Young Writers Society

Astrid didn't remember sleeping by the time morning pressed in on her eyelids. Every ligament in her body felt shaky from exhaustion and fear just as it had the night before, but the past few hours had passed in confused half-awareness, which was somehow worse than no sleep at all. All she could remember was staring at the moonlit gauzy canopy of Alicia's empty bed - in the same way that her chair in the dining room was engraved with a crown, her bed was draped, so they would never forget that, one day, Alicia would be Queen.

There was a charm tied to Astrid’s bedpost – a spiral cut into wood. She and Alicia had bought a matching pair in Farthesttown the first time that Alicia visited the peninsula. Astrid slept with hers at her head every night. She wasn't sure where Alicia's was, probably lost in a sea of treasures. She traced the spiral cut into the wood again and again while she waited for the others to rise. Setter would be first, Antonia last. Just like always - and not at all like it.

She ran over the events of the night before over in her head; they had that crackling, candlelit quality of a story that had happened to someone else. The heat and press of the ballroom, the weight of Alicia's secret, the slap dealt by the news about the Treaty and the blow to her belly of Alicia being gone, really gone.

The details didn't all fit together though, like a geometry problem where she'd made a mistake further up the page but couldn't see it. So she just kept examining each one and every time came to the same conclusion: Sir Nathaniel Bolt was still here.

That was the problem.

He was always the problem.

It was the realm’s worst-kept secret, there were only two people who did not know, but they were the two that mattered: Astrid Race had been cripplingly in love with Sir Nathaniel Bolt since the day she first clapped eyes on him three years ago.
He and the Crown Princess had simply been too wrapped up in the romance of their own story to notice. And who could blame them? A beautiful princess met a handsome knight in shining armour at a ball, and they fell in love. Astrid had read all his letters, had planned their wedding under the sheets of Alicia’s bed. Neither of them had any reason to expect that there was a little part of Astrid, however small and cruel, that hoped their happiness would come crashing down.

Setter sat up, stretched, gave Astrid a sleepy smile before padding off toward the privy. Genevieve began to mutter in her dream, a sign that she was about to sit bolt upright in a panic. Antonia continued to snore, the sound was soft and deep and Astrid thought, as she always did, how no one in the world had a nice snore except Lady Antonia Daspire.
Astrid swung her bare feet onto the floorboards and went to the trunk at the end of her bed. Her gown from last night sprawled across the top, moss green satin with embroidered gold and silver flowers all along the hems. She had had two gowns made this summer, and she was glad to have a spare as surely the Treaty negotiations coming to an end would mean a Royal Ball.

As she folded and wrapped the dress, she felt a hard square in the pocket. The letter, how could she forget? Alicia had pushed it into her limp hand, silver eyes gleaming and earnest. "You'll put it with the others, won't you? I'll come back for them... well, when I can."

The rest of the letters from Nathaniel sat tied with lilac ribbons in her bedside cabinet, along with Alicia's bottle of gin that was reserved for emergencies. Come back for her letters, but not for Astrid? Tears pickled at her eyes. She threw on a day dress and tidied her hair then, after a moment's hesitation, slid the letter from her gown into the pocket of the day dress. It was the last thing she had of Alicia's. Sir Nathaniel Bolt didn't get to keep that too.

The letter singed her pocket as if it were written in dragon ink.

Astrid slipped out of the tower room just as Antonia sat up and stretched with a groan and began to unwrap her hair from its silk haven. She took the spiral staircase quietly in her slippers and emerged on the dormitory corridor. Stretching along the top of the house, it had high sloping ceilings with long windows that greeted the girls with early morning sun, blinking on the black and white tiles. Doors were flung open now and there was chatter and the sound of bare feet slapping against tiles as Astrid made her way to the end, to where the main staircase swept down to the dining room.

"Cass, did you borrow my hairbrush?"

"Has anyone seen my other shoe?”

"Oh, I wonder who was in your dreams last night that had you moaning so much!"

The breathless whispers and giggling, untidy hair and bright eyes, dresses and books and occasionally bursts of Gift flying around the rooms. For the past six years, Avery's Academy for Gifted Girls had been more of a home to Astrid than Wolfe Castle. She missed her Ceci more than she could put into words, but having forty surrogate sisters here was maybe even better.

The dining room was only just filling up. Astrid made her way to the final year table, that sat right under the noses of the teachers. Rolls, honey, sausages, cheese and a steaming pot of porridge already lay in the centre of the round table, the five chairs evenly spaced around it. Astrid always sat to Alicia's right and even though she wasn't here, she still took her seat and looked at the carving on the back of Alicia's chair as if it might speak to her.
The others emerged one by one, Setter first, then Genevieve with hair flying and finally Antonia, who would not utter a word until there was coffee as black as sin in her hand. As soon as she had taken a sip, she said, "I think she's been kidnapped by some angry Stabilists."

"Of course you would say that, you islander-" Genevieve started.

"It's not in anyone's political interest to kidnap her," Setter said before the argument could go any further. "The King is the biggest supporter of the Adventurist cause, and the Queen of the Stabilists."

Even hearing Setter talk about politics was vaguely unsettling. The Polaris family who ruled the Jagged Isle had been famously unusual for generations, and Setter was no exception. Her mother died in childbirth and her father was left to name his baby daughter alone. Reasoning that many people names daughters after beautiful flowers he chose to name his after his beautiful hunting dogs, and Setter had grown into the name, with her thick auburn hair framing her face. She did not like politics, or even disagreements. Most of what Setter talked about was her plan for when they finished school, she was taking a ship and sailing around the world before returning to take her father's place.

"She hasn't been kidnapped," Astrid said, snapping out of her reverie to contribute and break the silence, then immediately regretted it as all of their eyes- deep blue, moss green, glittering hazel - turned on her.

"Why?" Antonia said, narrowing hers. "Did she say something to you?"

"No," Astrid lied quickly. "I just don't think she's been kidnapped. There were too many people there last night. Besides, Alicia is too Gifted, she would have fought them off."

"Unless it was your friend, Fairview," Genevieve said with a hint of suspicion.

Antonia rolled her eyes, reaching for a roll. "Yes, Gen. Little old Bethany Fairview snuck into the school and kidnapped a princess. Do you think she climbed the wall with the princess on her back?"

"I'm just saying she's meant to be the most Gifted person in the country-"

"She's eighty four-"

They were cut off by the sound of chairs scraping against the flagstones from students jumping to their feet as the staff paraded in. At the head of the procession was Madame Avery, her face like thunder. Madame Grey, the matron and embroidery teacher, gave Astrid a reassuring smile. The reassurance didn’t last. Several steps behind the rest of the teachers came Madame Hearing, her cane tapping out an ominous rhythm against the floorboards. Her beady eyes were narrowed further than usual.

Before they sat down, Madame Avery cleared her throat. The room quietened.

“It has probably come to your attention this morning that one of our number is absent,” she said. A murmur rose and was shushed. “Princess Alicia left the Final Year Ball last night and is yet to return.” Her eyes flicked across the room, the six round tables of varying size, from the First Years at the bottom of the room right up the Final Years, sitting right under the noses of the teachers. “It is my regret to inform you that the Crown Princess’s whereabouts are still, as yet, unknown, and she will henceforth be considered ‘missing’.”

The murmur rose to a hubbub, which rose to chaos. Somebody shrieked. A Fifth Year fell off her chair. Avery’s Academy for Gifted Girls, just for a moment, descended into panic.

Just for a moment. Madame Avery tapped her glass sharply with a grapefruit spoon. “Girls!” she shouted, and when that had no effect, she shouted, “Ladies!”

That settled them. They were ladies, after all. They were the future rulers of this land. Ladies did not panic, ladies did not scream. Ladies were demure, and calm, and rode the tide of trouble without batting an eyelid. The room was enveloped in attentive silence once more.

“The King and Queen are putting all their resources to work to find Alicia, and we shall act accordingly. We shall also all assemble in the temple tonight after supper to pray to the Goddess for her safe return.”

That implied that she expected the princess to still be missing after supper, Astrid thought. Madame Avery sat down and paid her full attention to her hardboiled egg. The girls returned to their breakfast, now served with a delicious side of fresh gossip.

Astrid was sure she was the only one that saw the Headmistress wipe a bead of sweat from her forehead.

*

The duelling arena was a sand-filled, man-made pit made with spades and Cordelia Avery’s sheer power of will. The Final Years stood at the edge of it, the grassy sloping sides always threatening to stain their training clothes, which on the advice of Madame Hearing, consisted of white knee-length dresses, white leggings and white slippers. Producing strong Gift was all about purity, and white clothes were meant to stop them being distracted, to have them think only of the white, pure Gift they were about to produce. It didn’t work though, because you could not wipe the tight constellations of freckles from Genevieve’s face, or drain Antonia’s satin skin of its cocoa hues, or change Setter’s green eyes to milky pale and blind.

As always, Setter was the first one to make it down the slope. She held her arms out wide like wings, like she was about to take flight, and ran. She didn’t care about being sure-footed, she was for a moment, haphazard and wild the way she had been born on that strange, cold island to the north, and she never fell.

Astrid wished she could harness Setter’s sense of freedom. Instead, she plodded her way down, stumbling a few times, slipping on the dewy grass. She didn’t mind too much; the delay in reaching the bottom of the pit meant a few moments less in the company of Madame Hearing, the duelling mistress.

