“Food and water?” I say.
If I’m not mistaken, Gregor is fighting a smile. “Mostly antique furniture, actually.”
“Isn’t space kind of an important constraint on these ships?” I ask. “They’d really waste it on antique furniture?”
“Well, they wouldn’t anymore,” Pippa points out.
The harbor is chaos. People are dragging buckets from the sea to the burning building. Gregor, Pippa, and I shove through the crowd. I finally see where we’re headed—a tiny boat, its sails furled, bobbing against a dock.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Positive,” Pippa says. She’s practically shoving me on board. “I really would love to have a drawn-out goodbye, but—”
“—about a hundred guards are about to show up to try to catch anyone involved in that,” Gregor finishes, pointing at the blaze.
“Okay.” I glance one more time in the direction of the palace, but I can’t see it from here. Not even the tallest tower. Not even the white silks above it.
“Any idea where you’re going?” Pippa says.
Seas. Where am I going?
I speak before I’ve even finished having the thought: “Turelo.”
Gregor gives Pippa a sideways look. “You know that’s not a real place, right?”
“Yes?” I say.
“Well, glad that’s cleared up.”
In the distance, shouts. I see a flash of uniforms—guards turning into the harbor.
“Okay, definitely time to go,” Pippa says.
I nod. “Thank you.”
Pippa grabs my boat with both hands and shoves.
And then I’m leaving Kostrov behind.
69
NATASHA
It’s breezy on the Sky Stage. Up here, in velvet chairs—Nikolai, Gospodin, the council. Far below, all of Kostrov. Somewhere in the palace, Ella. Trying to escape.
We take our positions, and the musicians start to play.
I hold the edges of the silks in each hand. Flap them like wings.
Evelina, love . . .
I wrap my foot in my silk and spin skyward.
It feels so good. The tightness of the fabric holding me in place. All the aches and burns of so many years of practice have turned to this—familiar, secure.
I look at Nikolai. He’s frowning slightly, like he’s as far from this place as I am.
Then I twist myself higher, higher. Hook myself in place and spin. The world flashes around me. Katla, Gretta, open sky, fluttering silk—
Three silhouettes hurrying along the cobblestones, moving fast from the palace.
And I know.
I don’t want to be queen.
Run, Ella. They’re distracted. Run.
At the top of my silks, I flip upside down. Hook my knees through the fabric and wrap my torso, my arms. Part my legs like a star.
It always makes the crowd gasp when we drop.
As one, Katla, Gretta, and I are caught in the twisty fabric knots we’ve wound, springing on our taut silks.
Just a little bit longer. Just a few more minutes, and Ella will be safe, free, gone—
The next time I climb to the top of my silks, I see smoke rising from the harbor.
No. Ella. No.
Captain Waska is rising from his seat beside Nikolai. The crowd is murmuring below.
Katla, Gretta, and I glance at one another. We stay frozen in position for one, two, three beats.
Captain Waska is calling instructions to the guards. Gospodin is gesturing for Nikolai to go inside the tower. He’s waving at the crowd, trying to calm them. Adelaida is gesturing wildly at the violinists, trying to get them to start playing again.
And I know what I want to do.
I climb down my silk. Katla and Gretta follow my lead. Adelaida yells at us to get back on the silks, but I ignore her.
I grab Katla’s hands. “I have to find her.”
Katla’s lips twist. “I know.”
“What are you talking about?” Gretta says.
I’m already walking backward. “I love you both.”
“Love you too,” Katla says.
“What’s going on?” Gretta says.
I hurdle down the stairs and slam into Nikolai at the door to the tower room.
“Natasha,” he says. “I was just—”
I take his hand and pull him inside. If he’s surprised at my sudden ferocity, he doesn’t let on. I grab my cloak, then the book and the velvet bag.
It’s not that I never had feelings for Nikolai. I did. At some point. If I were his queen, we would’ve kissed. Slept together. Had children. And—and I think I could’ve. Think I could’ve grown to love him.
But Ella.
If there was any conceivable way I could choose not to want Ella—this chaotic, vengeful, dangerous person—I would’ve chosen it a long time ago.
There was no choosing.
I hand Nikolai the green book. The velvet bag. And then I slide his ring off my finger and press it into his palm.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I can’t.”
He’s shaking his head. Lifts the bag and looks inside. His face pales. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Be the king Kostrov needs,” I say.
