“Will do. What’s this line? This is so Nikolai can shake hands, fall in love, and find his queen?”
“Apparently,” Adelaida says. “And it’s their last chance to meet him before he makes his choice.”
Nikolai’s birthday is one week away. One week until he picks the queen.
I eye the line. How long will it take to get through? An hour? Two? “Will you wait with me?”
Adelaida snorts. “You’re not waiting in that line.”
“What?”
“You see the girls in that line?” she says. “Do you see the Sylvia Kanervas of the city standing there?”
I look again. The line is a wash of outdated dresses, buzzing with the Southtown accent I worked so hard to rid myself of once I got to the palace and realized I sounded different from the other flyers.
“I don’t see a lot of Heather Hill gowns, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“A king doesn’t find his queen in a receiving line,” Adelaida says. “Go. Explore the festival. Eat a honey-rye biscuit.”
Guilt washes over me. “If the line is pointless, shouldn’t someone tell all those girls not to bother?”
“I didn’t say it was pointless,” Adelaida says. “Hope is one of the most useful things humans ever invented. But pointless for you? Yes. Nikolai already knows you.”
So I leave her. And the line. But I feel unsettled the whole time.
I skirt the edge of the festival, searching for the Royal Flyers. I follow the smell of baked apples, pushing through the lines that snake from each booth. I have to dodge the barrage of limbs and woven shopping baskets.
A hand brushes my shoulder. I turn quickly.
Sylvia Kanerva stares back at me.
She wears a fine lilac coat and pale pink lipstick. An older man—one of the councilors, I think—stands behind her. “Can I interest you in a walk, Miss Koskinen?”
I don’t have a good feeling about this. “Sure. That’s, um, a lovely coat.”
“Thank you,” she says. “It was a gift from Mariner Gospodin.”
“Ah,” I say.
“Ah,” she agrees.
The councilor clears his throat. “Miss Kanerva, should I assume we’ll continue our conversation later?”
“Oh,” Sylvia says, looking up at him through her eyelashes. “Would you mind? I would so love to take this chance to talk to my good friend Natasha.” She smooths the edges of her voice until it’s tame and soft for him. She gives him a palatable smile.
I’m struck by a memory of another girl pulling a similar trick. Nikolai’s sister, Cassia, had the royal advisors wound around her finger like old string; I saw it more than once. I can’t say that it surprised me when she was exiled for trying to seize Nikolai’s throne. Like Sylvia, she had that airy laugh frosted over a blade-sharp canniness. Perhaps it’s something about being a daughter of wealth and power. You might never rule, but you can learn to wield the men who do.
“I . . . Of course,” the councilor says. “A pleasure, as always.” He gives me a quick nod, then turns to go.
When he’s gone, there’s no one to protect me from Sylvia’s icy smile. She turns it on me in full force.
“Miss Koskinen,” she says. “I’ve been looking forward to speaking with you ever since the ball.”
“Oh?”
“Without any councilors or kings getting in the way,” she amends. “I think it will be easier to talk if we’re not busy pretending our aching hearts are smitten.” Her lips are set in a cool, disinterested smile. I get the sense she’s already played out this conversation in her head and I’ve arrived underprepared.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I say.
“Please stop,” she says. “This conversation will be leagues more efficient if you don’t act like you’re really in love with Nikolai. And I know you’re not. It’s something we have in common.”
I’m slow to meet her gaze.
“Do you think it’s ever crossed his mind?” Sylvia says. “That none of us—me, you, the line of Southtown girls over there—really love him?”
I think about what he said in the hot pools about trusting me. “I think he knows well enough.”
“Hmm.” It’s a prim sound, prettier than a hmm has any right to be. “I disagree. I think Nikolai believes we both adore him. I’ve spent a lot of time around men like him. It’s a terribly princely thing, I’ve seen, to assume women ought to fall in love with you.” She smooths a pull in her elegant coat. “So, let me guess. You think I’m a selfish person because I want to be his queen, even though my father is wealthy and powerful already. Am I right?”
