Still, she ran a discreet hand to smooth the folds of her dress.
—
The smell of decay thickened the air as they traveled into the moors—the scent of roots rotting, of mildew entrenching itself deep into the frost-ridden soil. Twilight pulled a curtain across the sky, and Leena caught her first sight of Weavingshaw moments before the darkness settled. A single turret—a beacon, a warning. It sent a jolt of fear through Leena’s stomach.
On the maps she studied, Weavingshaw was the last human dwelling this far north before the empty expanse of sea. Only a tiny miners’ town called Lytham bordered it, and it was still widely considered Avon land, despite His Lordship having been dead for a little more than a decade.
They pulled into the town just as the miners finished their shift, trundling past with soot-covered faces and tin lunch pails. As the carriage passed by, it was clear that the Saint’s horses were better fed than the townspeople. The miners stopped to stare at them,their picks and hammers swung over their shoulders, all lined up in a single row. An eerie welcome—but as Leena peered through the dark, she could see that their expressions were not welcoming at all. Their mouths were twisted, their eyes hostile. One spat at the wheels. Another snarled, “Aristo pigs.”
Nearly all of them wore a twine of rope pinned to their lapel. A sign of the Rebels.
“They think we’re nobles,” she said, lurching away from the window, her heart pounding.
St. Silas met the miners’ stares as they wheeled past, his posture unwavering, and for a stark moment he looked like an errant noble from a forbidding fortress.
Leena clutched the copper coins between her fingers, a tremor overtaking her body.
“What if they overturn the carriage?” They’d reach Rami first, and he’d barely survived his last beating. Although the bruises had finally faded from his face, she knew that his ribs still ached with every sharp inhalation. He could not afford to be in another fight so quickly.
“They won’t. Their anger has not yet surpassed their fear,” St. Silas replied, yet he didn’t turn away from the miners until they had passed them.
As they progressed deeper into the town, they saw dilapidated houses sunken from years of rain—the broken shingles, the makeshift patches used to cover the leaks.
St. Silas straightened, an odd anger in his voice. “Martin has been idiotically deficient in his duty to his tenants.”
Leena turned to him sharply. “How so?”
“Simple attention to the safety of the mines and the houses they reside in would have improved their productivity.” His mouth thinned. “And decreased the chances that half these men will end up hanging from a tree for treason.”
“This is why,” she said softly, “my father wanted a union. In the end, the Mr. Martins of the world always win.”
“Victory,” St. Silas replied with an edge to his voice, “comes to those who wait.”
Leena had no doubt that he was not talking about her father, Mr. Martin, or even the Morish King, but she refrained from saying any more.
—
Although they were only a few miles from Weavingshaw, St. Silas had decided they would stay for the night in the posting inn that bordered the forest between the estate and Lytham. Leena was eager to press on, her mind returning to the snarling faces of the miners, but St. Silas was firm; they would arrive in the morning.
He seemed oddly cautious about riding toward the estate at night.
The posting inn had a lived-in shabbiness, but the floors were swept clean and the fire roared. The innkeeper’s wife met them at reception—a plump lady who spoke in hushed tones, apologizing that her husband was away on business, but promising she would do everything to ensure her guests’ comfort. She told them that a few other attendees of the “master’s hunt” were also staying at the inn. Leena was not eager to make those guests’ acquaintance and hurried past the parlor.
By the time they had settled in, eaten dinner, then retired to their rooms, Leena was exhausted, and she could think of nothing except burrowing into her bed and sleeping until the fatigue left her body. Her bags had been brought up, and the first thing she searched for was her pouch filled with salt.
“No, no, no,” she moaned, her heart sinking when she realized she’d stupidly forgotten her precious pouch at the previous inn. With the heavy taxes on exports from Algaraa, the amount of salt Leena needed wasn’t cheap and she knew she couldn’t ask the innkeeper’s wife for such an amount. Leena herself had to save for months to afford it, and every morning she carefully scooped every grain of salt she could collect back into the pouch. All the while,she dreaded the day she’d have to replenish it. During those times when she had no choice but to purchase some more from the market, both Leena and Rami had to live off stale bread and watery milk for at least a week to make up the excess. She’d have to wait until they reached Weavingshaw the next day to procure some more—she was sure such a cost would mean nothing to Mr. Martin, who lived and dined in such a grand house.
Leena sat on the edge of her bed and buried her face in her hands, so weary she could barely lift her head. It would mean having to spend a night entirely awake, fending off ghosts trying to possess her body and do their bidding. Already she had to force her eyelids open.
Theodore Daye hadn’t made an appearance since early morning, so she would not be able to rely on him to guard her through the night. Nor could she ask Rami to help keep vigil; he was just now starting to have unbroken sleep as his pain eased.
She must fight her own battles tonight.
When Leena finally did look up, she was not surprised to see a ghost waiting impatiently to be acknowledged.
Leena reared back in shock when she peered more closely at the ghost.
A drowned woman stood before her.
