Girls at the Edge of the World

by Laura Brooke Robson

“Polar bear fossils, actually,” the man says.

  “Did you ever find one?”

  He nods. “And more birds than you can count.”

  I remember what Katla’s parents said about the scholars, hunting for fossils that might disprove parts of Captain’s Log. Fossils to show that animals can survive Floods, that humans aren’t all that special. “So?” I say. “Have you successfully disproved Kos yet?”

  “Not if we can’t date the fossils,” he says. “But we found a dovekie I’m almost positive is at least a few thousand years old. And then our best, nearly complete, was a gull, biggest wingspan I’ve ever seen on a—”

  “Dovekie?” I say.

  The scholar blinks. “Yes. Well, half of one, at least. Do you know something about dovekies?”

  “I just . . . heard a story once.”

  In the distance, I think I can hear waves lapping against the palace. If I close my eyes, I can imagine Natasha reading to Sofie and Ness. Behind seven mountains and beyond seven seas . . .

  “So how did they survive the Flood?” I say. “The birds.”

  “Well, there are lots of theories,” the scholar says. He starts ticking off options on his fingers. “Underwater caves, mangrove forests, pumice rafts . . .”

  “What’s a pumice raft?” I say.

  Obligingly, the scholar says, “Pumice is a rock full of air pockets. It’s light enough to float. Some scholars—present company sometimes included, depending on the day—think that pumice ejected from volcanic eruptions could have formed massive rafts big and sturdy enough for animals to walk on. Certainly big and sturdy enough for seeds to drift across the globe.”

  Tamm wrote about a princess who threw herself in a volcano so seeds and dovekies could live. He wrote about islands unmoored from the seafloor. He wrote about a girl who killed an invading king with what she found in the boglands.

  If Inna’s story is based in something true, why couldn’t Princess Talia’s be? And Turelo’s? Maybe they’re true the same way Kos’s writings are true: a mix of fable and fact that we’ve lost the line between.

  Tamm’s Fables is a book of fantastical ways people survive the Floods. But what if they’re not all fantastical? What if Tamm’s Fables can teach us how to survive the Flood?

  I get to my feet. Press myself against the bars.

  The only person in the world I want to tell is Natasha.

  Those fables, I’d say. Those fables you love so much. They mean even more than you know.

  I imagine a string, running from me to her, wherever she is. Connecting us. I imagine tugging on it. Can she feel that I’m here? She must.

  The bars are cold under my fingers.

  She’ll find me.

  She has to.

  63

  NATASHA

  Something fundamental inside of me breaks. It feels like my heart has been severed from all my arteries, and now it’s just free-floating in my chest, useless.

  Someone slipped a note under the door an hour ago. I haven’t picked it up yet.

  I’m curled in Ella’s bed, which smells like her still. When I first lay down, I found a barometer under Ella’s pillow. Around the outside: Dry, Fair, Showers, Stormy. The hand is stuck on Stormy, but the sky outside is clear and pale.

  Katla finds me staring at all the empty beds. Everyone’s things are just where they left them. A moment, frozen in time, that I can’t go back to. Ella is dead and Sofie is dead and Ness is dead. Why am I so desperate to survive when being the survivor feels like this?

  “Adelaida told me,” Katla whispers, sitting beside me and setting the note on the quilt. “I’m sorry.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “Look.” Katla gathers my hands in hers. Pulls me upright. “They would want you to survive. All of them. I’m sad too. And angry. Seas, I am so angry. But we can’t just stop trying.”

  She hands me the note from under the door.

  Official summons. From Nikolai.

  “Tomorrow’s his birthday,” Katla says. “Did you remember?”

  I touch a hand to my chest. His ring still hangs there, cold against my unmoored heart.

  “Go,” Katla says. “This is why Ella saved you, isn’t it? So you could survive.”

  So I could survive.

  Slowly, I get to my feet. And I go to meet the king.

