Girls at the Edge of the World

by Laura Brooke Robson

  “If you’ll excuse me, Mariner Gospodin,” she says. “I see an old friend.”

  Gospodin turns. When he sees me, his smile goes flat.

  I’m relieved not to have Ness and Sylvia peeking over my shoulder—they’ve embraced and started a lively conversation, pulling Sofie in too—but Ella isn’t so forgiving. She hangs just behind me, her arms crossed. Her mouth is sealed tight. All the better to watch me play Gospodin’s games.

  She said she wanted to meet him, but all she does is stare.

  “Mariner Gospodin,” I say, hoping to affect the same elegant, polite voice as Sylvia.

  “Miss Koskinen,” he says. He sounds bored with me already.

  “I wanted to let you know that I read Captain’s Log start to finish. I found it illuminating.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “And now you seek reward?”

  “I . . . The reading was reward itself,” I say.

  I hear Ella exhale loudly, almost a laugh, behind me. I clench my fists.

  “Is this your first service here?” Gospodin says. His eyes keep flicking into the crowd, like he’s eager to find someone better to talk to.

  “Of course not,” I say. “The flyers all attend every Saturday.”

  His eyes sweep the room. “Your friend. The brunette. I can’t remember ever seeing her.”

  I tense. “She—I’m—”

  His eyes roll toward me. His smile is patronizing. Setting a hand on my shoulder, he says, “I’m glad you found Kos illuminating, but a devout follower might have read Captain’s Log ten times by your age.” My cheeks are beginning to burn as he says, “It’s good of you to try. But you aren’t trying hard enough.” Then he strides back into the crowd, greeted by waves and adoring smiles, leaving me to stand by the dais, my face hot.

  “That was painful to watch,” Ella says.

  “Thanks.”

  “Like, really, physically painful.”

  I dig my nails into my palms. “Anything more useful to add?”

  “Not really,” Ella says. “I’m just trying to figure out why you care whether or not he likes you.”

  I almost laugh.

  “What?” Ella says. “He has Nikolai’s ear, but he’s not a royal. Right?”

  I shake my head. “You don’t understand at all.”

  “Obviously,” she says. “That’s why I came here today.”

  I feel sharp and bitter. “Well, I hope it was useful to you, then. That would make one of us.”

  Not trying hard enough, Gospodin says.

  Fine. Then I will try harder.

  34

  ELLA

  The service at Our Lady of Tidal Sorrows leaves me unsettled. Kos, apparently, was fond of his death-by-ocean imagery. I have to figure that the only reason people like it is because they’re convinced they won’t be among those who drown. Always the survivors, never the cleansed.

  When we get back, Katla gives me her best derisive look. I don’t know what she’s angrier at: that I spent the morning with Natasha or that I went to a Sacred Breath service. I just shrug and say, “I was curious.”

  She hmmphs.

  As far as I know, she hasn’t seen the siren on my wrist. I wonder if it would change what she thinks of my attendance.

  Later that day, I pick my way through the snow to Maret’s apartment. After the hugs and the offers of tea, I tell her that I spent my morning in the pews of Our Lady.

  She laughs, high and bright. “Why?”

  “I wanted to learn more about Gospodin,” I say.

  She frowns.

  “Obviously, Cassia was worried about how much control Gospodin had over Nikolai,” I say. That’s why she was exiled. “It seems like he’s more involved with the crown now than ever.”

  “Yes. Involved with the crown,” she says. “But he doesn’t wear it. Without Nikolai, Gospodin will have no choice but to work with me. The Sacred Breath means nothing without the crown behind it.”

  “If you’re sure . . .”

  “Ella.” Maret takes my hands in hers. In comparison, mine are small and inelegant. “I know you come from a . . . humble background, so try not to take this the wrong way.”

  A useful warning. Now I surely won’t take it the wrong way.