“Well, I hear that the princess has better places to be than here, learning the noble art that keeps our country alive.”

“I’ll train with Setter,” Astrid said. Usually Setter swapped in with either Genevieve or Antonia, and Astrid and Alicia had an unbroken sparring partnership. They were by far the strongest two out of the five, in truth, she knew it didn’t make sense for her to train with Setter, but she knew the alternative.

“I don’t think so, Race. You’ll train with me.”
Madame Hearing trailed her cane in the dust, tracing a pattern as she circled. Everything about the woman was like a hawk, her eyes, the stare, her nose, the feeling like something very bad was about to befall her prey.

“Fall into line,” she snarled.

They did. Astrid faced up against Madame Hearing, glad for just a moment that she had an inch of height over the duelling mistress. She bowed, Madame Hearing did not. Then they both took their even twelve paces away from one another, and faced each other again.
Astrid closed her eyes – here was the part at which she never excelled. To produce the best Gift, it had to come from pure intent, pure thought. Clearing her mind was difficult at the best of times, but today it would be next to impossible.

She felt the wind of Madame Hearing’s Gift before she saw it, a huge, buzzing fistful of energy coming right towards her. It was grey, smoky – everybody knew that Madame Hearing was the bastard child of some minor lord, and so would never produce pure white Gift the way she tried to teach the girls.

Astrid stepped out of the way of the blast as neatly as she could. She wiped her mind blank as she could in a split second, then held up her hands and felt the power brewing in the palms of her hands, and made a shot.

Her Gift was a mess, just like her mind, and it came out bright green and murky brown.
“What was that?” shrieked Madame Hearing. “Have I taught you nothing in six years, girl? Do you even try?”

She did, Astrid did try, but Madame Hearing did not make it easy. She never had. All the girls would attest that she had always treated Astrid differently and the reason was unclear. They were in second year when Alicia achieved a pure, white blast, shimmering with raw power. It came as a surprise to both of them when it hit Astrid in the stomach, winding her, knocking her to the ground. After that, she never stopped, all of Alicia’s Gift from then on was pure, blinding light, the most powerful variant.

The others didn’t come close. Genevieve’s Gift manifested in short blasts of cobalt and saffron, dancing around her the way her hair did. Antonia’s was always fuchsia or purple, but what Antonia lacked in strength she made up for in stamina; given the chance she could continue a duel long after any opponent had tired. Setter never even seemed to try. Setter’s Gift grew from her hands like pale golden ribbons, uninterested in going in any particular direction.

Astrid’s Gift, though, was usually the palest of sunlight yellows and apple greens. She was only a little bit away from the perfection of Alicia’s, and that was never enough for Madame Hearing. No matter how close Astrid came, it was never close enough, and the tirade would start again.

“Six whole years, and that’s what you give me? It’s an insult, honestly – and they tell me you’re going to be a Duchess later this week? How can you possibly think that you’re ready for that?”

She closed her eyes, and tried to clear her mind. It didn’t work, of course, but it was, she had learnt, the best way to block Madame Hearing out.

*

“Hearing was particularly awful today,” Antonia said, taking her pink dress out of the trunk in the little hut where they changed for duelling practice. “Are you alright Astrid?”

Astrid rubbed her shoulder, where a particularly nasty shot of Madame Hearing’s had bitten into her collarbone. It hadn’t left a mark (if a blast had enough force it left a bruise, enough fire, a burn) but the ghost of it was still there. Astrid’s own duelling had been a disaster for the entire session. It made her missing of Alicia even more acute, how even when she made a mistake, even when she felt fully and completely embarrassed, Alicia would smile and reassure her.

The four of them walked back towards the house. Once the shining beacon of the Avery household, the honey-yellow manor had been home to girls like them for a decade. It was perfectly symmetrical, except that on the east wing rose a tower, jutting towards the sky like a sore thumb. The story went that Madame Avery’s own grandfather had built it with every intention of adding its twin on the west wing, but due to his own drinking and bad habits, the money had run out – for a tower, or for anything else. The project was abandoned, and the tower still stood as a memorial to his folly and the destitution of the Avery family.

When the Crown Princess and her four classmates arrived six years ago, it was decided that rather than have the conventional First Year dormitory, and instead they would have the room at the top of the tower. It was perfect, Astrid couldn’t imagine any better place to have spent all these years. Even when she went home to Wolfe Castle, her own bedroom didn’t quite feel the same. Nothing felt the same now, though. Not with Alicia gone.

The drawing room where Madame Grey held embroidery classes was a sunlit haven, a heavy oak door muffling the sounds of the school beyond. Any Avery student would tell you, they were much less about embroidery and much more about Madame Grey dispensing sage life advice. She'd known when each of them began to bleed, all their beaus (and all the boys she deemed not worthy of her darlings), all of their fears and plans for when they graduated. All the students' workboxes were stacked in shelves on one end of the room, the Final Years collected theirs and sat down. Madame Grey was like a cat who always moved the circle of chairs to whatever square of light graced the carpet. Astrid's favourite was a threadbare green armchair, square as a brick, next to the high backed silver and gold brocade chair that Alicia favoured.

"Are you girls alright?" Madame Grey said. "Between the Treaty and Alicia, I'm sure you all must be quite worried. Especially you, Astrid."

"Why 'especially' her?" Antonia asked. "Because she's Liss's favourite? Doesn't mean the rest of us can't be worried."

"Now, Antonia, sour isn't a good look on you. Besides I was referring to the Treaty, given that Astrid will be a fully-fledged Peer of the Realm by the end of the week."
Astrid nearly dropped her sampler. "Honestly Madame, with Liss vanishing I've barely given it a second thought."

Madame Grey afforded her a kind smile, then turned to the knot of threads Genevieve was offering her. "In six years, I haven't even taught you how to stitch straight," she said sadly, unpicking Genevieve's mess.

“I just hope that what came for Alicia isn’t coming for us,” said Setter.
Something sent a chill up Astrid’s spine and it took a moment to realise what it was: Setter hadn’t said ‘who’. She had said, ‘what’.

There was a knock on the door. A second year student - Sylvia Dovecote, Astrid thought - stuck her head through the gap and stared at them with enormous pale brown eyes.

"I'm very sorry, Madame Grey, but we just had history class with Madame Avery and she asked me to bring Astrid Race to her office right away."

Madame Grey blinked. "Well then, Astrid, off you go."

Astrid bit her lip and got to her feet and followed Sylvia from the carpet to the wooden hallway and up the stairs. The younger girl chattered like a bird as they climbed the stairs.

"Do you think she was kidnapped? My kitchen boy says his cousin was kidnapped - he was a little Gifted and he was outside playing with the sparks and he never came back.”

"I don't think Alicia has anything to do with your kitchen boy."

"Kitchen boy's cousin," she corrected with a pout.

Astrid stopped in her tracks. "Sorry, Sylvie. I was just distracted."

"That's alright. I'd be worried to, if I had to go to Madame Avery," she said with a frown. "I'm always in trouble and it's always Cassie's fault."

Astrid nudged her. "If it's always Cassie's fault then why are you always the one in trouble?"

"It's only Cassie's fault because she convinces me to break the rules." Sylvia deposited Astrid outside Madame Avery's office, whispered, "Good luck!" before scampering away.
Astrid took a deep breath. She wiped her mind clean and opened her palm to see what colour Gift she could produce. Here, away from Madame Hearing's beady gaze, the ball of light fizzled the palest of apple greens. She sighed and let it go, then rapped on Madame Avery's door.

"Come in."

Inside the room was a cosy office, with a huge oak desk and shelves upon shelves of books. The grate was empty, autumn light streaming through the window behind the headmistress, silhouetting her square shape. "Astrid," she said. "Thank you for coming. Please, take a seat."

Astrid settled nervously on the edge of the offered chair.

"It was nice to see your father here last night."

Astrid blinked. "Yes. He was good to come at such a stressful time for the kingdom."

"A stressful time indeed... though he must be fond of you, given that it has only been the two of you all this time."

Astrid arched an eyebrow. "And my sister, Madame, Cecilia."

Madame Avery held a hand to her face. "Of course, Cecilia, how could I forget? She's simple, isn't she?"

Astrid shrugged. "She's just Ceci, Madame." Ceci, with her wide face and crystal eyes, Ceci who spent her days collecting and drying herbs for the Farthestown apothecary, Ceci who the physician, on the day she was born, took one look at her and said he did not imagine this baby would last the year.

That was when three year old Astrid learnt to pray, going to the Goddess's temple every day, praying that her little sister would live long enough for Astrid to braid her hair and let them sing duets together.

Ceci's hair was too thin to braid, and the duets were still unsung, but she was alive, and happy, and Astrid would do anything to keep it that way.

"In any case, Astrid, while you and the girls were cavorting with Sir Bolt and his squire, I was having a most fruitful discussion with your father."

Astrid blinked. "May I ask about what, Madame?"

"You may. You see, since the King has announced a new Treaty, such a thing will need to be ratified by the peers of the realm. As it stands, at present not all fourteen peers are in the capital, so they are not due to sign until Friday. And as I'm sure you're aware, your eighteenth birthday..."

"Is on Thursday," Astrid finished for her.

"Indeed." Madame Avery pressed her lips into a thin white line.

