they left the ground; Lia could only gather with
them, her face upturned, and try to pick out the glitter of her family against
the glitter of the stars.
Her birthdays passed: seventeen,
eighteen, nineteen. Whatever other Gifts she possessed, whatever else she took
pains to hide from her parents and her people, this was the Gift she craved
most: to be complete. To lift from the earth, to dance around the moon.
It had never happened. The
heartbeat of expectation around her gradually faded. She was patted gently, and
smiled at sadly, and told of her great good fortune to be the earl’s daughter,
after all. Amalia would always smile back and agree, while her chest ached and
her nails clenched so tightly into her palms that her skin bled.
She supposed if she never had
anything else, at least she had the memory of that clipper ship. The taste of
tar and brine and freedom on the wind.
The carriages she’d hired once
ashore were large and slow, so swollen with passengers that her scent was
buried beneath everything—and everyone—else. Lia kept a veil across her hat to
hide her features. She kept her hands stuffed beneath her mantle and tried not
to move very much. Whenever she exited a coach she angled at once behind it, to
get away from the other animals, and for the most part her tactic had worked.
Except for today.
She stopped where she was on the
hotel stairs, surrounded by footmen and her trunks, the hem of her mantle
whipping sideways with the breeze. The grays were not calming; the one nearest
her began to scream, shrill and angry. Lia sighed and took a step back,
glancing up the curve of marble steps as if searching for assistance. The head
manager was already hurrying down. The wind swept from the east, from the
water. If she moved enough to her left—
A hand took her elbow.
“Oh, no, snapdragon, no turning
back now.”
It was Zane, escorting her down
the final few stairs. With the horses bucking, she was half pushed inside the
carriage, catching herself with both hands as the floor lurched, falling into
the seat as the door slammed hard behind her. The abrupt lack of sun dazzled
her eyes.
Her mantle had twisted beneath
her, a slippery knot of silk and wool caught against the cushions. She twisted
to free it as she heard Zane stride to the front of the carriage. The coachman
was there too, swearing loudly in what sounded like Latin, but somehow it was
easier to hear Zane, his pace swift and nearly inaudible under the great
huffing squeals of the grays.
Her mantle came free. Lia settled
back as the darkness began to melt into shape and textures and dull mustard
squabs. Past the confines of the coach, past the wooden walls and the wind and
the racket of the street, Zane began, very softly, to speak.
Because she was alone, because he
wouldn’t know, she closed her eyes and fully opened her senses. She allowed,
for this brief moment, the relentless drone of her surroundings to sink into
her skin:
The rough suck of air into
massive lungs. The muffled, grinding chink of horseshoes pushed into
gravel.
The creak of the leather
harnesses; the straining joints of the walls and floor.
Sweet, my love, be still….
The smell of the river. Of stale
tobacco from the window curtains, the curl of pine resin in her nose, of
walnut, and iron nails—and then, more faintly, of soap and spice. Of him.
Heartbeats, like thunder. Birds
breathing. Water lapping. The breeze slipping through his hair.
The whisper stroke of human
fingers down an equine nose, through a mane…
…good hearts, bravest souls…
…and she then lost the shape of
his words entirely and followed only his tone, that low, soothing grace of his
voice that somehow made everything better, that somehow took away the fear and
anger and left in their place peaceful stillness. And nothing, not the water or
the tobacco or the gathering thunder, mattered over that.
Amalia pulled back. She opened
her eyes and pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead to
them, her face upturned, and try to pick out the glitter of her family against
the glitter of the stars.
Her birthdays passed: seventeen,
eighteen, nineteen. Whatever other Gifts she possessed, whatever else she took
pains to hide from her parents and her people, this was the Gift she craved
most: to be complete. To lift from the earth, to dance around the moon.
It had never happened. The
heartbeat of expectation around her gradually faded. She was patted gently, and
smiled at sadly, and told of her great good fortune to be the earl’s daughter,
after all. Amalia would always smile back and agree, while her chest ached and
her nails clenched so tightly into her palms that her skin bled.
She supposed if she never had
anything else, at least she had the memory of that clipper ship. The taste of
tar and brine and freedom on the wind.
The carriages she’d hired once
ashore were large and slow, so swollen with passengers that her scent was
buried beneath everything—and everyone—else. Lia kept a veil across her hat to
hide her features. She kept her hands stuffed beneath her mantle and tried not
to move very much. Whenever she exited a coach she angled at once behind it, to
get away from the other animals, and for the most part her tactic had worked.
Except for today.
She stopped where she was on the
hotel stairs, surrounded by footmen and her trunks, the hem of her mantle
whipping sideways with the breeze. The grays were not calming; the one nearest
her began to scream, shrill and angry. Lia sighed and took a step back,
glancing up the curve of marble steps as if searching for assistance. The head
manager was already hurrying down. The wind swept from the east, from the
water. If she moved enough to her left—
A hand took her elbow.
“Oh, no, snapdragon, no turning
back now.”
It was Zane, escorting her down
the final few stairs. With the horses bucking, she was half pushed inside the
carriage, catching herself with both hands as the floor lurched, falling into
the seat as the door slammed hard behind her. The abrupt lack of sun dazzled
her eyes.
Her mantle had twisted beneath
her, a slippery knot of silk and wool caught against the cushions. She twisted
to free it as she heard Zane stride to the front of the carriage. The coachman
was there too, swearing loudly in what sounded like Latin, but somehow it was
easier to hear Zane, his pace swift and nearly inaudible under the great
huffing squeals of the grays.
Her mantle came free. Lia settled
back as the darkness began to melt into shape and textures and dull mustard
squabs. Past the confines of the coach, past the wooden walls and the wind and
the racket of the street, Zane began, very softly, to speak.
Because she was alone, because he
wouldn’t know, she closed her eyes and fully opened her senses. She allowed,
for this brief moment, the relentless drone of her surroundings to sink into
her skin:
The rough suck of air into
massive lungs. The muffled, grinding chink of horseshoes pushed into
gravel.
The creak of the leather
harnesses; the straining joints of the walls and floor.
Sweet, my love, be still….
The smell of the river. Of stale
tobacco from the window curtains, the curl of pine resin in her nose, of
walnut, and iron nails—and then, more faintly, of soap and spice. Of him.
Heartbeats, like thunder. Birds
breathing. Water lapping. The breeze slipping through his hair.
The whisper stroke of human
fingers down an equine nose, through a mane…
…good hearts, bravest souls…
…and she then lost the shape of
his words entirely and followed only his tone, that low, soothing grace of his
voice that somehow made everything better, that somehow took away the fear and
anger and left in their place peaceful stillness. And nothing, not the water or
the tobacco or the gathering thunder, mattered over that.
Amalia pulled back. She opened
her eyes and pressed the heel of her palm to her forehead to
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