Girls at the Edge of the World

by Laura Brooke Robson

  “‘What brings you to our island, Atalanta?’ Nadia asked.

  “‘Our wisest prophet warned of a storm to end all storms,’ Atalanta said. ‘The sea will encase the world, and no one will survive.’

  “At first, Nadia didn’t believe Atalanta. But when they went to the library—for Nadia spent many hours in the library—Nadia realized that long ago, wise Turelan scholars too had predicted a storm to end all storms.

  “‘It’s hopeless,’ Atalanta said.

  “Nadia thought for a long time before she spoke. Finally, she walked to a window and pointed outside. ‘But look at your ship. It won’t sink if the ocean rises.’

  “‘Then we will starve,’ Atalanta said.

  “‘Not if all of Turelo is our ship,’ Nadia said.

  “The girls marched to the ocean. They were both strong swimmers, but it still took them all day and all night to enact Nadia’s plan. They held their breath and dove underwater, cutting away Turelo’s roots with the edges of jagged shells.

  “At first, the king and queen were angry at Nadia. They told her she’d been foolish, violating the island they loved so dearly. They told Atalanta’s ship that they had to leave Turelo forever first thing in the morning. But during the night, the storm to end all storms fell upon Turelo.

  “No longer connected to the ocean floor, the island bobbed to the top of the sea, free to float on the ocean’s surface until the waters rose all they could.

  “All these years later, sailors still say they glimpse Turelo on the horizon once in a while. It’s floating somewhere, always slipping out from under the cartographer’s pen. But rumor is, if you manage to land on its shores, you’ll be greeted by the queens of Turelo, and they will ask you what knowledge you’ve brought to add to their library.”

  The girl’s eyes have closed. She’s breathing softly. Ella tilts her head. I’m almost afraid to meet her gaze. It was just a story. But I feel like I cut my chest open in front of her.

  “Thank you,” she whispers.

  “I should—I should go help Adelaida,” I say. “With the fire.”

  “Right,” Ella says.

  I stand up and walk away like I’m coming out of a dream.