"But Madame, we agreed that my father would act as regent until I was finished with my education," Astrid said. That had always been the plan - they were due to finish in less than two weeks, it didn't make sense to change things a week early.

"It was, but after speaking with your father, as this is such an important and historical moment, we thought you would relish the opportunity to act yourself."

Astrid blinked, twice. "But hasn't my father been at all of the debates? Surely he is better equipped than I am to make a decision of this magnitude."

"Come now, Astrid, do you think so little of my Academy and the education we have given you? You have more understanding of this Treaty and what it might do to our country than the majority of Parliament. Perhaps more than the King himself."

Astrid sealed her lips as tightly as she could. She had heard rumours that simply uttering the word 'Adventurist' in Barton's School for Male Heirs, their sister school, would earn you a caning. She was thankful that Madame Avery had never preferred corporal punishment but even still, Astrid knew better than to give heed to that little voice in her head that suggested that perhaps ratifying this Treaty would be a good idea.

"No, Madame. I am, of course, eternally grateful for all the help that the Academy has given me."

Madame Avery sat back and smiled like a cat that Astrid had just presented with a bowl of milk. "I am glad to hear it, Astrid. You know, we have a few girls like you here, who have lost their own mothers before ever stepping through our gates. I hope, some way, we have managed to fill the void left by Duchess Heather's untimely passing."

Astrid didn't have words for that. She did not think she had ever expressed feeling a void left by her mother - Madame Avery was right that she was not the only motherless student there (and there were those like Antonia, who never mentioned her mother and whose father kept a mistress her age in the house). But it spread over her, a slow warmth like dawn cracking the edge of the earth, to think that her teachers here would care so much for her - except, probably, Madame Hearing. Her shoulder stung as a reminder.

"Now." Madame Avery was still smiling, and Astrid could not see what path this conversation was taking. "To our next order of business... Astrid, do you know where the Crown Princess has gone?"

Astrid's stomach turned into a black pit and threatened to swallow her whole. For a moment, she hoped it would.

"No, Madame."

The headmistress's eyes narrowed. "If I remember correctly, you were just outside the ballroom with her only minutes before she disappeared. Is that not so?"

The letter burnt hotter than ever in Astrid's pocket. "Yes, Madame."

"And what were you two talking about?"

"Oh, you know, Madame. Just... just talking."

"It must have been important to leave the party."

Astrid hated lying, but Alicia had sworn her to secrecy, and she hated breaking promises even more. Still, something sung to her that what Alicia had told her was wrong, that the letter was wrong, it was all wrong.

"Oh, Madame, you know... just the usual, what people were wearing, who the best dancers were."

“Dance partners were in short supply.” Madame Avery tapped a thick finger against the desk. "Come, Astrid. What was so important that you and Her Royal Highness couldn't share it with the rest of your classmates?"

Astrid didn't answer. Madame Avery seemed impatient for a moment, then her face softened. “Astrid, my main concern is that Alicia is found safe. I promise you that no ill can come of you telling me where she is.”

Astrid knew it was the truth.

She didn’t know how to explain it, and a part of her didn’t want to say anything out loud, she didn’t want to betray Alicia like that. Instead, she just pulled the letter out of her pocket. A wave of relief washed over her as she handed it to the Headmistress. Madame Avery lay it open, flat on the table, and Astrid read upside down the words she had already committed to memory:

Liss, he began, narrow, tall letters crowding together like always.

I’ve had troubling news from your father. Last night I was on his guard shortly before he went into Parliament, where he told me that no matter what way the Treaty went tonight, that you and I could not marry. He told me that you would have to make a more advantageous match to maintain stability in the Kingdom and the islands. He apologised for not telling me sooner, and I do believe he was sorry, but he also reminded me that he is the King, and a man of his word, and he would not renege on this.

I cannot disrespect or fight my King. But Liss – I also can’t obey him. As much as it pains me to go against His Majesty’s wishes, the only thing that would pain me more is letting you go. I’ve loved you since I first set eyes on you at the Summerhouse Ball, with the sun in your face and your hem trailed with dew. I will not – cannot – allow you to marry somebody else, not without fighting for you first.

I’m coming to the ball tomorrow. Meet me outside when everyone’s backs are turned and we can run away together. We can go anywhere. I don’t mind where we go, what happens to us – as long as we are together.

I’ll wait for you until midnight. If you don’t come, I’ll know your answer.