  * * *

  ~~~

  Nikolai is waiting in the throne room. He sits on a raised chair under a swoop of velvet. His hair rises in rogue waves around his crown, his tired eyes underscored with purple. His chin rests in his palm. I stand in front of him with my hands clasped.

  His eyes sweep over me. Then he says, “Captain Waska told me what happened. What you told Adelaida.” He studies me, and I swallow. “She was really working with my aunt?”

  Come on, Natasha. Play the game. You know how.

  “Yes.” My voice creaks. “Yes,” I say again. “And Princess Cassia.”

  He narrows his eyes. Just barely, but it’s there. “Is she here? In the city?”

  A pause. “Cassia’s dead.”

  “How do you know?” Nikolai says. “Because Ella told you? What makes you think we should trust her?”

  “Because Ella loved Cassia. That’s why she was here.”

  “Revenge,” Nikolai says. His brows knit. “Ella thought I was responsible?”

  “She was with Cassia in Terrazza.” I swallow. Glance at the guards lining the walls. Captain Waska. Gregor, Twain, Sebastian. Not Andrei, thank the seas. “You saw, that moment in the conservatory. Andrei recognized her. Ella told me that Andrei was the one who shot Cassia.”

  Nikolai lifts a hand, and Captain Waska steps forward. “Send word to Terrazza. See what you can find out about my sister.” Then he shuts his eyes. Leans back in his chair.

  I saw enough of Nikolai and Cassia together to know they weren’t close. He exiled her, after all, whether that was his idea or Gospodin’s. But close or not, he grips the arms of his chair like the world beneath him is shaking.

  “What about Ella?” I ask. I know I shouldn’t; I have to.

  “You don’t have to worry about Ella.” His eyes open again. “She’s not going to hurt you or trick you again.”

  I swallow. The lump in my throat doesn’t budge. “There’s something else.”

  Nikolai tilts his head.

  What if Ella was telling the truth? What if Nikolai is every bit the villain she told me he was?

  I have to believe he’s not.

  “Bog plague,” I say. “That’s what made Ella act when she did. She thought you were involved in creating it.”

  “Creating it?” Nikolai says. His attention seems to sharpen. “How do you create a plague?”

  I tell him about the food drive and the mushroom and Otto von Kleb. I tell him about handing poisoned tarts to dozens of passersby.

  His face goes very still. “Excuse me?” His voice is hoarse, a whisper.

  “Ella figured it out,” I say. “That’s how she poisoned your water.”

  He stands. “Did you know about this?” He’s staring at his guards. “Any of you?”

  They’re all quiet.

  “Well?”

  I take a breath.

  Nikolai trusts Gospodin. Maybe more than he trusts anyone.

  But I know that Ella was right. Maybe not about Cassia but about this.

  “Have you talked to Gospodin?” I ask.

  Nikolai looks at me. For a long time. Then he shuts his eyes again. Exhales. I’m so used to seeing his face masked. But it’s stripped bare.

  I’ve never seen someone look so exhausted.

  “You think it’s possible,” I say, “don’t you?”

  His head hangs, the crown sliding. “It doesn’t matter whether or not I think it’s possible.”

 
“But—”

  “Peace in Kostrov is hanging by a thread. We found four Brightwallers murdered on the path to the boglands two days ago. Yesterday, it was two Sacred Breath brothers dead. And do you have any idea how many people have tried to loot our Flood stockpiles this month? How many people have tried to break onto the royal fleet ships? People are terrified. Gospodin giving them hope could be the only thing keeping us from chaos, from turning into Illaset. Do you know what happened to Princess Colette after Storm Four?”

  I open my mouth, but it’s too dry to speak.

  “They put her head on a spike,” he says.

  “But what if it happens again?” I ask. My voice is so small. So weak. “What if more people die?”

  He crosses the room. Meets me at the middle. Taps my chin gently so I’m looking up at him. “There’s nothing you can do, Natasha.”

  So Sofie and Ness and Ella died for nothing? So Katla and Gretta could die next? “What if I got the mushroom?” I’m desperate. “That would be proof, wouldn’t it? Maybe one of the doctors could look at it. Inspect it for . . . for . . . I don’t know, toxicity. Or we could compare it to those tarts. There have to be some of them left over somewhere. We can find the people Gospodin worked with. He can’t have made all of those by himself.”