  * * *

  ~~~

  Hours pass.

  Every time I think the storm has to end soon, fierce wind rattles the doors and windows. The dark descends in earnest. It’s so heavy, I can’t believe I thought it was dark as midnight before. This darkness swallows us like we’ll never see sun again.

  Adelaida adds more peat to the fire, then vanishes to get some sleep in her own bed. Gretta leaves to find her parents. Katla stokes the hearth. Ness and Sofie fall asleep among the kids.

  I think Ella is asleep too until I see her get to her feet. Kaspar leaps to the ground and scrabbles away. Ella tiptoes among the sleeping bodies. She reaches the door. It opens, the softest creak.

  I look around the room. Only Kaspar watches me.

  I follow Ella. Ease the door shut behind me. She turns. A few stray strands of hair drift back and forth around her temples, caught in drafts like the lantern she holds is exhaling beneath her.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “I—” I don’t know why I followed her. I don’t know what I meant to ask her. Nothing. Everything.

  “Nice story,” Ella says. “The queens, huh? Plural?”

  My voice soft, I say, “Tamm doesn’t exactly explain the nature of their friendship in the footnotes.”

  She doesn’t ask what I mean. Doesn’t ask why I chose that story. I’m trying not to ask myself.

  Instead, I ask her, “What do you think will happen in the Panic of the Livestock?”

  “I don’t know,” Ella says. “You’re the one who read Captain’s Log.”

  I swallow. “Kos is never specific about anything useful.”

  She laughs lightly. “Right.”

  The rain beats overhead. I sift through useless words, searching for something to say before she can walk away.

  “Do you really want to marry Nikolai?” Ella asks.

  I blink. I open my mouth, but before I can speak, Ella says, “It’s just, I was thinking about the storms. And the Flood, and the fleet, and I was just wondering if—” She falters. “Do you love him, or something?”

  If she didn’t look so sincere, I’d laugh. Nikolai is clever and handsome and intriguing. I can imagine kissing him, maybe on the prow of a ship. It would be exciting enough. I once kissed Gregor on the cheek after he sprinted halfway to Southtown to catch a runaway Kaspar, and that’s the extent of my kissing experience.

  But love?

  “I hardly know him.” And then, because I realize I still haven’t answered the question, I add, “Of course not.”

  Ella’s shoulders relax like they’ve been coiled. The lantern light bobs.

  “I just want to survive.” My voice is low; I can’t hide the plea in it. Don’t hate me.

  A foot of space separates us. If she closed it, I would let her.

  “What are you going to do? In Storm One?” I ask.

  She holds my gaze for such a long time, I think she must’ve forgotten the question. But finally: “I don’t know.”

  I hold my breath. She leans toward me.

  “I’m scared,” she whispers.

  She’s so close that I can feel the words against my skin.

  “Of what?” I say. “The storm?”

  “I—”

  The hallway door flies open.

  Ella leaps back so fast, her lantern goes out. I press a hand to my cheek, stinging with a blush, as three guards stampede into the hall. Gregor leads Twain—Gretta’s brother—and Sebastian, another of Nikolai’s favorite guards. Their bodies are too big, voices too loud, for this private little space. Somehow, the whole trio gets wedged between Ella and me. I try and fail to catch her gaze around Gregor’s shoulder.

  “We just wanted to come check on you,” Gregor says.

  “We’re fine.” I realize I’m still pressing my hand to my cheek. I let it fall.

  “Ness in there?” Twain asks.

  “Seas’ sake,” Sebastian says, “we’re on duty.” He’s nearly as tall as Gregor but twice as loud. The scruff on his white-pink chin makes him look older, but I know he’s the same age as me. “You doing okay, Tasha?”

  I shift under the weight of the nickname. I didn’t know Sebastian and I were such good friends. “Yeah. We’re fine.”

  I just want them all to leave. I want Ella to finish saying whatever she was saying. Or doing.

  Instead, she backs toward the flyer bedroom door. It creaks behind her.

  “Are you going?” I say.

  “I, um . . .” Ella glances at the guards. “Yeah.”

  “Need anything?” Gregor asks.

  Ella disappears without answering.

  “Okay, be honest,” Gregor says. “She hates us.”

  “No, she just . . . We were just in the middle of talking about something.”

  “Nah,” Sebastian says. “She hates us. I’ve seen her leave the kitchens mid-meal when a big enough group of guards arrives.”

  I’d argue with him, but I’ve seen Ella do it too.

  “Besides,” Sebastian adds, “she always has that weird, blank stare.”

  Cold pools in my stomach.

  Sebastian grins at Twain. Is this a joke to them? “I can’t tell if she’s wrong in the head . . .”

  “Sebastian,” Gregor says, warning.

  Sebastian puts his hands in the air. “. . . or just a bitch.”