Ever yours,

Nathaniel Bolt

The water was black beneath the belly of the boat, and it stretched into infinity. Fred couldn't spot the Warehaven Coast, or any coast. It was just him and the sea.
There was no paddle, so he sunk a hand into the water - slick and cold - to paddle and squinted at the stormy horizon, trying to figure out how he was here, stuck in these still, dead doldrums by himself. Where was his mother? Where was anybody?
“Fred.”
He turned back to the boat and there she was. Long dark hair scattered on her shoulders, emerald eyes gleaming at him. Even though it was cold - was it cold? - she was wearing the low necked midnight blue dress she had worn the last time he saw her, at the Sigrid Winter Ball.
“Laurel,” he breathed. “How did I get here?”
“It doesn't matter,” she said, trailing a hand through her hair, and smiling with one corner of her mouth. “What matters is that you're here.”
She leant over, both hands on the rim of the boat, and he saw the pale expanse of her clavicles and the shadows down her bodice as she leant towards him. He wanted to tell her that she might capsize the boat, but then he thought this was probably a dream, and then her nose nudged his and - oh, Goddess-
she was kissing him, her mouth all over his face, her hands all over his body, and he was kissing her back, fiercely, hungrily because how long had he wanted this as she tore open his shirt and her dress slipped from her shoulders and oh gods, how was this happening, this couldn't be real, this wasn't real but he didn't care, he threw up her skirts -
The boat capsized and he and Laurel both tumbled into the horrible, sharp cold and Lambert was shaking his shoulder.
“Fred, wake up, we've missed first bell already,” he said.
Fred groaned. From Ambrose's sleep addled form of black hair and white sheets came a snigger.
“Good dream?” Ambrose asked.
Fred buried his head in his pillow, flipped over on his too thin mattress and squeezed his eyes shut, hoping it would bring the vision back.
“Go on, tell us,” Ambrose said, and Fred could hear the smirk in his voice.
“Who is it always about?” Lambert said and, distressed that they were all about to be late for breakfast, pulled the sheets off of him. Fred groaned again, and stumbled to the wash stand.
“You know,” said Ambrose. “The Honourable Laurel Sigrid is not, in fact, the most beautiful woman in the country.”
She was to Fred, though. He had only met her a handful of times at the Sigrids' annual ball, an event they held in the bleak Northern Edge every winter in the hopes that it would be the mirror image to the Summerhouse ball. It never was, and most of his memories of the event was how his mother got more gaunt every year, Lord Sigrid's handshake more bone-crushing. But Laurel was always a beacon, a glittering laugh and soft hand when the rest of the world was too harsh. When Fred wasn't thinking about illegal magic, he was thinking about an ill-advised romance with the daughter of his mother's worst enemy.
Thankfully, mind reading was a very rare and difficult skill even in countries that did use magic, so he was probably safe as long as his thoughts staying in his head.
The news of the Treaty had polarised Barton's School for Male Heirs. It was as if an invisible hand had cleared a space straight down the middle of the dining hall, Stabilists on one side and Adventurists on the other. He had seen four Gift-fights and three fist-fights break out since the news had broken.
Only the Adventurists had been punished.
Barton's was teetering on the edge of full chaos. Fred had nearly come to blows himself with Ambrose. His friendship with the other two was more fragile still, with his repeated Stabilist platitudes frustrating Lambert, and the possibility that he was an Adventurist in disguise making Ambrose suspicious. The three's friendship was becoming fragile.
His mother's security was more fragile still.
Fred felt as if the very foundations of Samina were trembling, threatening to break this glass world of theirs into a thousand pieces.
At breakfast, Barton stood up and cleared his throat. He wiped his nose on a yellowed handkerchief. “We will all go to the Temple after breakfast,” he said, “to pray for our Peers as they are faced with a decision: to terminate all traditional values in Samina, or to retain our culture and stability for future generations.”
The Final Years were still sitting together - the only ones that hadn't been divided - and Lambert's eyes narrowed behind his spectacles. “Will your mother sign?” he asked Fred.
Fred shrugged. “I suppose we'll see.”
Ambrose’s fingers rapped on the table, tiny purple sparks of Gift scoring its surface.
In the temple, the students all knelt for half an hour in front of the God in the grey, blockish temple that sat outside the main school building. Fred nodded to the diminuitive shrine to the Summer Goddess by the door as he went in. Most people had a preference for one or the other, even though they were two sides of the same coin, two faces of one deity. Barton and his schoolmasters believed that the God was the more masculine, more powerful, wiser of the two, but Fred never worshipped Him at home. Instead, he and his mother took twice-weekly trips to the shrine of the Goddess, leaving Her fruit and flowers and seashells they collected on the sandy, sunsoaked Warehaven beaches.
To be in Barton's, however, meant to conform to Barton's wishes and beliefs. So even though half of the boys - more than half? - were Adventurists, who thought that a new Treaty would be a modern change for a modern world, they kept their heads bowed still as the headmaster droned on about saving them all from this wicked twist of politics.
Fred reminded himself that he believed every word Barton spoke. Fred reminded himself that he believed every word Barton spoke. Fred reminded himself that he and his mother hated the changes. Fred reminded himself that the Pillory family were the stalwarts of the conservative North.
Just like Fred reminded himself that Gift was the only acceptable form of magic. Like Fred reminded himself that the Sigrids were enemies, each and every one of them. Like Fred reminded himself every minute of every day that his head and the world he lived in were two very different places with very different sets of rules.
“Why are we even praying?” Lambert grumbled. “We all know the wise and noble Lady Pillory will block progress whatever way she can.”
He was thankful that everyone else loved to remind him too.
--
By the time Gift Games rolled around that afternoon, Fred was glad to have the opportunity to burn off some of the useless energy rolling around in his gut. On Wednesdays, the Fifth and Sixth Years ran the Gift Run, a gruelling four mile course that skirted the western perimeter of the campus with obstacles that they were meant to use their Gift to overcome. Looped ropes that needed an end burnt off to be released then climbed, murky water to swim with Gift assistance, a mound you were to climb to obtain the flag stuck at the top while your classmates shot blasts at you, trying to bring you down.
In truth, Fred didn't understand why they wanted them to master the skills on the Gift run. Magic was forbidden across Samina, and Barton was one of the most fervent believers in the purity doctrine. But propelling yourself through water, or changing the shape of a rope seemed like magic to Fred. To mention it would earn him a caning though, so he had kept his lips sealed these past six years.
The day was as grey and cold as steel and they stood on the lawn, waiting to commence the Run. Fred jumped up and down on the spot trying to urge feeling back into his feet with the shock of the ground.
“Pillory,” barked Master Klepper. “Stop that. Where does your Gift come from?”
“From underground, sir,” Fred said, standing still.
“Then how do you suppose to access it by that maniacal jumping?”
Had Master Klepper ever studied the veins of Gift in the world, he would know that Ruskell Island where the school sat was not blessed with great reservoirs. The veins crept in and out of Havadras through the sea and a handful of other islands, but it was largely the mainland where power dwelt, and Ruskell was unremarkable. Instead, they sapped energy from the trees, and the grass, and the fires inside, and made Gift from what they had to hand. Rumour had it that Crown Princess Alicia had made her first white blast at only fourteen. Fred was yet to see a white blast produced in Barton's - though then, they didn't have any princesses either. No doubt it was a combination of the perfect vessel and an almost-perfect place, the Glistenfell Forest was named for the rich, wild magic that danced in its treetops.
Fred stopped jumping anyway, and they were all forced to run laps, numb thighs and burning calves in the air as they raced to overtake each other. Ambrose loped easily to the front with legs as long as a stork's, Fred came puffing up behind him with the Fifth Years and at the back, Lambert finished in a gentle jog. Lambert didn't believe in running laps. Ambrose slowed to a walk to join him.
Fred and the Fifth Years stood, panting, standing around Klepper in a pack, waiting for the others. Fred squinted at Klepper, who was very still, with his hands clasped in front of him. A lizard tongue licked the corner of his mouth.
Fred's heart began its tattoo all over again.
“Whistleworth! Gradua! You call that a run? Another four laps! Go!”
Lambert and Ambrose groaned in unison, but before they could complain, Klepper flicked a wrist and a blast of bruise-coloured Gift at their feet and they fell into a run.
Klepper turned back to the rest of them, and his eyes lit on Fred. Fred looked for anywhere to hide, but there was nowhere.
“Now, gentlemen, before we begin, I want to bring something important to your attention. You see, in two days' time, the Peers of the Realm are due to ratify the King's order to end the Treaty. We already know that among their ranks are several Adventurists who seek to destroy our culture. And among them, we have reason to believe, is Calliope Pillory.”
Fred could have sworn he heard a hinge creak as the heads of the rest of the group turned toward him. Or maybe it was the noise of his own jaw dropping open.
“Sir, I don't know what you're talking about-”
“Ah.” Klepper had his eyes closed, a hand in the air, as if he were listening to fine music. “Of course. Do you hear that, boys? The Pillorys are exceptional at deceit. Truly. They can have you believing that they're just about anything.”
He circled. All eyes were still on Fred. “Haven't you noticed how Pillory never has an opinion to share? Always playing the friend. The unobjectionable. He is clever at making people not hate him.”
“Cleverer than you at it, at any rate.” The words were out before he knew it, and then he felt the hard smack of Klepper's hand on the back of his skull. The grass jolted in front of his eyes.
“I think, boys, that we should send a little message to Calliope about her son, and what we think of traitors. Don't you?”
Fred saw the gleam in the Fifth Years' eyes, the curl in their fist.
“Please, Goddess, no - “
A blow to his stomach doubled him over. An elbow to his head and a kick to the shins brought him down.
Then he couldn't count the pains, the punches rained down on him, and he covered his head and prayed they wouldn't hear sobs.
He heard something else. “What the-”
He heard yelps, and sizzling, and the scent of burning. His tormentors move away, and there stood Ambrose and Lambert, sweat dripping off them, soot marks on their hands. He curled a little tighter.
“Oh dear.” Fred could hear the smirk in Klepper's voice. “It appears that Mr Pillory has had an accident. Boys, continue on the course, and I will see him back to the school.”
Fred sought Ambrose and Lambert with his eyes, pleading - please, please don't leave me with him.
“Go!” Klepper yelled.
“Sir, maybe we should-”
Klepper sent another burst of Gift at Lambert, and this time it sunk into his bare shin. He flinched and stood back.
With a rough hand, Klepper dragged Fred to his feet and pulled him towards the house. Fred's vision was swimming with his matching black eyes and stinging head, but he saw the whitewashed wall of the house in bits and pieces, like a blizzard.
Then he felt himself pushed up against it. “That's just a taster,” Klepper hissed, the words wet and rank in Fred's ear. “You tell that mother of yours about this. Tell her that if she doesn't protect our legacy, then we make no promise to protect hers.”
Fred pulled away as much as he could, but Klepper had him in an iron grip. “I'll run,” he said. “I'll leave. I'll go somewhere where you can't find me.”
“Just try it,” Klepper said, and pulled Fred's head closer to him. “There's more than one way to ruin a legacy.”
Then he released Fred, shoved him towards the front door of the building. Clutching the bannister, Fred managed to get upstairs, and collapsed on his too-thin mattress, feeling the bumps of his hidden books underneath his mattress.
He tried not to cry, but the tears came hot and salty, sinking into the cuts on his face and stinging them.
In that moment, all Fred wanted was his mother. He wanted her arms around him. He'd like to see her smile and call them all some name. But as it was, Fred couldn't even remember the last time he had seen his mother act like herself. Telling her what happened would make things even worse for her.
When the room stopped dancing around him, he dug under the mattress and found one of his books. A Comprehensive History of Magic Around the World. Expressly forbidden by the Royal Librarian, but smuggled into the country by a merchant who was friendly with Fred's mother:
When exploring the landscape of Samina, any voyage would be remiss without visiting the Venturefalls and the Deadwoods. Not only do these teach us much about the history of this ancient country, they also teach us of the many and varied ways taht magic was once used here. Before the unification of the country, along with the Merle Archipelago, an enormous civil war between two fiefdoms happened on this land south of the capital. At the time, magic was wild, and was powerful in many families in Samina without much hereditary nature as it has now. There was no regulation of its use or belief in appropriate uses. The civil war was bloody and magic was blamed for many of its atrocities. In fact, so much magic was used that a crater formed at the site of the battle. Afterward, when the country was successfully united under the Wilde family, no magic could be found in the area, and no one could use it. This included the forest that had once stood close by, which withered and died without its life force and became a barren place known as the Deadwoods. The crater is now filled with a mirror-glass lake, with rainfall forming small but impressive waterfalls around its circumference when there is heavy rain. This has given it the name the Venturefalls, and indeed, the water is said to have cleansing abilities, that will remove any magic that touches it, as a lesson perhaps, from the earth that it will not be misused.
Fred felt his eyes begin to droop. He loved the story of the Venturefalls, but he couldn't manage anymore of it. He shoved the book under his pillow, thinking about what he would do to Master Klepper if he had magic. Make his nose hair grow so long he tripped over it. Turn his feet into rats. Steal his voice.
Fred didn't consider himself a vengeful person, but in that moment, he smiled.

