On the crossing back, I had to fight hard to clear my mind. My strange task, my tight deadline, kept swimming through my thoughts, interrupting my tenuous connection with the water. And I had a new, uncomfortable awareness of the siblings—two of the people I was nowspyingon. In the bobbing glow of our boat’s hanging lantern, I couldn’t stop my eyes from drifting to Llir’s chest, to Vercha’s neckline, where their laconite pendants usually sat; to their fingers and wrists, where the stones usually hummed. I was already trying to tally their number in my head.
Back on the shadowed island, every piece of laconite stood out to me. I’d already spotted some around the grounds: inlaid into the barbican, on spikes in the dry moat. Inside the castle, I’d noticed more: the eyes of the statues lining the main corridor—which meant, annoyingly, I had to scrub those floors manually—and embellishments on the arches of important rooms, like the armory and the cellars that held the locked coffers.
But overall, the stones were few and far between, and by now, I was beginning to understand why.
Laconite was a soft stone, hopelessly vulnerable to the elements. To be used outdoors, it had to be regularly replaced or encased in some other durable material—both of which, I knew, incurred great expense.
With the Shearwaters out here, protected by the tides, I guessed they hadn’t thought it worth bothering with much laconite. They relied on their indoor protections—and their garments.
To truly know how much laconite they had—of what kind, and where it was generally kept—I’d need to search the family’s bedchambers. One by one.
And it made sense to start with the most dangerous of them: Rexim’s.
—
Stone-gray clouds hung low over the island as I hurried to West Tower a few days later. At this time, late morning, the upper reaches would be quiet—the family occupied, its patriarch sequestered in his study.
There were chores calling, of course, a hasty lunch to be grabbed, but I hoped I could disappear for just fifteen minutes. On my way, I swiped a few linen shirts from the laundry house. They were Emment’s, not Rexim’s, but an observer wouldn’t know that. They should suffice as an excuse if I was seen.
My pulse began to flutter as I ascended West Tower. All the family’s bedchambers were up here. As I passed a long gallery I rarelyhad cause to enter, I heard scuffs, grunts, and the clanging of blades. I paused, glimpsing floorboards worn pale with footsteps, and two figures—Llir, and the fencing master, who visited from Port Rhorstin every week—facing each other with rapiers held aloft.
“And the Devil’s Riposte,” barked the master, twirling his blade.
Llir’s hair was sweat dark, his linen shirt baggy. His doublet lay on a bench by the wall. I lingered a second, caught off guard by his unkemptness; before now, I’d only seen him buttoned up in high collars. He parried a thrust by the fencing master, then twisted, striking out swiftly with his saber. The movement was so fluid, I felt a strange little thrill. But before either of them could spot me, I hurried on my way, sweat prickling across my shoulders. Better not to be seen here atall.
As I’d hoped, the upper floors of the tower were silent, but that didn’t stop the blood churning in my ears. I was acutely aware of the last time I’d snooped in one of the Brigant’s domains…What if, this time, he himself came and caught me?
I paused outside his double doors. Nothing stirred. Stepping inside, I found myself in a lush suite: three rooms connected by two stone archways.
I’d rarely set foot here before; I didn’t need to. Rexim had a veritable army of valets who trooped in and out every morning and evening, helping him dress, ferrying his meals, bringing hot tea, bearing letters on silver trays.
The room I’d entered was a circular lounge. Plush couches lined the walls, velvet drapes framed the windows, and solemn portraits of ancient Shearwaters gazed down on me with hooded silver eyes. Over a desk was a painting of a girl—tiny, pale, perched on horseback—and it took me a moment to realize it was our Queen.
I didn’t have long. I drew in a breath and crossed to the right-hand door, which led into the bedroom.
A four-poster bed dominated the opulent space. Arrow slitslooked out to the distant mainland and the dark northern headlands that sprouted from its shore. The Brigant had not one but three towering wardrobes, an elaborately carved dresser, a gold-tiled washstand. Approaching the wardrobes, I was rewarded with a familiar hum, and indeed, on opening them, I saw laconite winking. It was inlaid into doublets, into buttons on his cuffs, stiff collars with jewelled edges, a decorative ruff. Even some sort of ceremonial cuirass, spiralling designs looping around the crimson stones.
I took a scrap of parchment from his writing desk and scrawled down an inventory, my fingers trembling. Remembering Zennia’s coded letter—“I worry about this ‘journal’ being discovered and then being forced to translate its contents”—I used the same code, planning to translate it later. But though the symbols would be nonsense to anyone else, still the act of putting quill to paper made my nerves flitter like moths trapped in a glass.
I moved to the other wardrobes, then the dresser. I began to worry that the singing of the laconite would alert anyone passing by to my presence, but I fought the urge to check at the door. The sooner I got through this, the sooner I’d be out of here…
The dresser’s lower drawers contained yet more laconite. I tallied it, rifling through it with my fingers, ensuring I placed everything back where I’d found it.
Then I paused.
Something was wrong. I stared down at the laconite.
It took me a moment to force my thoughts into order, to realize what it was that had struck me as odd. The stones here: They looked just like laconite, had exactly the right blood-red shade, the thin white veins, the glimmering sheen. But they were utterly motionless under my fingers. I touched one, feeling only its smooth, cold surface instead of the buzzing vibration I was used to. I bent to it, placed my ear to it. No telltale hum.
I straightened, my heart drumming a ragged rhythm in my chest.
A porcelain ewer stood by the washstand, an inch of water sitting at the bottom. I carried it, along with the false laconite I’d found, out into Rexim’s living quarters. There, far enough away from the bedroom, I sat with the strange stone lying in my lap and spoke to the water, commanding it to swirl.
To my shock, it whirled a few times, then settled idly. The stone wasn’t preventing my words from being heeded. I stared at it. Why on earth would Rexim have adornments thatlookedlike laconite but had none of its properties?
As I sat there, bewildered, I heard a noise nearby.
I jumped, almost knocking the ewer to the floor, but managed to steady it just in time. I leaped to my feet, throat closing in fear.