  I punch him in the mouth.

  He lurches back. His hands fly to his face. “Shit, Natasha!”

  My knuckles sting. The inside of my head pounds. Gregor grabs me by the shoulders and propels me away from Sebastian and Twain.

  I l
ook back over my shoulder. “Don’t talk about my girls.”

  Sebastian groans. Twain squints at his mouth.

  Gregor guides me out the door, back into the dim studio. Katla looks up from the fire, frowning.

  Gregor bends his forehead to mine. “What was that about?” he whispers.

  “Nothing.” I stare at the back of my hand. Blood wells from the tips of my knuckles where they hit Sebastian’s teeth.

  “Nothing?” Gregor says.

  “You know I’m protective of the flyers.”

  “Protective?” he says.

  “Are you just going to repeat everything I say?”

  Gregor gives me a long look. “You know,” he says, “punching guards to defend the honor of a flyer isn’t really what a queen would do.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “And?”

  “Is Ella—”

  I set my jaw.

  “You know what?” he says. “Never mind.” He nods at my hand. “Put some ice on that.”

  But as soon as Gregor leaves, I forget his ice suggestion. I go to the flyer bedroom. But when I open the door, I find Ella lying in bed, pretending to be asleep. Pretending?

  “Ella,” I whisper.

  She doesn’t respond.

  What was she going to tell me?

  Outside, Storm Four howls.

  36

  ELLA

  I don’t sleep the night of Storm Four.

  I spend hours with my face pressed to my pillow, clutching Maret’s barometer, furious with myself. What was I thinking? Talking to Natasha that way? Leaning so close to her, as if I wanted to—

  I’m glad the guards showed up when they did.

  My stomach winds itself into a knot so tight, I think I might vomit. In the morning, the nausea hits me even harder. I can barely stand.

  I wobble into the studio. The rain outside has eased to a heavy drizzle. Most of the young girls are still asleep, but all the Royal Flyers, plus Adelaida, cluster near the fireplace. Sofie clutches a squirming Kaspar to her chest.

  Using the wall to keep me upright, I make my way toward them.

  Katla lies on the floor, pressing a hand to her forehead. When she sees me, she says, “Oh, thank the seas. At least someone else looks as bad as I feel.”

  Natasha is on her feet in an instant. She sets a hand on my shoulder. I want to shake her off—last night’s near mistake is still too fresh—but I can’t find the energy to do it.

  Adelaida squints at me. “How do you feel?”

  “Like a shark got halfway through digesting me, then spat me back out,” I say.

  “Mmm,” Adelaida says. “Did you—oh, not again.”

  Kaspar, who has managed to squirm free of Sofie, leaps to the floor. He throws himself against the far door—the one leading to the vestibule that opens onto the street. When it doesn’t collapse beneath his ferocious attack, he paws at the wood dejectedly.

  “He’s been doing that all morning,” Sofie says.

  When the parents arrive to scoop up their junior flyers, Adelaida has to lock Kaspar in the storage closet so he doesn’t make a break for it. I’m sitting with Katla by the empty hearth when a damp breeze skates into the studio. My skin prickles.

  “Maybe we should go outside,” Katla says. “Get some fresh air.”

  “I was just thinking that.”

  As soon as I take my first step onto the wet cobblestones, some of the tension in my stomach loosens. For the first time in hours, when I breathe, I can fill my lungs all the way.

  Katla and I cross the width of the stone street. On the far side, a metal railing keeps us from falling into the ocean. I press myself against the rail and shut my eyes, listening to the sound of waves. All that’s left of the rain now is a gentle mist. It must be just north of freezing, but I hardly feel the cold.

  “Look at that,” Katla says.

  I open my eyes. She’s pointing to a place two wave crests out, where a sleek, dark form bobs against the current. Its ears rise in pointed tufts. It’s swimming.

  “Is that a seal?” I ask.

  “At the risk of sounding like I hit my head,” Katla says, “I think it’s a lynx.”

  “A lynx. In the ocean.”

  “I know,” Katla says, “but you see it too, don’t you?”

  I do. I stare at the swimming creature until it bobs out of sight. “Kos called Storm Four the Panic of the Livestock, right? Not the Panic of the Cats?”

  Katla is quiet for a long moment. We’re both thinking. The nausea has faded nearly to nothing by the time Natasha joins us outside. She’s bundled in a cloak, hat, and mittens, and when she sees us, she shivers.

  “First of all, brr.”

  “It’s not that bad,” Katla says.

  “Also,” I say, “I’m half snowman on my father’s side, so this is whatever.”