--
He woke up with the faces of his classmates staring at him, Lambert's hand gently shaking him awake.
“Fred?” he asked. “Are you alright?”
Every inch of Fred's body ached in new and confusing ways. He shook his head.
“Let's get you to the bath house and get you cleaned,” said Ambrose.
Something stung on Fred’s lip. He wiped it. Rust brown blood came back. “You two are sure you’re not looking to give me a punch?”
“Positive,” Lambert said with a surprising fierceness.
“Besides, one more punch and I think you’d pack it in,” said Ambrose.
They hoisted him off the bed, Fred hissing a breath and wincing as their arms brushed his bruised ribs, and took him to the bathhouse. He looked down at his bloodstained collar sadly. “I liked this shirt,” he said.
“I’ll see if I can persuade one of the maids to clean it for you.” Ambrose winked. Fred scowled.
In the bathhouse, Ambrose held a fizzing ball of Gift in his hand to heat the water. Fred stripped down, hissing where blood and skin and cloth all seemed to have made their communion, and got into the water. Despite himself, he was glad of the bath, the water was nice against his bruises and grazes. He lay his head back against the edge of the tub and listened to the subdued chatter of the other two as they sat on the floor beside him.
“What are you thinking about?” Lambert asked him.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling. “I really don’t know what my mother is going to do,” he said.
The others didn’t inquire further, but saying it out loud seemed to make the wheels in Fred’s brain turn.
He dried off and put on a fresh shirt. It was dark by now, and he used a spark of Gift to light his candle to send his mother a letter.
Mother,
I know that they’re using me to blackmail you. Please don’t worry about me. I’m going to be fine. I know that you don’t believe me, but I want you to trust me that I will keep myself safe more than you trust them that they’ll put me in danger.
Quite honestly, I couldn’t care less about my inheritance. You are my mother, and you’re the only family, and the only name, I’ll ever need.
Your loving son,
Fred.
He signed it, sealed it and went up to the attic where they kept the pigeons that went to the Capital, and gave the letter to her.
Lady Calliope Pillory was about to make history, and it was his doing.
Now, he just had to work out how to stay alive.

If Nathaniel could have bottled the look on Astrid Race's face when she saw George's present, he would have sold it under the name 'Sheer Horror'. It was a wicked looking dagger with a long serrated edge, and if that weren't bad enough, the pommel was the skull of a small animal.
First, she insisted it was too generous, until George told her that it had been gifted to him by a foreign dignitary along with a matched pair. Then she tried to say that he should keep the pair intact, but George explained he never wore more than one knife. Finally, she tried to explain that she was Gifted and didn't need further ways to defend herself.
George's enormous face was beginning to crumple in on itself.
“George, you can't give me that,” she said.
“Why not?” George's enormous face began to crumple in on itself.
“It's just... where would I put it?”
“I have a sheath for it.”
Charlie's eyes swung back and forth between them, and Nathaniel saw Astrid cast him a pleading look, then Charlie said, “We can put it in the sheath and wrap it up nicely in your saddlebags, Astrid. Just in case you ever need it.”
He swept up the dagger and the hilt from the table and winked to Astrid, just out of George's line of sight.
Charlie's kindness towards her was a mystery to Nathaniel. Had he not been there too when George explained that Astrid - and Gen, for that matter - had been lying to them ever since Alicia vanished? Had it not been for George, Nathaniel would have presented himself in front of the King tomorrow like a fool, not knowing that he was the prime suspect in his own sweetheart's kidnapping. The very thought made him feel like he was going to be sick.
He could tell she was suffering for it, head ducked, hands fidgeting with her skirt.
“We should probably take you up to the Palace,” Charlie said, glancing around the Knight's Quarters. It was not the most salubrious of surroundings, Nathaniel had to admit, with knights in various states of undress and cleanliness, the smell of horses and feet, crumbs and abandoned dice and card games all over the tables. Keeping Astrid here was a small, toothed revenge.
But she stood up, smoothed down her dress and said, “That's alright, thank you, Charlie. I can make my own way from here. Sir Bolt. Sir Sigrid.” She curtseyed, just like a duchess, and turned smartly to walk out.
Nathaniel sighed heavily. “Wait!” he called, and nodded at the others to come with him as they followed her up to the lakeside.
Twenty gondolas, black but lined with red silk, the back of each tipped with the same silver tree, awaited them. The gondoliers and guards were lazing in the sunlight, and one of them scrambled to attention on their approach.
“We'll manage, don't worry!” George shouted to him. “Astrid. You get in first. We can't have you arriving in wet skirts.”
She rolled her eyes but complied.
“You too, Charlie,” said Nathaniel.
“Oh good, I was worried you were going to make me arrive in wet skirts,” Charlie said, hopping in beside her.
They pushed the boat off the shore and clattered in in their armour. Between the two of them, and George's girth, the boat was riding low in the water. They both grabbed a pole. Nathaniel punted as fast as he could, George doing the same on the other side, and the nose of the boat began swerving from side to side.
Charlie glared at them over his shoulder. “For Goddess's sake, if you two are going to be children then we should have just gotten a gondolier.”
Nathaniel grinned at him. “It wouldn't be a problem, if George wasn't so weak. Pull your weight, Sigrid,” he said, dragging his pole through the water.
“I was holding back, but if you insist.” George dug into the water so hard that they nearly capsised. Nathaniel's grin grew.
He heard Astrid sigh.
“You two are both in full plate armour,” said Charlie. “If we capsize, there's no saving you.”
“I can’t help it that Sigrid doesn’t know what he’s doing,” Nathaniel said, trying to counter the pull from George’s side of the gondola. “He’s all brawn and no — Astrid?”
Astrid wasn't taking any more of this. Hiking up her skirt around her knees, she clambered over the seats to the back of the gondola and leant over the edge, one arm on either side of the silver tree, dunking her hands in the water.
“That’s it. You’ve officially driven a noblewoman mad. You can both cross it off your list of things you’ve always wanted to do,” said Charlie.
And then there were bubbles, and fire underneath the water, shimmering every colour of the rainbow. Her face glowed in the light of the Gift and Nathaniel stood, arms and jaw slack, as she propelled them through the water. She had a look in her eyes, iridescent with the reflections of the water and the Gift, that looked like freedom.
The gondola nudged up on dry land. Astrid stepped off smartly before Nathaniel had regained the use of his limbs.
“Remind me to never underestimate what they teach at Avery’s Academy,” George muttered.
Astrid marched to the door. “Good afternoon,” she said to the guard. “I'm Duchess Astrid Race of the Hazel Peninsula. This is Sir Nathaniel Bolt of Brushbridge, his squire, Charlie Ribbon and Sir George Sigrid of the King's Bodyguard.” George saluted casually.
The huge ebony doors of the palace were swung open at her very words. Nathaniel was a little dumbstruck, and more than a little jealous. How many times had he tried to talk his way through that entrance on his way to see Alicia? And here was Astrid with her newly minted title and her head held high, swanning through as if the palace, and the entire world, belonged to her.
He stepped through, helmet under his arm, and was surprised to see who was waiting for them on the other side.
Laurel Sigrid was pretty in a dangerous sort of way. She held herself like Antonia, respected rules less than Genevieve, and they both had that Avery's Academy veneer of stillness and decorum. There was none of that in Laurel, a long braid of dark hair twisted over her shoulder, curves everywhere you looked, pink lips pouted and a wicked glint in her green eyes. She was wearing something lilac with a lot of flounces and lace, and she didn't bow her head as she curtseyed to Astrid.
“Your Grace,” she said. “Many congratulations.”
“Laurel.” Astrid had an excellent deep curtsey, but she didn't employ it today.
In another world, Astrid Race and Laurel Sigrid might have been best friends. Nathaniel had nothing against Laurel, he knew her well by virtue of being George's sister, and she was witty and not untalented. Her penchant for stable boys and footmen was an open secret and though it had caused her endless trouble with the Queen, the spice of the stories always cheered Nathaniel up, here was a girl imperfect and rebellious, whom Cordelia Avery hadn't moulded into a perfect little lady at the age of twelve. Perhaps that was why Alicia and Astrid never had time for her, why they used to do impressions of her with a finger holding the end of their nose up like a pig, giggling about her behind her back.
“I think she's just lonely,” Nathaniel said to Alicia of her one day.
Alicia had rolled her eyes. “That's of her own making. She's awful.”
In this moment, she seemed like a gift, a way to take what little revenge on Astrid he could.
“What a delight to see you, Laurel,” Nathaniel said with a deep bow. “I'm sure we can leave the Duchess in your capable hands.”
Laurel grinned. “Yes, Sir Bolt. That would be splendid.”
--

George raised his mug and called for another round.
Charlie looked despondently into his own, still half full, while Nathaniel and George were topped up on their fourth pint of ale.
“You have to keep up, Charlie,” Nathaniel said, taking another sip.
“Do I? Can I not just go to bed?”
“No!” Nathaniel and George shouted in unison.
The banquet hall was cavernous and badly lit with tall yellow candles. There were always musicians in the corners hoping to gain a rich patron, not realising that the people with any money or influence were upstairs at the Peers Dinner. Astrid Race was probably up there right now, simpering and cosying up to the other peers, and laughing at how easy it was to trick stupid, uneducated knights.
“What are we even drinking to?” Charlie asked. “Your missing betrothed? The as yet unratified Treaty?”
“To the King and Queen!” George bellowed, and downed his pint. Nathaniel was impressed.
George set his mug down. “Alright,” he said. “I'm off to check in on my sister, and then I'm going to bed. I'm on duty in the throne room early tomorrow. Don't do anything stupid.”
He wasn't even drunk. Nathaniel looked him up and down. Four pints would maybe fill up one of his boots. It would take a lot more to get anything impressive out of Sir George Sigrid. He swung out from the table and left Nathaniel and the very morose Charlie to their own devices.
“What's got you in such poor spirits, anyway?” Nathaniel asked him.
Charlie waved his hands in the air around his head. “Everything?” he said. “How are you not in poor spirits? Alicia's gone, we're useless, the Treaty might not work and -”
He stopped short as a hand - much smaller than George's - grabbed his empty mug, and held it up for ale. Nathaniel stared. She had changed into a very fine dress, flowing green silk and a corset pulled surprisingly tight, and someone had braided her hair in a crown around her head, with a gold ribbon running through it.
A servant ran over to fill up her mug, and Astrid Race turned to face Nathaniel, brandishing it in his face. “I have a bone to pick with you, Sir Bolt.”
She, unlike George, was already tipsy. Nathaniel smirked. “Too much wine at the Peers' Banquet?”
She considered him for a moment with scorn. “I'm fine. I'm sober.” She tried to straighten her face to prove it. “But you. Did you know that today is my eighteenth birthday? Did you?” She took a sip of ale. “Every other young person in the kingdom gets to spend their eighteenth birthday getting presents and cake and singing and dancing but instead, I have to spend my eighteenth birthday with you. You arrogant, self-serving little weasel, who can't see when someone is trying to do something nice for him for a change, and who left me alone with Laurel Sigrid of all people so he could come down here and drink -”
Nathaniel didn't know whether to be shocked or horrified, but he held his hand up. “I'm sorry,” he said, and was surprised to find that he meant it. “I'm sorry. You're right. I know you didn't mean any harm by not telling me about the letter.” He bowed his head. “Truly. I shouldn't be holding it against you. I'm sorry.”
She eyed him. “I'm sorry too. It won't happen again.”
“And,” he said, touching the rim of his mug to hers. “I'm sorry that your coming-of-age celebrations have been a little lacklustre. But...” He squinted at the clock at the end of the hall. “We still have a little time.” He pushed the ale towards her, and finished the rest of his own pint.
Watching the smile unfurl on Astrid's face was like watching the sun rise.
She lifted her own mug and he watched in astonishment as she gulped down her own pint without pause. She put the empty mug down and there was colour in her face that hadn't been there before.
“Alright,” she said. “Let's celebrate.”

