heather Hill. I heard Meri had the loveliest birthday party. Did her father really import a tiger?”
I can’t resist. “What a gaffe,” I say. “It sounds as if Meri copied my birthday party completely.”
Katla chokes on her wine.
Sylvia turns back to Ness. “I should tell you, Meri and some of the other girls won’t be here tonight.”
Ness’s lower lip falls. “But I was so excited for everyone to see the performance.”
“I’m sorry,” Sylvia says. “They thought tonight’s festivities were beneath them.” Sylvia’s eyes drift to the girls in mauve dresses. Two of them have seized a tray of appetizers from one of the waiters. The third is staring at the floor with a face redder than the sugared cranberries.
“Well,” Ness says, holding her chin aloft, “Nikolai has invited girls of all stripes to be here tonight, and if Meri and the others think they’re too good for that, then that’s their loss.”
“Of course,” Sylvia says, looking at the girls in mauve again. “There’s no reason to judge a girl by the fabric of her dress, as I always say.”
“Exactly,” I say. “That’s why all my dresses are made of stitched potato skins. Might as well get the snobs out of the way early, right?”
Sylvia looks affronted.
Ness glances between us. “Sylvia, you wanted to meet Twain, remember? I just spotted him.” Ness puts her hands on her friend’s shoulders and begins to steer her away.
“Many breaths,” Katla says to Sylvia’s back. She crosses her arms and turns to me. “Well, this ball is exactly what I expected so far.”
I’m about to agree with her when I see something—someone—out of the corner of my eye.
A group of guards stands near the wall. I know some of their faces from meals in the kitchen. Gretta’s brother, Twain. Gregor, the guard who looks so much like Natasha. But there’s another face among them that I know, and not from my month in the palace. His hair, slicked back, buttermilk blond. His eyes, pale. His skin, paler. His gaze tracks Ness and Sylvia across the room; his tongue slicks a slow sweep across his lower lip.
I know him.
He was there when Cassia died.
Distantly, through water, I hear Katla saying, “Ella?”
I can’t say anything. I can’t even open my mouth.
He was there. I know him. I know him.
Then another voice. Natasha, from nowhere. “Hey. What’s going on?”
“Ella,” Katla says. “You okay?”
Finally, I force out: “Who is that?”
“Which one?” Natasha asks, following my gaze.
“Blond,” I say. “Looking at all the women who walk by like he’d like to cook and eat them.”
I watch Natasha and Katla share a glance in my peripheral vision. “That’s Andrei,” Natasha says.
“We hate him,” Katla says. “Remember what an ass he was to Josephine?”
“I thought he was in Mau La,” Natasha says. “I hoped he’d just stay there.”
“Mau La?” I finally break my gaze away from Andrei so I can frown at Natasha. “Why? When?”
She shifts her weight, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t know. I think he was guarding an envoy or something. They’re always sending out diplomats to make last-minute trade deals and alliances for the New World.”
“How long was he gone?” I ask.
Natasha glances at Katla. “Six months?”
“Not long enough,” Katla says.
“Why?” Natasha says. “Do you know him?”
“No.” I sound bitter as root. “Of course not.”
When I close my eyes, I remember darkness. A canopy of trees to block the spitting rain. The crackle of a campfire and an ember that landed on my leg, hissing.
I remember four men. The clink of their bottles. The fullness of their laughter. The way their conversation whirlpooled around: Nikolai’ll put us on the royal fleet for this, and I can’t wait to get out of this shit country, and What about the girl?
I remember a face. Skeletal cheekbones and long forehead. Colorless eyes. Andrei crouched in front of me. “I always knew Cassia was a siren bitch. But what about you? Maybe you just haven’t m
et the right man yet.”
When I spat, it hit the bridge of his nose. He blinked and leaned back as the other men laughed.
“Fucking siren,” he said.
One of them stumbled into the nearby town for ink and needles and more liquor. They gave me my siren, taking turns when someone got too bleary to hold the needles. They drank themselves unconscious.
When I spat in Andrei’s face, I hoped he would kill me for it. By the time he was lying facedown in the dirt, cradling a bottle of whiskey, I was glad he hadn’t.
Because I would kill him instead.
My hands were bound, so I used the tree trunk to help myself stand up. I stepped over their bodies. I walked into the town and found Maret, told her what had happened while she was away. She cried with me, then she screamed with me, then she planned with me. I’d always thought that Maret loved only one thing: the crown. When Cassia died, I realized Maret had loved two things.
Maret and I talked about going back to that thicket. Killing those men. But we would get to them later. We would let them live, for the time being, because they were under a worse monster’s employ. I would tear Nikolai out at the roots. Then all his friends could wither and die with him.
When Adelaida gathers us for our performance, I’m too busy drowning in memories to realize what’s going on. To remember that I have to climb those silks with every eye in the palace on me.
If I recognize Andrei, he could recognize me. Did he drink so much that the night vanished from his memory?
I press my wrists to my stomach, crumpling the elegant fabric tied there. If Natasha hadn’t thought to give us our scarves, I’m certain Andrei would have known who I was when he saw his handiwork.
We go to our places at the edge of the long pool. When the music starts, we’ll swing out above the water and climb to the tops of the silks.
There’s no hiding from Andrei. From anyone.
I tighten my grip around my silk.
Sofie puts a light hand on my shoulder. “Are you okay? You look like you’re going to vomit.”
Cold sweat trickles down the ridge of my spine. “Just nerves.”
“You’ll do great,” Sofie says. “Copy Ness and Gretta if you forget anything.”
Girls at the Edge of the World Page 14