  “Those people,” Maret says, “listening to Gospodin. Make no mistake—I value them tremendously. They’re an important piece of the machine that is this city. But most of them will drown in Storm One. It doesn’t matter if they adore Gospodin, because soon, they won’t be around to say so.”

  “What about when you take the throne?” I say.

  The corner of her lip twists so quickly, I think it might be automatic. “What about it?”

  “What will you do with Gospodin?”

  Maret shrugs. “He’ll be a thorn, of course, but I’m not particularly worried. The Sacred Breath is a tool, wielded by the crown, to keep the rest of the country on their best behavior. If the nobles cave to him now, it’s only because Nikolai is too weak or too stupid to take seriously.” She pats my hands. “Don’t worry. Gospodin won’t get in our way.”

  That service, though—all those people leaning toward him like plants to the sun. Maret is underestimating him.

  “Now,” she says, “on to things that matter. Have you seen any more of Nikolai?”

  “No. I think he’s hiding in his personal chambers.”

  This isn’t exactly true. I haven’t seen him, but I also haven’t been looking very hard. I hate him, I want him dead—that hasn’t changed. But I’m also more nervous than I used to be.

  “And what of his search for a queen?”

  I shake my head. “No news.”

  “Not surprising. He needs to draw out the farce right up until Storm One if he wants to use the hope of queen-dom to keep people distracted. Have you considered using this to get close to him?”

  “What?”

  “You know.” Maret waves a hand. “Dance with him at the next ball. Flirt with him when you pass each other in the halls. You might learn something.”

  “I’m not going to dance with Nikolai,” I say.

  Maret blinks, surprised. This might be the first time I’ve ever refused one of her suggestions. But she must know that I can’t betray Cassia that way. To let Nikolai put his hands on me—I can’t even think about it.

  Also.

  I don’t want to be ostracized like Natasha. I like being around the other flyers. I like their laughter, their fierce loyalty, their quiet dedication. I know it’s not permanent. I know I’m going to die soon enough.

  But until then . . .

  “Fine,” Maret says.

  She doesn’t fool me. She’s starting to doubt if her dear little assassin is up to the task.

  She’s not the only one.