--

The last of the courtiers was leaving the banqueting hall. Charlie stood up with purpose. “Time to head back to the Quarters.”
Nathaniel stood up too. The floor was fluctuant underneath his feet. “Those boats won't be fun.”
His eyes lit on Astrid. “You can use your trick from earlier! With your Gift!”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “But then I have to go in a boat as well. And the palace is so nice and warm and on dry land.”
Nathaniel grabbed her elbow and pulled her to her feet. “Oh, it'll be fun. Don't be such a duchess.”
“But I am a duchess,” she protested rather uselessly, already following him outside.
The autumn night bit at his ears as they stepped outside. The gondoliers huddled around a fire. Charlie caught the attention of one and engaged him in chatter. The gondolier looked up at them, and waved at Astrid.
Nathaniel stared at him, then her. “Astrid, have you taken a leaf from Laurel Sigrid's book and had a secret liaison with a member of palace staff?”
Astrid rolled her eyes. “No. That's Rudy. He's my gardener friend. He does this to make some extra money. Come on.”
The idea of Astrid being friends with the gondolier, of somehow being more connected to him than she was to Nathaniel, rooted him to the spot, even as she tugged at his arm. Charlie was already in the gondola, and then it was gone, cutting through the water like black silk.
“Nat, come on,” Astrid insisted. “You need to go back to the Quarters and sleep it off.”
He looked down at her. She was glowing from drink and Gift and moonlight, and her hair was coming out of its braided crown, messy and unkempt. It struck him that he'd never seen her like this before.
It struck him he didn't want to say goodbye just yet.
“Do you want to go swimming?” he blurted.
Her eyes grew huge and she started to giggle. “In the lake?”
“Where else?” He grabbed her hand - it was small and warm and not as soft as he thought it would be. “Come on, let's go around the back, no one will see us.”
She stared at him, and there were stars reflected in her dark eyes. Her mouth was open as if she was about to say something, but she didn't. Instead, her hand tightened around his, and they ran.
Astrid was breathless as she kicked off her slippers and rolled down her stockings under her dress. “Liss and I used to do this all the time in the summers,” she said, then paused. “Before you came along.”
“Don't blame me,” he replied, unbuckling his armour and pulling his boots off. “You just got boring.”
“I did not.” She was fumbling with the laces on the back of her bodice. “But once you appeared, that was all we talked about.” He watched her hands, fingers blunted by alcohol, then moved up behind her and took the laces from her. Astrid became very still. A held breath trembled inside her ribcage as he pulled the string and her bodice loosened. She let the breath out as he pulled the edges of the bodice apart. Taking two steps away from him, she pulled it off altogether, let her many silk skirts fall to the ground.
She turned to face him, him in his undershirt and her in her shift and for a long moment neither of them moved. Neither of them said a word. They just stared at each other.
Then she reached for his hand again, and pulled him into the water gently lapping on the edge of the island. They both took pitched gasps as it engulfed them, cold and clear and delicious. Astrid laughed, the sound ringing against the sky.
For a moment, he glimpsed Astrid Race's soul, and for a moment, he loved her.

--
They decided they needed more drink, and Astrid knew where to find it.
“Alicia's emergency bottle of gin,” she slurred. “It's upstairs. Come on. But quiet.”
The moon swung in the sky with every step and the palace passed in a blur of muted torchlight, but his feet knew the way to Alicia's bedroom.
The room was pitch black with gleams of silver from the back of a hairbrush, a mirror frame, the brocade on her bed canopy.
Nathaniel didn't know where girls kept secrets, so he started at the vanity table and picked up one of the bottles there to uncork and sniff, but in the process seemed to knock a thousand tiny girl trinkets on the carpet.
He knelt down to pick up unknown objects. There were lots of small, sharp things scattered over the carpet and digging into his knees. He picked one up, squinting in the darkness to examine it. It looked like a tiny sword. Why did she have so many tiny swords?
Maybe the King was planning on raising a tiny army to protect the new Treaty.
“Nat? What are you doing?” Astrid stood behind him, the dusty bottle of gin in her hand.
He waved a tiny sword at her. “Tiny swords!” he explained.
“Looks like a hairpin to me.”
She was right, and he started to laugh so much his stomach hurt.
“Where was the gin?” he asked, standing up and going over to her, marvelling at it.
“In the love letters and gin cabinet,” she said, pointing. His gaze trundled to the little dark cavity of the cabinet, where he could see dozens of letters neatly stacked and tied into bundles. “Who wrote all of those?” he wondered aloud.
“You did,” said Astrid. “Don't you remember them?”
It sounded like it hurt her to think, and he could see it now, her and Alicia under the sheets of her big princess bed, foreheads almost touching as they read a letter that he couldn't even recall writing.
“Of course I do,” he lied, and grabbed the gin out of her hand, going to the balcony. Alicia's room looked over the four seasonal gardens that the King enjoyed so much. He threw the glass doors wide and sat on the ground of the balcony, feet through the railings and dangling in thin air below.
Astrid sat down next to him, a little cautious, hugging her knees.
He took a swig of gin, feeling it warm him as it glided down his throat, then offered Astrid a drink. A little timidly, she put her lips around the rim of the bottle and took a small gulp. She shuddered as its heat ran through her.
“So, Duchess Race, how has your birthday been? Did I damage it irreparably?”
“No,” she said with a little smile. She was quiet. “This isn't so bad.”
She turned to look at him and caught him staring.
“I'm glad,” he said, softer still.
Her eyes were as black as night out here, and her mouth was a little open.
He wanted to kiss her.
A still, silent moment passed, too perfect to end. Then he reached a hand out and pushed a strand of loose hair behind her face. She stayed frozen, under some spell of gin and stars.
His body leant forward, even as a voice in his head screamed Alicia, Alicia, Alicia.
Then she started. She jumped to her feet and took a step back. “I don't know what you're planning,” she said sounding a little frightened, but mostly angry. “But you can't. We can't.” She gestured to the empty room. “Alicia,” she said, helpless.
He nodded. “Alicia.” He waited a moment. “But don’t you want to?”
Astrid slammed the balcony door as she left.
He had another gulp of gin.