He exhales. Looks at me, then back at his hands, the bag, his chance to be more.
“I have to go,” I say. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”
And then I run.
70
ELLA
I may have oversold my ability to captain a boat.
Pippa and Gregor are still watching me from the dock, looking nervous, as I fumble with the lines. The harbor is slowly but surely filling up with guards, and the longer I struggle ten feet offshore, the more likely someone is to notice me and raise the alarm.
And then I see her.
Natasha hurtles through the harbor, crashing into Gregor and Pippa, saying something the wind tugs out of earshot. She’s wearing a full-suit, swan white, her hair braided into a crown.
Pippa points. And Natasha turns to look at me.
Our eyes meet across the water.
I turn the boat around.
Gregor presses his palms to his face and sighs.
The dying light plays off Natasha’s hair, the little copper filament strands that curl out from her braid.
She steps onto the dock. “Pippa tells me you’re sailing to an imaginary island from Tamm’s Fables?”
“When you say it that way, it sounds silly.”
In a small voice, an entirely un-Natasha voice, she says, “Without me?”
I look at her, at her pointed nose and hunched shoulders and her eyes, her hopeful but nervous hazel eyes. And I hold out my hand.
She takes it, lacing her fingers through mine. When she does, she pulls the boat closer. It bumps against the dock.
“What about Nikolai?” I say.
Natasha steps closer. Our arms fold between us, and quite suddenly, she’s everywhere, in my air and my head and my heart. “What about you?” she says.
71
NATASHA
Ella’s breath is warm and she smells like mint and pine trees. Her skin is cool but it makes mine feel alive.
So I lean forward all the way, and I kiss her.
When I was eight, I spent a year wondering if I would starve to death. When I first came to the palace, I feasted, eating until my stomach ached and my head pounded. And eventually, I learned how magical a meal is when you know it won’t be your last.
That is this kiss with Ella.
I don’t kiss her like I did in the alley, in the rain, hungry and desperate. I kiss her in a way that says: Yes. But just think of the next kiss.
She pulls her lips away from mine by half a breath, her nose still brushing mine. �
��Are you sure?” she says.
“I choose you.”
I choose the sound of waves and the bristle of wind. I choose not ten years from now but today. I choose the horizon I don’t know.
“Natasha—”
I press my forehead against Ella’s. “I choose you.” She opens her mouth, like she’s going to ask why. So before she can, I answer. “I don’t care what happens tomorrow. I don’t care what happens when the next storm hits. I care that today I’m with you.”
She laughs, lighter than breath.
* * *
~~~
Nine years ago, a woman who shouldn’t have drowned did. Before she went, she told me fairy tales until I breathed them. She told me stories of girls who knew how to fly and girls who trusted each other and girls who trusted themselves.
My mother told me stories about love.
As it turns out, I know them all by heart.
I take Ella’s hand in mine.
The storms can do what they want to me. Tear me apart. Drown me. But I’ll ask the sea to save her.
72
ELLA
The wind beats the sails and the sails beat back.
Natasha and I are not, as it turns out, world-class sailors. For starters, we’re somewhat lacking in the way of nautical knowledge, reading maps, adjusting sails, and fixing literally anything that goes wrong. To make matters worse, whenever we’re in the middle of executing some daring maneuver, like tacking against a mighty wave, one of us will unfailingly say something stupid and make the other one laugh so hard that the wave ends up soaking us and we have to spend the next ten minutes bailing ourselves out.
At night, when the sky blackens and bursts with stars and auroras, we settle under a blanket on the deck and page through the books Pippa thought to shove on board. An atlas and a copy of Tamm’s Fables. We wake again with the sun and eat our tiny stash of bread and cheese—a Gregor contribution—and try to figure out where we can next get food. Natasha has declared she’s going to become a fisherwoman of great renown.
We haven’t found any floating islands yet, but spirits are high.
On the eighth day, Natasha and I sit at the railing, staring at the water.
I rest my hands beside hers. She lifts her pinky so it covers mine. We sit without speaking for a long time, listening to things other than each other’s voices: waves, wind. It feels a shame to break the quiet.
“Do you regret leaving?” I say.
Natasha smiles. “Don’t you think the sea wanted us to go?”
