I turned away, face heating once more. Yet again I’d made a misstep, said the wrong thing. Another in the long list of traits my classmates, save Zennia, had seemed to find so infuriating.
Through the ash trees, the tide marched on toward the mainland, and I paused, watching how quickly it moved. Tidal bores boiled up the sunken riverbeds, sending clouds of seabirds soaring in great arcs to collect in the branches and along the castle’s ramparts, their screeching unceasing over the roar of the waves. I would find little peace and quiet here, it seemed. Suddenly I longed for Arbenhaw’s weighty silence.
“I have a spare copy of the bay’s tide tables,” came Tigo’s voice. Hemust have noticed me staring. “I suggest you commit them to memory tonight.”
I swallowed, remembering the Shearwater’s disdain. “Does it always come in that fast?” I asked.
“At archwater, yes,” Tigo said, stopping near me. He shaded his eyes, gazing out through the trees. “We have four high tides a day, like everywhere else, but the bay speeds them up. Funnels the water. At peak archwater, the tides sweep the farthest—miles and miles in just a few hours—and for a week or two around it, they’re still pretty dangerous. At low tide, they pull back so far they uncover the whole causeway, but only for a short time. You don’t want to get caught.”
“And pallwater?” I ventured, remembering my lessons.
“Much calmer,” he replied, glancing at me. “But because the tidal range shrinks down so small, the sea comes in and settles in the bay, so part of the causeway’s always covered.”
“So no high tides and no low tides.”
“Barely,” he said, “for a week or so, at least. It’s actually more trouble for the family than archwater, because the causeway’s blocked and they have to take boats.”
I wrenched my gaze from the far-off deluge and trailed him up the remainder of the path, toward a thin tower that rose in the east. It loomed steadily nearer and nearer until, after the track dipped downhill, we crossed a scrubby, gorse-strewn slope to its entrance. It looked down over a deep, rocky cove, the booming ocean only a few hundred yards off.
“Thisis where you live?” I couldn’t help commenting. The tower was ivy choked, nearly crumbling in places. Some of the cracked stone had been reinforced with wooden beams. At its pinnacle, three stone protrusions curved inward, and there was empty space within them, letting in the rain.
“Take the steps up,” came Tigo’s voice as he relieved Pepper of the weight of his saddlebags. He hefted my case. “The ones straight in front of you.”
But a little way over the tower’s threshold, I paused. There were etchings here on the worn stone floor: the two moons, Arior and Amnhain, the first small, the second larger. This had been a temple once, I was sure.
At Arbenhaw, we learned that our ancestors had believed Arior and Amnhain to be the seats of the gods. The givers of moonslight. The origin of our calendar. And the divine directors of the world’s great tides, which seemed to match the twin moons’ movements uncannily. But apparently, now that noblemen-astronomers were pointing their new telescopes up at the heavens, we knew that the moons were merely rocky bodies. No godly dwellings of any kind. It was one of the reasons these temples had been abandoned.
Ahead of me, spiral steps wound upward. I hurried up them, conscious of Tigo waiting behind me, and passed a stained glass window in shades of blue and purple.
At the first landing, I glimpsed a small but tidy bedchamber, with soil-stained clothing hanging from a hook and rows of seedlings crowded into rough-hewn pots, along with jars of what looked like tea leaves. “That’s me,” came Tigo’s gruff voice from the stairs. “You’re up one farther.” I hastened onward.
The next narrow window revealed more of the horizon. Below, near the deep cove, I caught movement through the glass: the suggestion of a tall, willowy figure on the clifftop.
The room on the next landing was stark, its walls bare. The fireplace was swept, the bed made up severely, and a chilly-looking stone seat nestled beneath the window. A forlorn pile of items sat beside a pockmarked dresser: a single framed painting, a few dog-eared books, items of simple clothing, folded.
Tigo lugged my case in and set it down on the bed.
“This was your predecessor’s room,” he said. “We didn’t really know what to do with her things, after…” He gestured to the sad pile, then gave a helpless shrug. “We weren’t sure if she had family, where they might be…or even if they’d want to know what happened.”
My insides wrenched. I gazed around the room. It was hard to connect this spartan space with the warm, dynamic presence of my friend.
“Miss Catua, the youngest Shearwater, sorted through her belongings. Felt terrible about it all. She’s a good girl, that one. Some of the things we sold at market. The rest are yours, if you can make any use of them.”
I stepped to the pile, stared down at it wretchedly.
“I knew her,” I said, my voice splintering. Somehow I couldn’t bring myself to reveal just how close we’d been. “And trust me, her mother wouldn’t much care.”
Tigo glanced across at me, stoic, and for a moment there was silence, save the rumble of the waves outside. Then he cleared his throat and stepped to the window. “Mawre’s our Gustmouth. She has the top room, upstairs.”
Looking out, I caught sight of the figure again. A woman: tall, bony, brown skinned, with a long black braid that streamed out behind her. She was standing near the cliffs that encircled the cove. In front of her, secured to a large wooden frame, were linen shirts and breeches, flapping wildly in the wind. Laundry, I guessed, and by the look of it, the family’s.
“There’s Rhianne, too, our Sparkmouth—she’s down in the cellar—but I don’t know—”
As though his words had been a summons, the light patter of feet on the stairs reached our ears. Tigo slipped out the door. I heard whispers.
After a moment, a diminutive figure appeared. Dressed in the same purple livery as Tigo, she had a shock of red hair, an elfin face, an easysmile.
“Hurrah,” she said on seeing me. “Another redhead. Soon we’ll take over the world.” She held a saucer of what looked like roasted sweetnuts, but when Tigo moved in and shot her a warning look—Don’t get too friendly—her shoulders dipped.