  * * *

  ~~~

  The snow doesn’t melt. Instead, it changes into a grainy slush, heavy with soot. I miss Katla’s boglands, with their strange plants and algae-ripened waters.

  I think I’ll get a chance to stand among the mist-draped trees again when the next weekend arrives, but Adelaida instead announces that we’ll be holding a workshop for a group of seven- and eight-year-old junior flyers.

  “What’s the point?” Katla says, incredulous. “It’s not like they’ll become Royal Flyers someday.”

  “Perhaps they enjoy flying just for the art of it.” Gretta sniffs. “Unlike some people.”

  “Eat your silk,” Katla says.

  I’m not sure who to agree with. Was survival, security, always what drew girls to learn to fly? Katla has been a flyer since long before Storm Ten; even without the promise of the royal fleet, the palace meant food, clothing, friendship, warmth. But when being a Royal Flyer isn’t enough to keep you safe, what else is a girl to do? New Sundstad isn’t rife with opportunities for enterprising
young women. Our odds aren’t great, but they’re better than most.

  I shake myself. Our odds. I’m not part of this our. My odds have nothing to do with this. I have no odds.

  “As far as New Sundstad knows, you’re all still on the royal fleet,” Adelaida says. “Keep it that way.”

  “Why should we?” Katla says.

  Adelaida lets out a heavy breath. “Will it kill you to let a few little girls have some hope?”

  To this, Katla says nothing. None of us do.

  In the end, guards lead fifteen junior flyers into the studio. It’s a snow-flurried Saturday morning, the second to last of crane season. Adelaida tells us the girls are from two different studios—two of the only studios still open. Sofie whispers that other studios have shuttered for a dozen reasons—storm damage, lack of funds, directors who died under collapsed roofs. Of the two studios that send us their junior flyers, one caters to elite clientele, the other does not. It’s not hard to guess who’s who. Only half the uniforms have holes.

  I pick out our own personalities in the girls: The one with her hair in a terrifyingly tight bun, her face constantly screwed up in concentration, is a perfect Gretta. The girl who laughs so hard, she falls off her silks reminds me of Sofie. And the girl who is better than all the others by a mile is, of course, Natasha.

  I gravitate to a silent, dogged girl on a corner silk. She attempts the same hip key over and over again, never asking for help, never so much as opening her mouth to speak.

  “Hi,” I say.

  She blinks back at me.

  “I’m Ella,” I say.

  After a moment, she says, “Kirsi.”

  “Want to practice your hip key with a knot? I can tie one if you’d like to sit on that for support.”

  She looks at me very seriously. “I don’t want a knot.”

  I lean toward her and lower my voice. “I don’t like using knots either. I always liked the challenge.” I take a step back and hold up my hand. “Try to kick my palm when you do it. I think you just need to lift your legs a little higher.”

  She does it again, and she kicks my palm, and when she cinches the fabric between her legs, she grins.

  “That was better,” I say.

  She drops to the ground. “I’m going to do it again.”

  And so she does. It’s not unlike how I first learned my hip keys—not very elegantly, but with great determination. Maybe Kirsi is the girl most like me.

  Natasha is so light on her feet that I don’t realize she’s behind me until she says, “You’re good at this.”

  I start. I turn to look at her, and I’m overwhelmed by how near she is, by how fully her face fills my view: her flushed cheeks, her freckle-dappled nose, a strand of hair that’s come loose from her ponytail and curls with sweat. When I first got here, she never would've stood so close to me.

  I swallow, but I don’t move away.

  “Good at what?” I say.

  She nods at Kirsi. “The kids. Teaching.”

  “Oh.” I try to find something clever and self-deprecating to say. It’s what I would normally do. Her eyes are such a complicated shade of hazel. “Thank you.”

  One of the loudest girls calls for her then, insisting she come see the arabesque she’s done, and Natasha trots away from me, exclaiming what a lovely arabesque it is. When she’s gone, the air isn’t so thin; I breathe like I’ve just descended some great height.

  Natasha isn’t harsh and critical with the young girls like she often is with us. She teases out what each girl is best at and gives special attention to everyone in turn.

  When Kirsi asks me a question, she has to repeat it. My eyes sting.

  It’s like being around Katla’s siblings all over again. I wish my brothers were here. They’d love the silks.

  We’re counting our final minutes of the workshop when someone knocks on the studio door. I’m the nearest, so I answer it.

  It opens onto the vestibule between the studio and the blue door to the street. The blue door is open. Behind it, rain falls in ropes.

  Gregor’s hair clings to his skull. Water drips down the end of his nose.

  “The rain,” he says.

  I step forward.

  The palace sits at the edge of New Sundstad. All that separates this door from the ocean is a stretch of stone street, ten feet wide.

  Ten feet has never felt so insignificant.

  The ocean is livid.

