Page 52 of Shadows of Perl

The gravel path that snaked to the farthest corner of the property dead-ended at her private cottage. Her fingers and toes were numb by the time she climbed the steps of her rickety porch. The rustic residence was an anomaly on the sterile grounds. Like she was. But when her mother had the cottage built, Nore had insisted on one thing: that it felt like hers. Her hanging and potted plants were watered and the windows were shuttered, but the light inside was on. The welcome mat had been dusted clean. Her mother probably had that done regularly to suggest that she could be there.

Nore grabbed the doorknob and her heart seized. She was twelve when she moved into the cottage for private lessons. Or that was the cover story Isla Ambrose told everyone. By that point, Nore already knew to not let anyone ever know that the heir to House of Ambrose had shown absolutely zero propensity for magic. Nore had once asked what would happen if others found out; all Isla said was I don’t want to give you nightmares. She made Nore get ready in locked rooms without windows. She didn’t let her socialize with anyone on the grounds unless she, Nore’s brother, or her private maezre were present.

Mother’s reasoning sounded like fluff. Her mother was embarrassed that she had birthed an Unmarked heir. Nore would make a habit of exasperating her mother, playfully threatening to announce it over the House intercoms. Her mother was already so severe, getting under her skin was irresistible and easy. Until one day, when she was eleven, Nore overheard a Dragun say, An Unmarked cannot look upon magic and live. She never played games with her secret again.

For two years in that cottage, her mother left her alone, and it was glorious.

She rode Daring every day, exploring all parts of the Pacific Northwest, where Dlaminaugh was tucked away. She leaned into her love of working with her hands: sculpting, painting, sketching—you name it, she tried it. Ellery even taught her how to fish, hunt, and make a fire with nothing but wood. He was gifted magically, but he indulged all her Unmarked curiosities.

Until one dark evening when her mother told Nore she was prepared to try again and dragged her to the basement of the estate. Night after night, Isla Ambrose tried every method she could think of to cultivate magic in Nore. The experimentation was mild at first: using rings to try to stir something. But that’s when Isla’s tactics changed: elixirs that burned Nore’s skin raw, a facial shift that left her unable to see for a week. The last time her mother tried something, Nore bled a whiff of dark, cold magic from her fingers. She had gathered her things, run to Ellery, and insisted they leave that night. That was the last time she saw this place.

The cottage was Nore’s safe place, but holding the knob felt different now. She’d made a home somewhere else. With someone else. And now both were gone. Nore backed away from the cottage door. Then she paced the length of the porch before forcing down the lump in her throat and pushing her way inside.

Her quaint abode was a collage of memories. Her home was very minimalist, its walls the color of stone. There were only a few modest pieces of furniture. A book she loved to read lay open on the chair. Her favorite heather-gray blanket was in a pile on the floor next to her metal-framed bed with its paper-thin mattress. Nothing inside had been disturbed, which in and of itself was a bit unsettling. Her mother tried to control everything. But Nore was the one thing she would no longer control. Perhaps she’d realized that and left Nore’s stuff alone.

She couldn’t cook, so she stored her favorite books in her stove. She padded over and checked. They were still in there. Her skin prickled as if she’d stepped back in time. She pulled out baskets of thick, colorful yarn from beneath her study desk. She’d tried knitting, since studying magic went nowhere. She’d managed to make a few small things, which she strung up on the walls for color. She sifted through the threads and her hand hit something hard: an old film camera.

Yagrin. She felt sorrow well in her again. She’d always told him she was going to teach him to take really cool photographs. The old kind with grainy texture. Nore hugged around herself, remembering the way she showed him how to shuck corn and pluck a chicken. He was so tickled that he’d chased her once, dancing like a bird, begging her to pluck him. There was no House, no toushana, and no mother who loathed her. When they’d lie together under the stars, the only sound was the slow thud of his heart, and it lulled her into an illusion of a world that was her own.

They’d stay for hours. He would twist his fingers in her hair, and sometimes he ran his touch along the slope of her nose. She’d almost come clean with him once about who she really was. But he stared at her as if she was a daydream. She couldn’t take that away from him. Her life was the lie they both needed.

Nore let out a heavy breath and felt her pockets. The only thing she’d kept from the farm was a pair of earrings he’d gifted her. It was Yagrin’s idea to get her ears pierced in the first place. He made an entire ordeal of it, taking her to celebrate afterward at some fancy nightclub in a city with way too many lights. That night they didn’t sleep until the sun rose. She pulled the earrings out and hooked them into her ears. Her stomach knotted. She’d never worn something so frivolous in her own skin, as Nore. But she loved the way having them on made her feel.

Oh, Yagrin. She ached with longing and wondered if he felt the same. She grabbed a pillow and squeezed it. He would think she was a horrible person for pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Someone she can’t be. Nore shoved the pillow away as the weight in her chest grew. She had enough things to deal with. Sadness wasn’t going to be one of them.

She pulled out a journal to jot down her thoughts. Where would her mother keep something as important as the family vault key? The only thing she knew about that vault was that on Nore’s coronation day, her mother would hand over access to her. She tapped her lip. Sometimes the most astute solution was the simplest one. Would she keep it in her office? Her bedroom? Those were too expected. Nore paced and thought. She thought and paced. But no matter how much she tried to focus on her plan, her cottage was too quiet and too empty.

She rummaged through cabinets for a canvas but only found paint. So she grabbed a brush, sloshed it in a dollop of red paint, and streaked a bright red stroke across the wall. She bit her lip and looked over her shoulder—for what, she wasn’t sure. Then she arced another red stroke across the drab gray. She drew another, and another, until she could see the red barn of her farm, its slanted roof, the glowing wheat fields surrounding it, and the winding dirt path leading to it. When she finished, the mural on her wall was a masterpiece only she could appreciate. She stepped back and savored the bubbly way looking at art made her feel. Her fingers were covered in paint, her gray dress, too. Mother would be livid. She giggled and touched up the portrait before realizing her brother was leaning in the doorway, his smile tugged sideways. He had an armful of her moss roses, which apparently didn’t make it.

“Ellery!” She clutched her chest. “You can wipe that smile off your face. I’m here for one reason and one reason only.”

“It will be different this time, you’ll see.” He joined her inside, dumping the remains of her plants. “You have a future here, Nore.”

“A past and a present. That is all.”

He shook his head. “Have you seen Mother?”

“No.”

“And how long do you think that’ll last?”

“I wish it could last as long as possible.” Her mother was going to be shocked she was back.

He laughed. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She couldn’t tell him why she really wanted to get inside the vault. He would never go along with her plan and she couldn’t risk this failing. She wanted out of the Order. And her deal with Darragh Marionne was her only hope.

“Don’t mention anything about me being back to Mother yet.”

“She’s going to know, Nore.”

“I know. But I want her to think you’re on my side.” She grinned, and despite how hard he tried to hide it, Ellery grinned, too.

“Oh and I brought you this, too.” He pulled a book from his bag and handed it to her. “I was, uh, going to try to resuscitate this one for you. But it didn’t go so well.”

She took the book and thumbed through it. “Oh my goodness, Ell, that’s it!” Ambrosers were bookish to a fault. She knew where to look for the key to the vault. The only place Ambrose revered was a room full of books. It was so special that their priests were buried there, in the walls and floors, right among the shelves. Even Headmistresses were buried outside, but the intercessors for the Wielder, the Sovereign, and the Sage were held above the rest.

As if he could read Nore’s mind, Ellery asked, “How can I help?”

“The priests’ bodies are still buried in the Caelum?”

---