Page 17 of Those Fatal Flowers

The sound is all-consuming. Pisinoe yells something to Raidne that I can’t make out as Raidne points to the swirling ocean. I squeeze myself between them to take in the sight. Awall of stygian clouds has formed in the space where the water meets the sky, and a gale shrieks to warn us that the most dangerous part of the storm has yet to come. The unfathomable blackness is broken at first by only lightning strikes, but then I see it. For the second time today, my heart stops in my chest.

A light bobs furiously up and down on the waves. It’s so faint that I can barely make it out, a will-o’-the-wisp dancing on the storm’s swells. No one says a word, and we watch it rise and fall with the churning sea, leaning our bodies into one another’s until another flash of lightning confirms what we already know in our hearts: There’s a ship on the horizon.

6

Now

I rise before dawn to catch Margery as she arrives. She’s surprised to find me perched in the kitchen and grows more perplexed when I beg her to take me to Cora. I can’t bear to be trapped in this cottage all day, I tell her, and is Cora not the closest woman to both my age and rank in the village? Who better to spend my time with? Margery looks unsure, but she can’t concoct a reason to say no to me. I’m a guest in the Bailie home, not a prisoner, and although we both know Mistress Bailie won’t be pleased, my rank prevents Margery from denying me. I regret taking advantage of her in this way, but memory and fantasy made sleep nearly impossible last night. Seeing the familiarity of Proserpina in Cora is the only way I can think to calm my racing mind.

“She’ll likely be at the market. Come on, then.” Margery hands me a cloak from a peg beside the door, and we take to the streets. Our breath creates small clouds of mist, barely visible in the gray light of morning that spills over the horizon as the city wakes. Men stumble out of cottages with weapons slung over their shoulders, with fishing nets in hand, with axes in tight grips. The clanging of hammers rises aroundus—on metal from the blacksmith’s shop, on wood as carpenters erect more buildings, and on the palisades as others strengthen the city’s fortifications. I’m thankful for the noise. It hides how loudly my heart beats.

Margery is quiet as she leads me along a row of angled houses, and only then does it hit me that she won’t be the one to break our silence first: Her rank forbids it.

“How long have you been working for the Bailies?”

She shoots me a look out of the corner of her eye. “Since last September. After Dyonis—my husband—passed.”

“Oh, Margery, I’m so sorry.”

“Hard to believe we sailed all the way here only for him to catch a late summer fever. He was a good man, but he was the one who believed in this place. On my worst days, I wish he’d died before the governor returned to England for supplies. Maybe then Jeremie and I could’ve gone back with him.”

“Jeremie?”

Her entire face lights up. “My son.”

I recall the child she cradled in her arms the night before, and my stomach turns. “Are they good to you? The Bailies?”

“Good enough. Mistress Bailie can be a little exacting, but without them, I’d likely have to remarry. At least this way I have a choice.”

“Between?”

“Claiming my late husband’s promised acreage as my own, once we’ve found a more permanent location to settle, or returning home with the next supply run. Ah, there she is.” The street opens before us, thoughmarketis a generous wordfor the handful of stalls that line either side of the road.Cora stands before a woman selling bars of soap. Beside her, a boy oversees a display of tallow candles. There’s abutcher offering unimpressive cuts of meat, a warrenerselling skinned rabbits. Another woman hawks a handful of stunted bluefish—far too small for this time of year.

“Master Warner will be back shortly with some crabs!” she hollers, but her promise doesn’t draw any potential customers to her display.

It’s a far cry from the forums I remember—street after street of vendors selling food, spices, colored silks, perfumes, and jewels from all across the known world. Though each seller’s wares here differ, one thing among them remains constant—their tables have far less goods than they should.

“Not up to your standards, Lady Thelia?” Cora walks toward us now, and my cheeks burn at her observation—was my distaste so plainly written on my face, or is she just unusually good at reading it?

“I thought you could show Lady Thelia around the city this morning.” Margery ignores her slight, and I could hug her for pretending the idea was her own.

“Is Agnes busy?”

Margery’s lips curl into a knowing smile, one I’d yet to see. “I think you and I both know that Mistress Bailie would prefer Lady Thelia stay inside.”

“We have that in common.” Cora’s green eyes are cold as they bore into mine. It’s hard to reconcile this version of her with the tender hands that brought water to my lips, that wiped sweat from my brow. It’s as if she offered me a gift only to snatch it away, and I’m overcome with the urge to make her feel as unmoored as I do.

“Master Thomas will be waking shortly,” I say, refusing to break our eye contact. “Perhaps he’d like to give me a tour instead.”

Cora huffs, folding her arms across her chest. “All right, all right!”

“Great!” Margery says. “Then I’ll head back—your betrothed will be wanting his breakfast. Have fun, you two!”

Before I can say goodbye, Margery’s already turned to be on her way.

“Shall we?”

“I don’t know,” I admit, turning back to Cora. “If my presence is truly such a nuisance, then maybe I’ll just go back with Margery.”

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