Page 3 of Ocean of Ink
Wren recalled Heron’s warning about the academy the last time he was home. Perhaps even the best of men succumbed to darker desires. Her stomach twisted. She knew a great deal about that.
Memories assaulted her like the whipping winds atop the Salt Hills. She fought with a match to get a candle lit and dispel the darkness. The wick sputtered to life. Once more, her desk was illuminated, and she breathed easier. Looking at the poem again would bring about nothing but heartbreak, so she sat in the wood chair carved from the large oak she and Heron climbed as children, and opened the journal. If Heron knew she would find his writings, then that meant there was something to be gleaned from the chaos.
She tugged a fresh piece of parchment from her desk drawer and dipped a quill in ebony ink. There was a pattern. Wren simply had to find it. She set out to do just that. As the rising sun painted the rolling hills of her estate in buttery yellow and pale pink, Wren wrote. Her eyes burned, her hand ached, and her body grew stiff, but still she wrote. She’d spent every day since she was ten years old writing, but never had words mattered more than this moment.
Every time a word appeared twice, she wrote it down. Even if it was merely ‘and’ or ‘the’. There was no discrimination in her process. It could all be a clue. She circled and drew lines between possible connections. Crossed out words. Rewrote them when they came up again. Studied his maps, though she had no knowledge of the academy’s grounds. If they were even of the academy at all.
The sun crested the treetops. Her candle, long burnt out, resembled her soul. Melted down and used up. The pagesblurred every time she blinked. If consciousness were a cliff, she was hanging off it by her fingernails.
“Sequence, arrangement, organization, series,” she read aloud, her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth. “Structure, system…” Her head lolled.
She laid her head in the crook of her arm. The paper never left her sight. There was a word missing. It was right on the tip of her tongue. If only she weren’t so very tired.
A knock at her door jerked her awake. She sucked in a ragged breath. The door opened, and Wren snapped the journal shut and whipped around in her chair.
Blossom stood in the entryway with a tea tray. Her green eyes were wide with concern.
“Lady Kalyxi, are you all right? I expected to find you in bed. I brought your morning tea.”
“Everleaf,” Wren croaked. “I need Everleaf tea today.”
Blossom bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, Miss, right away.” The young maid disappeared through the doorway.
Wren usually took peppermint tea with honey in the morning, but after a night of no sleep, she needed something much stronger. Wren despised Everleaf. It was bitter no matter how much honey one added, and it made her jittery after a few sips. She couldn’t afford not to drink it today, though. There was too much to be done.
She turned back to her notes. They were starting to resemble Heron’s. Her eyes scanned the list of synonyms, still at a loss for the missing word.
Blossom returned not long later and set the tray on Wren’s vanity.
“Chef sent honeycakes for you this morning,” Blossom said with a pitying smile.
Honeycakes were Wren’s favorite. Chef Hollis’s were the best, too, with extra honey poured over the soft, buttery sponge cakeand lemon shavings sprinkled on top. The thought of eating anything–even a beloved treat–curdled Wren’s stomach.
“Give him my thanks,” Wren said, then stood and crossed the room to sit at her vanity.
It was customary that Blossom style Wren’s hair for the day while she had her tea. The young maid usually chattered about various estate gossip or her latest infatuation with one of the guards. Not today. The two women were silent. It was difficult to conceive of going about a normal day with Heron gone. What did the state of Wren’s appearance matter when her brother was dead?
Wren took a sip of tea. Her lip curled. Dreadful.
“Blossom.” The maid’s gaze met Wren’s in the shell-rimmed mirror. “Do you know another word for ‘sequence’?”
Blossom’s brow pinched. “I-I’m not very good with words, Miss.” A zip of Blossom’s nervousness shot through Wren.
Wren waved her hand. “Nonsense. It’s a simple question.”
Blossom ran a pearl comb through Wren’s pale blonde hair.
“A synonym of sequence…order, perhaps?”
Wren sat up taller in her chair.
“Order!” she exclaimed. “Yes, yes, that’s it.”
Blossom smiled at Wren’s excitement. “What is it?”
Wren rushed over to her desk, her pearl comb stuck in her hair. She grabbed her quill and wroteorderbeneath all the other words and underlined it. Throughout the journal, Heron had often referenced thissequence, but he meantorder. Which is also synonymous with a group or society. Wren’s hand shook as she pressed it to her lips. A needle of dread pricked at the base of her skull.
Her brother had uncovered something dark indeed. And this Order killed him because of it.