I blink. “Well. Maybe. You’ve always known you’d be on the royal fleet, with your father as the Keeper of the Purse. I’m the one whose life hangs on Nikolai’s decision. You’ll survive either way.”
She raises her chin. “I may wear finer gowns than you, but we’re the same, you and me. My life depends on Nikolai’s proposal just as surely as yours does. You’re right that I’ll be on that fleet, but if I don’t marry him, whom do you expect I’ll marry instead? Most of the advisors and nobles who’ve weaseled their ways onto the fleet are older than my father. What do you think I was discussing with that old councilor? Tariff arrangements?” She sniffs. “And there’s no scenario in which I don’t marry and have to bear children. You know that, now that you’re a scholar of Captain’s Log. To marry Nikolai is the best thing I can do for my family and the best thing I can do for myself. We can play this little game, pretending that we have some power over Nikolai, but we both know the truth. This world doesn’t bestow power upon women. He may want us, but we need him. There’s no power in scrounging for scraps at a man’s feet.”
“It’s a shame you weren’t born five centuries ago,” I say. “You would’ve made a remarkable Inna.”
“And you as well. You make a terribly convincing bog princess.” She straightens her gloves. “If I’m simpering the next time you see me, rest assured it’s a charade. Stay away from my king, Miss Koskinen.”
Her heels click across the path, steady over ice and snow. She never once slips.
When Adelaida first pointed Sylvia out to me, back at the ball, I thought how little I wanted to go to war with a girl I’d never met. Maybe I shouldn’t have worried. There’s no war. I don’t stand a chance.
50
ELLA
Once we finish performing, I wait for the other flyers to get distracted by the baked apples and fireworks. Then I slip away. From the edge of the festival, I see Natasha find Adelaida. Together, they watch the receiving line. All those girls, looking for a crown. Looking for safety. Looking for things they’ll never find with Nikolai.
I stare at the back of Natasha’s head for a moment. Her wild Inna hair. Her glimmering full-suit.
I have to go tell Maret that I don’t have a plan. No idea how to kill Nikolai without getting myself killed in the process. Cassia would’ve figured it out by now. She always was the clever one. And I’ve let her down. I have to tell Maret what I came up with: nothing.
The streets are busy, even as I leave the festival behind. So many people are coming, going. I keep my head ducked, but I catch a few whispers, lingering glances. In my full-suit and festival makeup, I’m conspicuous. I don’t like it. I pull my cloak up higher and hurry to Eel Shore. In the distance, I can hear festival fireworks going off.
When I’m a few streets away, my stomach starts to twist. I’m feeling nervous. Cagey. I try to tell myself it’s just because I’m worried about letting Maret down, but I know there’s something else.
I turn the corner to Maret’s street.
A swarm of guards.
I lurch back. Duck behind the alley wall, press myself to the brick. Holding my breath, I peek back around the corner.
Probably six men. They’re wearing dark blue palace guard uniforms. Guns at
their hips.
That’s when I realize. The feeling in my stomach. That something was off. It was the sound echoing through the air. Not fireworks—gunshots.
“Looks like she’s been here for months,” one of the guards is saying. I recognize that guard—with his light brown skin and long limbs, he looks just like Gretta. It’s her father. The Captain of the Guard.
“How did you know it was her?” a younger guard says.
“Spotted her coming back from the university. You don’t forget a face like that.”
The other guard grunts his agreement.
Where’s Maret? Did they arrest her? Shoot her? Are they coming for me next? I think of everything I left behind in her apartment. One of Cassia’s old dresses? That can’t incriminate me. The silks? Edvin?
A moment later, two of the guards step through the front door. And slung between them—Maret. Her blond curls are matted with blood.
I duck back around the corner. Press my palm to my mouth.