I’ve felt seasick plenty since getting on board. But I have yet to feel that aching, Storm Four tightness inside me since we left Kostrov. Whatever the sea wants to tell me, it seems to have decided I’m listening.
“Probably,” I say.
Overhead, then, a sound that’s gotten too unusual as of late—the call of a bird. Since Storm Five, it’s been a treat, the kind that makes us look up at the flash of wings overhead. The wind spins a spiral above me. In that loosening gyre, a white-bellied, black-beaked bird turns its wings.
I shade my eyes and watch the bird seek horizon. “Are you worried we won’t find anything out here?”
Natasha leans farther over the rail like she wants to drink the sea. “At least we will have tried.”
Each wave the boat summits sends a spray of mist into our faces. “We could die too,” I say. “There’s also that.”
“Everyone dies sooner or later,” Natasha says. She laces her fingers through mine. “Wouldn’t you rather live first?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Apparently, books take a lot of work. Thank you, with every piece of me, to all the people who helped this story come to life.
Thank you, thank you, thank you to Danielle Burby, optimist, hero, cheerleader, and friend. You’re the agent of my dreams and then some.
This book had two incredibly smart editors. Thank you to Kathy Dawson for believing in this book and for reminding me to write not just a story, but a story about something. Thank you to Ellen Cormier for adopting me and guiding me through the incredibly strange year that was 2020—I couldn’t have done it without you. I’m so grateful to the whole team who made this book a real thing—Samira Iravani, Cerise Steel, Regina Castillo, Tabitha Dulla, Bree Martinez, Rosie Ahmed, Lauri Hornik, Nancy Mercado, and the whole team at Dial and Penguin Young Readers.
To all the badass women I lived with at Stanford and in Outdoor House: To Alexa, for a lifetime of Coupa and for inspiring me every day with your passion for writing. To Halle, for reading an early draft and being my co-flyer. And to Blaire, for telling me my voice could inspire young women out there—you’re the one who inspires me.
To Chris, Joey, Martín, and Sophie, the Thimble, the world’s darkest apartment—thank you for the champagne, the moral support, and your enthusiasm for pirates. To Wyatt, for your unstoppable love of nature. To Kevin, Fompy, for reading the book I wrote when I was thirteen, a task I would wish upon literally no one. To Gia—nice. To Ariana, for your passion for books of all kinds and the world’s best birthday cakes.
I’m incredibly grateful to Rosaria Munda, Rachel Morris, Ava Reid, and Allison Saft for reading drafts of this manuscript, cheering me on, and talking about books with me.
Thank you to the teachers who made me want to write in the first place: Jennifer Baughman, Jan Webb, Susan Walker, and Christie McCormick. You taught me to love stories; to find something meaningful to say and to say it; to speak, write, be, with confidence. Thank you also to the inspiring professors I had at Stanford, and especially to Austin Smith, who read an early, messy draft of this book and helped me figure out where to go next.
I owe lots of thanks to all the family that helped this book (and me) exist. Thank you to the Biggars for welcoming me to Australia and being such enthusiastic, book-loving supporters. Oliver, I owe you a lot of coffees for helping me untangle so many plot holes on our 5k lunch walks.
To Nana, Ga, Gum, Grandma Jean, and Maury. To the Robsons, Knieses, Carmodys, Hubbards, and Strobels, my aunts, uncles, and cousins who surrounded me with books. The best way to make a reader is to read with her, to her, beside her. I owe all of you a whole library.
All the thanks in the world to Aidan. For celebrating every writing victory and helping me through every low—there were lots of both. For listening to me talk about Prelapsarian Eden. For being the other half of my two-person book club. For long road trips with musical singalongs and political podcasts. For drinking coffee on ordinary Wednesdays. IFYA.
To Drew, for always knowing to get me books for my birthday. I look up to you, in part because you’re my older brother, in part because you’re very tall, but mostly because your pun game is the stuff of legends.
Finally, to Mom and Dad. For reading that story I wrote about otters in fifth grade. For sending me to Iowa. For building me a bigger bookshelf. For Stanford. For always telling me that I didn’t have to ask myself if I would become an author—only when. For all the love. For all the words.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Laura Brooke Robson grew up in Bend, Oregon and moved to California to study English at Stanford University. She currently lives in Melbourne, Australia, where she enjoys drinking too much coffee and swimming in places she's probably not supposed to swim. Girls at the Edge of the World is her debut novel.
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