  Natasha snorts. “Gretta just came back from talking to her father about the storm. Guards have been all over the city surveying the damage. Lots of bridges down and canals flooding, like usual. And a ton of livestock is missing. All those goat farms near the boglands? Empty. The goats either jumped into the river, ran into the forest, or threw themselves against the walls of their enclosures so hard, they died.”

  “Ella,” Katla says slowly, like she’s still thinking something through. “You said you grew up on a farm, right?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  She frowns at the ocean. “I just . . . Look, it’s clearly not just livestock. Kaspar started acting weird during the storm too. And we both started feeling sick.”

  “Oh, right,” I say. “I forgot to mention that I’m half snowman on my father’s side, but half goat on my mother’s side.”

  “I just wonder,” Katla says, “if maybe there’s something about growing up around animals and, I don’t know, nature, or whatever, that makes Storm Four worse on some people than others.”

  “Well, I feel left out,” Natasha says.

  “Yeah, because you grew up in the middle of the city.”

  “I don’t know about this,” Natasha says.

  I think of Fredrik, the lizard Katla’s brother showed me. He keeps trying to get away. Ever since Storm Five. If Storm Five was misnamed—Exodus of the Birds instead of Exodus of the Birds, Lizards, etcetera—then couldn’t Storm Four have been misnamed too? Panic of the Mammals? Panic of the Domesticated Animals and People Who Grew Up Outside?

  “Even if you’re right,” I say, “what are we supposed to do about it?”

  “I just feel this thing in my stomach,” Katla says. “Like I’m supposed to be doing something.”

  “I know,” I say.

  “Can you be more specific?” Natasha says.

  “No,” Katla says.

  “Me neither,” I say.

  The feeling—it’s like when you know you’ve forgotten something. I know that it’s there, but it keeps dancing just out of reach. The harder I fight to grab it, the less convinced I am that it was ever there in the first place.

  “There’s a thing my family says.” Katla’s eyes are fixed on the water. “Sing as the sea.”

  “Sing as the sea,” I repeat.

  “Right,” Katla says. “Get it?”

  And actually, I think I do. Something about listening to the water. Something about being more like the ocean, or maybe being more with the ocean. It’s like the feeling in my stomach. The more I try to put words to it, the farther away it goes.

  When I go back inside, my stomach starts to knot again.

  In the studio, a few older, unfamiliar guards repeat some of what Natasha already told us: Bridges are down, streets are blocked, canals are flooding. The guards say we’d best stay put in the palace. We promise them mightily that we’ll do just that. As soon as they walk out the door, everyone readies to leave.

  Katl
a and Ness plan to visit their families; Sofie plans to visit Pippa. Gretta asks me where I’m going, but I evade the question by saying “Out and about!” and fleeing through the door.

  I wrap my arms around my torso and head to Maret’s apartment. Being on the streets between tall buildings, out of sight of the ocean, is nearly as bad as being inside the studio. The walk takes me twice as long as usual. I have to wind this way and that around all the impassable streets.

  Buildings have collapsed and vomited their contents into the canals. People huddle on the streets. The city is quiet with panic.

  Six months ago, I would never have imagined I would be panicking with them. But that feeling in my stomach—like there’s something I need to remember, something I need to do.

  Kill Nikolai.

  That’s what I have to do. All I have to do. Soon, I can kill Nikolai. I can give Maret the throne. After Cassia died, this was exactly where I wanted to be: in the palace, ingratiated, poised to avenge her murder.

  But six months ago, I would never have imagined what it would mean to be a flyer. To have friends. To know Sofie, and Katla, and—and Natasha.

  I know it’s not nothing, the way my pulse gallops when Natasha walks into a room. I know it because I’ve felt it before. I felt it when I first met Cassia.

  I didn’t think I could ever love someone again. I didn’t think I wanted to.

  Last night, in a fit of almost-sleep, I caught myself imagining Natasha’s hands in my hair. Of her lips forming my name. Of my stomach to her stomach, our bodies pressed, my chin tilting up—

  But Natasha isn’t part of our plan. And Cassia would never forgive me. She wasn’t the forgiving type.

  I keep reliving the moment in the hallway with Natasha. The way the lantern glowed on her skin. The way she leaned toward me like she had more to say than she would let herself. Most of all, the way she made me realize something I didn’t know was true:

  I don’t want to die.

  37

  NATASHA

  When the door slams behind Ella, the other girls are busy buttoning their coats to leave, off to visit family and friends. I am fixed, staring at that door. “What does she mean, out and about?” I say.