“For seas’ sake,” Captain Waska says. “Zakarias, go inside and get a bedsheet. You can’t take her through the city that way.”
Maret’s dead. She’s dead.
I push myself to my feet and walk back down the alley as fast as I dare. They found Maret. They killed Maret.
I’m breathing too hard. Too much air, not enough of it reaching my lungs. I don’t know which way I’m walking. Now, when people spot me, point at the costumed Royal Flyer, I’m too foggy to duck my head.
I have to get out of here.
Where am I supposed to go? If they know about Maret, they could know about me too. They could be waiting for me. On the other hand, if they don’t know yet, they’ll surely figure it out if I disappear today. And where would I disappear to? Katla’s family? I can’t put them in that kind of danger. They hardly know me. I could try to get on a ship out of Kostrov, but I don’t have the money.
And I can’t walk away now. Maret’s dead. Now I’m not just getting revenge for Cassia’s sake. It’s for Maret’s sake too.
I have to go back to the palace.
Captain Waska said he spotted Maret outside. He didn’t say that Edvin betrayed us. Or that Andrei figured us out. He didn’t mention anything about a rogue flyer.
No one suspects me. They can’t.
* * *
~~~
The moment I step back inside the flyer studio, I know I’ve made a mistake. Instead of our usual one guard, three of them have their heads bent to Adelaida’s by the knotted silks.
I start to backpedal.
Adelaida claps a hand on my shoulder. “Ella,” she says. “Glad I found you.”
My heart is ready to burst out of my chest. Adelaida’s nails pinch through my cloak. The guards turn to me, eyes raking me up and down.
“I’ll take her back,” Adelaida says.
Adelaida steers me through the studio. She says nothing. Her grip tightens.
I’m too afraid to speak. If I do, I’m sure she’ll hear the guilt and fear in my voice.
“You’re to stay in your room with the other flyers, understand?”
In the studio mirror, I see the hard set of her crimson mouth. Her back is fiercely straight. I look tiny and cowed in comparison.
“Anyone knocks on the door,” she says, “don’t open it. Anyone but me shows up with food, or letters, or asking to see any of you, tell them to find me.”
When I still don’t answer, she shakes me. “Do you understand?”
I force my mouth open. “Yes.”
She exhales. “Walk.”
Sofie and Gretta are the only girls in the bedroom when Adelaida shoves me inside. Sofie lies in her bed. Gretta paces. The door shuts behind me.
“Let me see my family!” Gretta calls after her.
Through the door, Adelaida’s only answer is the click of her shoes.
There’s just one window in the flyer bedroom. It’s narrow and it only opens about two inches, and if I try to climb through it, Gretta will surely tackle me for acting shifty.
I glance at the door again. It doesn’t lock from the outside, so Adelaida can’t trap us in here unless she shoves something in front of it. So I’ll give Adelaida a few moments to leave, then I’ll run. Maybe I can make it back through the outside door if I catch the guards by surprise.
“Did she tell you what was going on?” Gretta says.
It takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me. I turn slowly to face her suspicious eyes. “No. She just told me not to let anyone but her into the room.”
Gretta nods.
“Mrrph,” Sofie says into her pillow.
“Sofie?” I say. “You okay?”
She curls into the cocoon of her blankets and makes another unintelligible noise.
The door opens again. Adelaida and Natasha stand on the other side. Adelaida pushes Natasha through the door with her standard disregard for gentleness.
“Hey!” Natasha says.
“How about now?” Gretta says. “Can I see my family now?”
Adelaida points a finger at her. “Stay.”
The door slams shut again.
“Anyone want to explain what’s going on?” Natasha says.
“Adelaida is being ridiculous,” Gretta says. “Obviously.”
“I have no idea,” I say, glancing again at the door.
“Ungh,” Sofie says.
Natasha crosses the room to sit on the edge of Sofie’s bed. She pulls the quilt away from Sofie’s face. “Dear, what are you doing?”