  But Nikolai is shaking his head. “No. Don’t do anything to threaten him. I’ll talk to him.”

  I don’t believe him.

  “Listen to me.” He’s looking at me intently. Pleading. “Without Gospodin, I don’t have any power.”

  I erupt. “With Gospodin, you don’t have any power! Can’t you see that?”

  He takes both of my hands. His are too big, spindly, swallowing mine. “I know you’re upset. I know your friends died because of this plague. But you need to calm down.”

  I’m shaking.

  “Natasha,” he’s saying, but I’m not hearing him.

  I need to do something. To make all this worthwhile.

  When I kissed Ella, I told her I didn’t just want to survive anymore. I wasn’t lying. I need to do something bigger. I need—I don’t know. A reason to survive.

  Nikolai is staring at me expectantly.

  I blink. “What?”

  “I said it’s obvious you care about the people of Kostrov.”

  It’s a lie. I don’t deserve it. I care about my girls and about myself. That’s all I’ve ever fought for, isn’t it? It wasn’t until I didn’t have a place on the royal fleet that I bothered to realize just how difficult it was for most people to survive.

  “That’s kind,” I say.

  “Tomorrow’s my birthday,” he says.

  My throat is hot, itchy like I just inhaled smoke. “I know. I remember.”

  He nods at my necklace. His ring. “You’re still wearing it. May I?”

  Ella’s gone. Ella is gone.

  I nod. He smooths my hair out of the way and unclasps it. Lets the chain pool in his palm as the ring slides off.

  “Kostrovians would be lucky,” he murmurs, “to call you their queen.”

  This is what I wanted. This is what I’ve always wanted.

  I’m numb.

  I let Nikolai take my hand in his. Carefully, he slides the ring, the ring that has sat against my skin for months, over my finger.

  “Natasha?” he says.

  My eyes burn. “Yes,” I say, the word sticking in my throat. “I’ll marry you.”

  64

  ELLA

  I have no idea how long I’ve been trapped below the palace—hours? A day?—when I hear the door to the stairs open. I press closer to the bars, wrapping my hands around the rusty metal. Squinting.

  His crown glints in the lantern light.

  Nikolai.

  “Ella, is it?” Nikolai says.

  At first glance, he doesn’t look much like Cassia. If she was gold—honey curls and tawny eyes—then he’s silver. Even his skin has a cold undertone that makes him look like he’s not accustomed to the sun. But the longer I look at him, the more similarities I see. High cheekbones. Long noses. Straight teeth.

  “Cassia’s brooch looks ridiculous on you,” I say.

  He glances down at his chest. Then back at me. Softly, he says, “You really did know her, didn’t you?”

  “I loved her.”

  “Well,” he says, running a hand down one of the bars of my cell, “things never turn out very well for people who love my sister.”

  I look at him. At his familiar diamond face and the haughty lift of his chin. “You disgust me,” I whisper.

  “Sometimes,” he says, “I disgust even myself.”

  “You don’t deserve to wear that crown.”

  “And Maret did?” he says. “Cassia did?”

  “At least Cassia was brave enough to stand up to Gospodin,” I say.

  He laughs, humorless. “Brave. You think that would’ve made any difference? If I hadn’t backed out and told Gospodin what we were planning, she would’ve. It didn’t matter which one of us had the crown. Without Gospodin, there would’ve been a revolution. Cassia knew the score. We could fight, the two of us. But neither of us would ever beat Gospodin. So Cassia and I spent all our time trying to kill each other. And I won. She lost. I’m king. She’s dead. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “You’re proud of yourself, aren’t you?”

  “Proud of myself?” His voice is low, even, empty. “Proud of myself for living at Gospodin’s beck and call? For letting him talk me into sending men after Cassia?”

  “Stop blaming Gospodin. You know that you’re the one—”