Astrid’s aching eyes took a minute to adjust to her surroundings, the heavy canopy and dusky pinks of the room. It was past dawn. Her head pounded at the mere thought of being lifted off of the pillow, so she lay for a moment to work out the cause. There had been a couple of glasses of heady wine at dinner, and a port forced upon her by Lady Fairview, then a few pints of ale and then a gulp of gin on the balcony -
Alcohol wasn't the root of the problem. It was Nathaniel Bolt.
She forced herself to sit up and stretched out her arms. Today was a big day. Ratifying the Treaty was not only her first official act as peer, but her part to play in one of the most important events of maybe her whole generation. Even Alicia had never done something quite so important. Last night she had mingled as best she could with the other Peers. Lady Fairview she knew well enough that the old woman was no longer an intimidating figure, even though she liked to talk in a stage whisper about the Gift she had shown Astrid in the woods. Her niece, Lady Pillory, had seemed harrowed and troubled the whole night and hadn’t spoken much. Lord Ribbon, with his bristling orange beard and booming voice, had complained loudly to her about Genevieve’s recklessness and Charlie's passivity and Astrid had just let him, rather than trying to argue. The others were all perfectly polite to her, though she didn’t know the majority. Watching them all were the King and Queen, like a warm sun and frozen moon on either end of the table.
The King had given her a few moments of her time, and listened with due concern about Alicia.
"Sire, I know that everyone thinks I know where she's gone. But I don't. If I had any inkling, I would tell you."
He had raised a busy eyebrow. "You don't think she eloped with the Bolt boy?"
Astrid blinked. "The letter is a forgery, Your Majesty. Didn't Madame Avery explain...?"
The Queen swooped in before she could continue. "Perhaps it's all a clever ruse. Though he never struck me as intelligent."
After dinner were drinks, and after drinks Astrid drank more, and most of the rest of the night was a blur.
But she could still remember the balcony, the warmth of gin and hopefulness, the feeling that anything could happen, and perhaps should happen.
The tangle of guilt and longing and anger was still inside her, knotted tightly and stuck to her ribs. Before she got out of bed, she called a ball of Gift into her hand, trying Lady Fairview's advice of ridding herself of feelings, not thoughts. She tried, but she couldn't, it was green with flecks of brown and rust like dried blood.
Astrid needed to clear her head - and her soul - before she could sign the Treaty that afternoon. And there was only one place she knew where to do that here.
She rang for Madge the maid to help her dress, and informed her where she would be if anyone asked for her. Then she navigated the winding labyrinth of palace corridors and sat primly in a gondola, trying to forget her behaviour from yesterday. It wasn't like her, and she shouldn't make a habit of it.
On the other side of the lake, among the lawns and topiaries and flowerbeds were men bending and digging and tending, but none of them were the set of spidery limbs that she sought.
Down by the West Wall, the roofs of the glass houses glinted like diamonds in the dirt. Astrid crept over the grass, skirts lifted up away from the dew. The door was ajar. She sidled up to it with a listening ear.
“Now, Ms Calla, you have your own sunlit corner of the bench and all the water you could possibly desire, and I’ve rescued you from that cruel Mr Hibiscus that was creeping up on you. So why won’t you grow.”
Even when he was talking to his plants, Rudy’s voice didn’t rise at the end of his questions. For the first time that day, Astrid smiled.
She knocked on the glass house door and bounced in, grinning at Rudy.
“Well, hello, Mr Black,” she said.
Rudy looked up with his big button eyes in surprise. “Duchess Race,” he said, and gave her an extremely half-hearted bow. When Astrid met him first, she thought maybe that bow was meant to be a sign of disrespect. Then she realised that Cadoras boys like Rudy never had call to learn how to bow properly. Instead, he gave her a warm smile. “I hope that you've recovered from your adventures last night.”
Astrid felt herself blush. "I'm sorry, Rudy, I was carried away and I wish you hadn't seen me that way. I would rather no one ever saw me that way."
Rudy handed her a silver watering can. "I'm sure that you and your friend Sir Bolt had fun," he said.
"Not as much fun as I'll have here with you."
She inhaled the scent of the glasshouse, of leaves and soil and a thousand different perfumes from every corner of the world. "How are all of your children doing?" she asked, touching the leaves of a hydrangea. "All still glossy and green?"
"All apart from this calla lily," he said, frowning and touching a drooping stem. "She just won't bloom, no matter what I do."
"Well, you know that they say. We don't all bloom at the same time." She inspected the lily too. Sometimes she thought that the glasshouses stripped the one thing that these plants needed to truly thrive, and that was Gift from outside. How could a lily in a pot ever be as wondrous as one that grew in the ground? But Rudy did better than she imagined anyone ever had. In other hands, this place would be as black as the Deadwoods.
She began working her way down the long bench of plants, watering as she went. Rudy was watching her carefully. "So you're here for this big fancy peer meeting then," he stated.
She nodded. "Because I'm a big fancy peer," she teased. "Yes, I'm going to sign the ratification in a few hours. But I wanted to come down and see you first and see... this." She gestured to the glasshouse, dangling hanging baskets, blossoms in every colour she could think of, gentle leaves lapping up the sun from every angle. It was always summer in here, always calm, always perfect.
"And your friends from last night. They're here for it too."
"No, they're just... here. They're knights, or Charlie's a squire."
"Charlie seemed nice. I punted him back across the lake."
She concentrated on the soil. "Charlie is nice."
"But that Nathaniel one..."
Astrid didn't respond, unsure of where Rudy was going with this.
"You're a big fancy duchess, as you say," he said with a shrug. "And he's just a knight. I just think he should be respectful of you."
She smirked at him through the green lattice of leaves. "Like you're respectful, Mr Black?"
"I'm respectful," he replied. "I'm just not... I don't know the word."
"Deferential?"
"That sounds right."
Nathaniel and Rudy had both come into her life the same summer. It was the summer she was fifteen, the summer she was obsessed with roses. Everything revolved around roses, around learning how to grow them, obtaining the best cuttings, reading books with finely detailed diagrams of different species. She was planning to rejuvenate Wolfe Castle’s little walled garden, to fill it with the most glorious blooms, the best perfumes. Roses were the driving force behind her single act of rebellion; she had left the Summerhouse Ball to receive tutelage from Lady Fairview’s head gardener Bret.
Here in the palace, the head gardener had been glad to take a fledgling duchess under his wing. Rudy Black was at the time, the palace’s lowliest apprentice, a sixteen-year-old city boy who had grown up in a house with no garden of its own. His job was to rake leaves, keep grass an even length and to not, under any circumstances, touch the flowers. But a boy with such eyes and fingers like his was made to handle delicate things. He had been permitted to tag along to Astrid’s rose classes. Roses were the first thing he learnt to tend. Astrid taught him everything she knew. She snuck books out of the royal library into his hand. Three years on, the glass houses, filled with exotic Southern species seen nowhere else in Samina, were under the authority of this dreamy nineteen-year-old. Rudy told her the head gardener still regularly made comments attributing Rudy’s skills to “that Race girl, duchess or lady or something. Fantastic girl. Talent of her own. Wasted on politics.”
Astrid knew Rudy was just flattering her.
"I was so sorry when I heard about the princess,” Rudy said. “Do you think she’s alright.”
“I don’t know,” Astrid sighed. “I just have no idea where she could be. And that worries me. I can’t… I can’t remember a time where I didn’t know where she was. It’s strange.”
Rudy nodded. “I’m so sorry. Been happening in the city too.”
Astrid frowned. “Is this the children?”
“Forty seven, by the last count. From all parts of the city. All young, all helpless, all gone.”
Astrid was stunned into silence. She had dismissed Sylvia’s story as Sylvia nonsense. Rudy was not Sylvia. Rudy had his feet more firmly planted on the ground than anybody Astrid knew. “That’s terrible,” she said. “Do they have any idea who’s taking them?”
“No. There doesn’t seem to be a pattern. They’re all ages. Boys and girls. From all parts of the city. There’s no motive. Half of them are dirt poor. Who would kidnap a slum child.” He sighed, there was a rustle of leaves and a trickle of water as he continued his work.
“I’ve been thinking the same about who would kidnap a princess,” Astrid said, grimacing. “I’m sorry Rudy. I had no idea. Do you think the King knows?”
“No idea. Maybe you should ask him.”
“Perhaps I will.”
There was a pause as the two of them were absorbed in what they were doing. Astrid heard Rudy take a quick breath. Then another. “Charlie Ribbon,” he started. “What’s his story.”
“What do you mean, ‘his story’?”
“Where he’s from, his family, all that.”
“He’s from Iron Holdings, in the East. He’s my friend Genevieve’s cousin. Although really they’re more like brother and sister. His parents passed away when he was five of influenza."
“And he’s a knight.”
“He’s a squire. A knight in training. Although…”
“Although.”
“I don’t think he wants to be one,” Astrid said. “In fact, I know that he doesn’t. It’s funny, had he and Gen’s birthrights been switched, they would both be perfectly happy. As it is, they’re both restless and their lives are going to be wasted on doing the opposite of what they would be good at.”
“You think Genevieve would make a good knight.” Rudy’s eyes were full of mischief.
“You’d be surprised.” Astrid found a laugh drawing on her own mouth, but it was a private laugh, and Rudy did not share it. The sound of him rustling leaves and his soft footsteps fell away and Astrid paused in her own work. She had gained a couple of steps on him, and had to turn back to see him. At this angle, the sun fell directly through the glass onto her face, making it hotter than the rest of her body.
“Is Charlie like me?” This was a question at last, and Rudy’s expression could have broken her heart if she hadn’t seen it there so regularly before, an impossible equilibrium between hope and despair, managed only by this one lowborn city boy.
“I don’t think so.” There were only three pots until the end of the bench, and Astrid filled them quickly as she rounded the end and turned onto Rudy’s aisle. A couple of fallen leaves crinkled underfoot. She took Rudy’s can off him and set both of them down on the bench, glinting in the light. Then she took his hands in her own. His were so much rougher, so much browner, the dirt never really leaving them. “I’m sorry.”
“No nobleman to sweep me off my feet and take me away from here, then.” He grinned, trying to turn it into a joke like they nearly always did.
“Rudy, you know that once I’m back at Hazel you can come work for me. Even before that.”
“That’s not what I meant-“
“I know. But I won’t care how you live your life, nor with whom. Nor will I allow anybody else to care. I’ll publish a decree as Duchess of the Hazel Peninsula.” She had coaxed a smile, a real, nervous smile from his soft mouth.
“Thanks, Your Grace. I’ll keep it in mind.”
'Your Grace.' Even though the bench of tall plants no longer separated them, Astrid’s title and position proved just as much of a barrier. Astrid knew that, and generally it didn’t matter to her. When she was making a serious offer though, she knew that Rudy perceived it simply as an aristocratic nicety. As something that she, like every other noble in the country, would fail to provide. A part of her was sad, but another part couldn’t wait to prove him wrong. She squeezed his hands then released them.
“Now, let’s have some lunch and get you to your big fancy meeting,” he insisted. "My mother heard you were coming to the Capital, and packed extra for you."
--