  Rain pummels and pockmarks the snow. Whole drifts wash over the edge of the street and fall to the ocean below. The waves twist and froth. I can’t hear them. The rain is too loud.

  The rain, Gregor said, like to call it by another name would make something worse than just rain come to pass. But Gregor knows the truth, and so do I.

  This isn’t just a drizzle over New Sundstad. I can feel it in my stomach. An ache.

  I turn. I jump.

  Natasha, on her silent feet, at my side.

  I say what Gregor wouldn’t. “Storm Four.”

  35

  NATASHA

  Adelaida, Katla, Gretta, and I stand in a huddle at the corner of the room. The other flyers keep the young girls entertained.

  “They can’t walk home in this,” I say.

  “Obviously not,” Adelaida says.

  “So, what?” Gretta says. “We keep them here?”

  “Of course we keep them here,” Katla says. “Sofie can go ask René to make them some food. She’s his favorite.”

  When I rejoin the girls, Ness is leading a few of them in a song. Sofie is asking a few more riddles. “What’s the difference between a killer whale and a rye biscuit?” Ella is sitting with the smallest of the girls, the serious one she helped on the silks. Though the girl’s eyes never leave the rain-splattered window, Ella manages to coax a smile from her.

  The rain falls steady and long.

  I lose track of the time. The clouds are so dense that it could be noon as easily as midnight. I think it’s probably dinnertime.

  Serving women bring blankets and pillows into the studio for the kids, and Adelaida lights a fire in the hearth. Sofie convinces René to bring us a pot of stew and a few loaves of bread.

  In the face of the storm, Katla’s fury ebbs. She catches me by the arm at one point and says, soft enough that no one else can hear, “I’m worried about the little blond one. Sofie can’t get her to stop crying.”

  I nod. But by the time I sweep through the room and find the teary junior flyer in question, Ella already crouches beside the girl. And held tightly in Ella’s arms—Kaspar. Kaspar, who always hides in the darkest reaches of Adelaida’s bed when so much as a loud wind rustles outside. Ella has melted him completely, and the love-struck cat, in turn, has roused the girl from her tears. She holds out her hand for Kaspar to sniff. Kaspar stares at the hand in the utmost confusion.

  Ella looks up. Her eyes meet mine, like she knew I was there, like she knew I’d be looking. I feel a shiver on the backs of my arms when she smiles, and I don’t know what to do with it.

  I think of Ella as cynical and sharp, but today, she’s not. That version of Ella is eclipsed by a new incarnation, one who holds a befuddled cat so frightened, little girls can pet him.

  She’s from Terrazza. She has a way with children and cats alike. Her wrist is inked with a siren.

  Is that really all I know? I want so much more than that.

  I sit down next to them. “How are you?” I ask the girl.

  She shrugs, keeping her gaze on Kaspar so she doesn’t have to look at me.

  “I was just telling her,” Ella says, “that you know lots of fables. Do you want to tell us one?”

  I blink at her. Have I discussed Tamm with Ella before? Mentioned my mother and her stories? How does she know so much about me when I know nothing about her?

  “I’d have t
o go get my book,” I say. I don’t want to leave. It’s warm, and Ella’s expression is gentle. My fingers are tracking spirals across the floor, just like they did when my mother read me stories. “Or I could tell it from memory. But I might get a few details wrong.”

  “Let’s hear it,” Ella says. Her eyes are amber with firelight.

  The little girl is still for a minute. Then she nods.

  I take a breath. What’s the story my mother would tell me right now?

  “Behind seven mountains and beyond seven seas,” I say, “there was an island called Turelo. It rose from a turquoise sea, and the people who lived there built houses high in the treetops. Turelo was full of brilliant thinkers, and it was rumored that if you wanted to play the best instruments, paint with the finest oils, or learn from the wisest scholars, you had to sail to Turelo.”

  The girl is curling against the wall, pulling a blanket to her chin. Ella is watching me. I shift closer under the skin-prickling weight of her gaze.

  “When ships arrived from faraway lands, Nadia, the princess, watched them from her treetop palace. Like all Turelans, Nadia wanted to learn. Nadia wanted to sail away with the strangers and learn everything the world could tell her—more even than she could learn from all the books in Turelo’s many libraries. On a warm summer day when one such ship arrived, Nadia decided she would go meet the sailors. Her parents told her she mustn’t.

  “‘These strangers are not like the others,’ the king told her. ‘I don’t trust them. They told us of a dangerous prophecy, and I do not believe it to be true.’

  “But Nadia, like all Turelans, was curious. So she snuck out of the trees and down to the shore, where she found the strangers making camp on the beach. She tried to eavesdrop, but she was caught by one of the strangers—a girl who looked not so different from herself. The girl introduced herself as Atalanta. Nadia tried to heed her father’s warning and be suspicious of Atalanta, but she could not bring herself to do it.