  “Fine,” he says. “You’re right. It’s my fault Cassia is dead. I wanted a crown more than I wanted a sister. I was and remain a noxious, power-starved asshole, and you have the audacity to ask if I’m proud of myself?” His eyes skim me up and down. “I doubt you want to hear me wax poetic about the sleepless nights I’ve had. Or the trying to drown myself in gin. You don’t want to hear me tell you how guilty I feel, or that I’m sorry, because that doesn’t make any difference. That doesn’t bring her back. I can count the number of times in my life I’ve been proud of myself. I was proud of myself when I beat Cassia at a board game. I was proud of myself when I made her laugh or said something smart enough to get her to change her mind. I thought what made me proud was besting Cassia, but I was wrong. The only time I ever felt proud of myself was when Cassia was proud of me. And now she’s dead, and it’s my fault. Am I proud of myself?” Nikolai stares at me. His cheeks are wet. “I know Cassia was trying to kill me. I know she would’ve succeeded if I hadn’t gotten to her first. But if I could go back, I’d let her do it.”

  I touch my own cheek. It’s wet too. “We’d all be better off. She wouldn’t have poisoned half of Kostrov.”

  “I didn’t poison anyone.”

  I stare at him. Try to find a tell in his angry, tearstained face. “Really?”

  “I told you it was my fault that Cassia died,” he says. “But this wasn’t me.”

  “Do you think Gospodin—”

  “You shouldn’t have told Natasha any of this. She’s going to get herself hurt.”

  “She’s okay, though?” I say. “Natasha’s fine?”

  He looks at me, searching for something. “She will be. As long as she doesn’t ask too many questions about Gospodin.”

  “You think he’s guilty,” I say. “I can tell.”

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. Gospodin is the person who keeps me on the throne.”

  “You really are a power-starved asshole, aren’t you?”

  “You don’t understand,” he says. “I have no family. No one. Nothing except this crown. And yes. I am desperate to keep it.”

  “Why do you want power so badly if you don’t do anything with it?” I say.

  He’s silent for a long moment. Loo
ks at my bars, my cell, not me. Finally: “I guess you let the little evils pass by so you can be the one who’s still around to save the day when something really terrible happens.”

  It’s so sudden, the honesty, that I blink. It takes me a moment to find my voice.

  “If this isn’t something really terrible,” I say, “what is?”

  He doesn’t say anything. Just shakes his head. Then he turns. Heads for the stairs to leave and starts climbing.

  “Make sure she’s safe,” I say, gripping the bars. “Please. Natasha. Make sure she’s safe.”

  Nikolai looks back at me. “I will.”

  65

  NATASHA

  On the morning of Nikolai’s birthday, Adelaida tells Katla, Gretta, and me that we’ll have to perform.

  “But there are only three of us,” Gretta says. “And no one’s been practicing.”

  “We’ll do Evelina. We can manage with three.”

  Evelina was one of the first flights I learned as a junior. It’s not in our regular festival rotation, but Adelaida makes us practice it every few months just in case something—like an engagement celebration, I guess—comes along.

  My mother loved Evelina. It’s about a boy who asks a girl to marry him, which is fitting. The boy says he’ll give the girl, Evelina, everything. He promises her they’ll be rich beyond belief; he promises her they’ll grow old and gray together; he promises her they’ll dance under clear skies every day. The boy is a liar. He can’t give Evelina any of these things. But, as it turns out, Evelina didn’t love him for the wealth or the health or the stormless days. She knew he was lying all along. So she marries him anyway.

  Adelaida makes us practice all morning, then shoos us away after lunch, which I can’t eat any of. “Rest up!” she says, giving my cheek a pinch. “Try to look a little queenlier tonight.”

  We’re going to perform on the Sky Stage, at the top of the palace’s southernmost tower. We haven’t had the chance to perform up there since before Storm Ten. Normally, I love any excuse to fly so far from the ground. Today, I just feel sick.

  The flyers know about Nikolai’s proposal, but the rest of Kostrov doesn’t. We’re meant to perform for the whole city, gathered around the palace, to see. Then Nikolai will appear in one of the tall windows just below the Sky Stage with his bride-to-be. Me.