Sofie blinks with sleepy eyes. “Having conniptions.”
“And why are you having conniptions?”
Sofie pulls the blanket back over her head. Through it, her voice is muffled. “I’m sick.”
“Well, maybe when Adelaida stops being a terror, I can get you some tea.”
A new unease finds footing inside me. None of the girls suspect me of anything—at least, not more than they normally do—and for the first time, it occurs to me that this could be about something other than Maret. And if it’s something else, should I risk running into a danger about which I know nothing?
Ten minutes later, Adelaida opens the door again.
“Where are Ness and Katla?”
“Ness is with my brother,” Gretta says, making an exaggerated retching noise.
“Where?” Adelaida says.
Gretta shrugs. “That’s not the kind of information I want to know.”
“And Katla?”
No one says anything.
“Sofie?” Adelaida says. “Where’s Katla?”
“Sofie is asleep,” Natasha says.
Adelaida growls. Her cloak flaps up around her as she goes.
No one but Sofie sleeps. Gretta keeps pacing. Natasha flips through one of Ness’s poetry books. I watch the window.
Outside, the sky turns from purple to black. A new dusting of snow cleans the street. The lamps spill circles of gold against the white like a row of freshly cracked eggs. Adelaida doesn’t return to shove Katla or Ness through the door.
Sofie lurches upright. She claps a hand to her mouth.
Natasha drops the poetry book on Ness’s bed. She’s at Sofie’s side in a second. Sofie hardly seems to notice. She kicks the tangle of blankets off her feet and stumbles to the door.
All three of us run after her. She falls to her knees in the washroom and leans over one of the basins.
I wince. A moment later, I hear the splatter of vomit on porcelain.
Natasha crouches at Sofie’s side. “Are those the conniptions coming out?”
Sofie starts to laugh, but she’s interrupted by another surge of vomit.
Gretta backs away. “I hope you feel okay, Sofie, but this is gross and I’m leaving.”
Sofie waves us away. “Go, go. Y
ou too, Tasha. I don’t want . . . Oh, seas.” She leans over the basin again.
“Is it a storm thing?” I say.
Natasha glances at the ceiling like rain might suddenly pour through it. “I think the next one is frogs.”
I put a hand on my stomach. I don’t feel any worse than I have since Storm Four. And whatever caught Katla and me then didn’t seem to faze Sofie.
Natasha sets a hand on Sofie’s back, but Sofie shakes her head. “Really. I’m just a little nauseated. None of you should have to watch this.”
From the hallway, Gretta says, “You’re not pregnant too, are you?”
“Yes,” Sofie says. “I’ve borrowed Gregor from Pippa and we’re going to raise our children together.”
“You still have your humor,” I say. “You can’t be that sick.”
“I’ll take my humor to my deathbed,” Sofie says.
Back in the flyer bedroom, Gretta’s antsy energy is rubbing off on Natasha. Now both of them are pacing. I resume my post at the window, pressing my shoulder to the icy glass and staring outside.
“You know,” Gretta says, “I half expected a man with a gun to be running around outside our door if we went as far as the washroom.”
“You really have no idea why Adelaida was so adamant we stay here?” Natasha says.
“None,” Gretta says.
Natasha looks at me expectantly. I swallow and shake my head.
“This is ludicrous,” Gretta says. “I’m going to go ask my parents about this.” She strides to the door, but before she can open it, it flies open.
Katla bursts in. Wisps of hair cling to her face. She drops an empty rucksack on the ground and scans the room. “Where are Sofie and Ness?”
“Ness is with Twain,” Natasha says. “Sofie’s in the washroom.”
Katla collapses on the end of her bed and lets out a big breath. “Good.”
The uneasiness inside me tightens its hold. “Where were you?” I ask.
“After the festival, I went to visit my family,” she says. “I only just found out, coming back through the city.”
Girls at the Edge of the World Page 25