Upstairs in the pink room, Madge helped her into a velvet dress and braided her hair again in complicated criss-crossing braids across her head.
"Now, you look like a proper duchess," the maid said, appreciating her work.
Half of Astrid thought she was right. The other half was terrified that she was wrong.
Her shoes clipped on the marble floors as she wound her way downstairs to the throne room.
Two footmen in their best livery opened the doors to her without a word. She took a deep breath and stepped inside.
The throne was huge, mahogany, magnificent, and empty. The King stood at the bottom of the dais, talking to Lady Fairview, while the Queen milled around the other peers. Two identical sets of carved columns ran the length of the room, and echoing them were two rows of plush red chairs, fourteen in all, one for each of the peers. Everything about the room cried splendour and monarchy, except for the one thing none of them could ignore. A small writing desk, no bigger nor grander than a school desk, sat at teh bottom of the dais, a leather chair behind it, ink and quill perching on its face.
She did a quick headcount of the room - she was the last to arrive. Most of the Peers were uninterested in her. Her heart stammered. Of course, she was a usurper to this carefully calibrated, privileged group. She was just a little girl, and here were the most important people in the kingdom. They didn't have time for her.
Lady Calliope Pillory stood apart from all of the groups as well, leaning against a grey and white pillar, chewing on a fingernail. There was a scrap of paper in her hand that was making her frown. Astrid drifted towards her.
"Lady Pillory," she said, as kindly as she could, curtseying deeply. "Are you alright?"
She turned to acknowledge Astrid, then went straight back to the paper. "If we sign today," she said, then paused, mouthing the next words before she said them. "If we sign them, then it's over. The Adventurists win. That's the end."
Astrid cocked her head in confusion. "Well, the rest of Parliament will have to sign, but once we and the King have agreed it's very difficult for them to overturn us..." It felt strange to lecture her elder, and a bright spot of gratitude appeared in her mind, for all Avery's had taught her.
"And..." Lady Pillory turned again. She had such gentle green eyes. "And they can't do anything to hurt us, then. They can't come after me or Fred."
Astrid's jaw dropped. "No, milady. They can never do that. It's treasonous."
She quivered on the edge of a question, but before she could ask, Lady Pillory asked her, "Do you know my son, Fred?"
Astrid shook her head. Lady Fairview was frequently trying to make a match between Astrid and her great nephew, but the Avery girls and Barton boys were deliberately kept separate so as not to muddy any lines of succession. "I've heard wonderful things about him, milady."
A ghost of a smile haunted Lady Pillory's face. "He is wonderful. Do you think he knows what he's doing? He's so young," she continued, tongue tripping with the speed of her words. "He's only about your age. And I just worry that he's making a terrible mistake, that we're both making terrible mistakes."
Astrid stood up as tall as she could. "I'm young, milady, but I've been entrusted with this decision today. Perhaps it's time to trust Fred with his own decisions as well."
There was a soft cough. It was the King, and he clapped his hands. "Now that we are all assembled - my dear Duchess Race," he said, inclining his head to Astrid, "shall we begin the process?"
They each took their assigned seats; Astrid was at the very end of one row, opposite Lady Pillory. A fanfare sounded and the document was brought in. It was written hastily on a piece of fine vellum, the ink bleeding on the tails of letters. The King read through the wording of it carefully, that they, the peers of Samina, were in agreement on these changes to the Archipelago Treaty and that understanding the importance of the Treaty they hoped to continue its terms save one: that no longer would there be a requirement for an individual to be Gifted to take a seat in Parliament.
All too soon, it came time to sign it. The King had already given his signature to this agreement but did so again. Lord Ribbon was next, all bluster and red hair, his letters sharp and angry. He was not happy with this turn of events, but too loyal to the King to speak against it.
Then there was Lord Rallstop, then Lady Jewelston. One by one, each sat in the leather chair and signed their name to the new agreement. Lady Fairview joked as she wrote hers, then handed the quill to her niece.
Lady Pillory's hands were trembling. She glanced around the room, jittery as a colt, as if there were shadows creeping up on her. She met Astrid's eye and Astrid didn't know why, but she nodded.
She put pen to paper, scrawling her name. She held the quill out to Astrid, the last of the fourteen.
Willing her hands not to shake, she wrote her name as finely as she could, the quill flicking at the end of 'Race'.
A sigh rose from the room, and Astrid stared at the ink, still glistening wet. It was done. She stared at the names - Ribbon, Pillory, Rallstop, even Race, they were all names familiar from history books. And now, with the ink still wet and glistening, Astrid had made a little bit of history herself.
--
Lady Fairview told the peers that she had urgent business to attend to, then leant into Astrid and whispered, "The new stablemaster is being awfully difficult with my Friday deliveries. Honestly, how does he think I maintain my garden? I don't rely on the palace for much - except manure!" She laughed, a little maniacally for Astrid's tastes, and hobbled out of the room.
The chairs had all mysteriously disappeared, and Astrid watched a narrow man in spectacles carefully wrap up the new Treaty and carry it off to safety before the chaos of court surrounded it again. The room was full of the chatter of everyday court life. A part of her was intrigued, but a part of her was itching to get outside, back to the glasshouses or back to the woods, to something that she knew. Her dress was suddenly too heavy, her braids too tight, and she got the distinct feeling that a girl from Hazel wasn't meant to be here.
She was considering making an excuse the way that Lady Fairview had - after all, she reminded herself, she was a duchess, she could do what she liked - when a familiar hue of orange caught her eye. She sidestepped to the crowd to where Charlie gave her a half smile from Nathaniel's side. Nathaniel's armour was newly polished, shining bright silver, but his eyes were still rimmed with red from the night before.
Astrid didn't know how she felt about the events of the night before, but she knew she didn't feel like talking to him.
"Why do I get the feeling you're planning on stringing us up by our ankles until all the blood runs out of our noses?" Charlie asked.
"Charlie, you know that's not how blood works."
"I don't know, I don't think I believe all this 'the heart is a pump' business," he said, and winked. "Please don't look so glum, Astrid. You're a duchess, who has just achieved great success."
She smiled at him. Nathaniel was ignoring both of them, standing tall and staring straight ahead to the King, helmet under his arm. "What are you and Sir Bolt doing here?" she asked Charlie, loud enough for Nathaniel to hear.
"We're here to speak with the King about Alicia," said Nathaniel. "To clear my name, and to gain his favour for abandoning our duties to our liege lord in search of her."
"Oh." Astrid had a thousand things to say, but couldn't voice a single one.
The King finished up with his current applicant, and his eye fell upon the three of them.
"Sir Bolt," he called, as an aide stepped onto the dais and dropped paperwork into his lap, whispering at a furious rate. An uneasy silence settled over the hall.
Nathaniel stepped forward, and dropped to his knee, placing his helmet on the ground. "Your Majesty," he said. "I come before you to humble myself, and to seek your pardon for I believe there have been allegations levelled against me that are not true. I seek your blessing to leave my post and go in search of the missing Crown Princess."
Astrid wanted to save that moment of him, kneeling like a noble knight in a tapestry, hair glinting in the sunlight, face bent into the shadows. He was so handsome that she wanted to cry, and she wanted to kiss him, and she hated the thought even as it came to her.
"Sir Bolt," the King repeated. "I'm glad that you have come before me. It has come to my attention that since my daughter's disappearance on Sunday last, only one name has been mentioned in the consideration of culprits of such a crime. That name, I regret to say, is yours."
The earth tilted to the side under Astrid's feet. Charlie's hand clamped on her arm. She didn't know if he was stilling her or steeling himself.
"I know, Your Majesty, and I come before you to clear my name - if I had any notion of her whereabouts I would have divulged them straightaway, but I do not. I have been praying and searching and if you will direct me further, I will devote everything I have to the cause of bringing her home safe."
There was more furious muttering on the dais, and now amongst the other courtiers. Astrid watched as the Queen passed like a silver and black moth behind the throne, her eyes fixed on Nathaniel.
The King was quiet, and solemn. Astrid's breath was heavy before she understood why.
"Sir Bolt," he said softly, his words ending in a wheeze. "I have always considered you as a servant of the realm, a welcome visitor to this court, and someone who would one day be my son. But the evidence stands. I have no choice." He coughed, Astrid felt it rack her own lungs. "Sir Bolt," he started again, more loudly. "I am arresting you on the charges of conspiracy, kidnapping and treason. We will hold you here in the palace until such a time as your trial can take place."
Horror crescendoed around her. Distantly, she was aware of her and Charlie shouting, reaching hands out. Her hand brushed the back of Nathaniel's armour, and was swiped away, She felt a ball of rage fizzing in her, begging for her to let it out as Gift, but to do so in the throne room was treason in itself, and someone was pinning her hands behind her back - she twisted to see that it was Lady Pillory, holding her in a gentle but firm grip, whispering words that Astrid couldn't hear. She watched as they pulled Nathaniel to his feet, and she expected them to drag him out.
He stood straight, lifted his head up high, his gaze somewhere above them, and walked out with his dignity intact, and without a second glance.