House of Salt and Sorrows(22)

My mind, swirling with gruesome sketches and ghosts, stilled at her words. “Fisher is coming?” I broke into my first smile of the day.

She nodded, her face lighting up. “Your father invited him to the ball. Wants to introduce him to the captains and lords. He’s so proud.” She swatted at me. “Now scoot! I’ll be along soon to start on your hair.”

I took the back stairs, narrow and as tightly coiled as a nautilus shell, to avoid the foyer’s frenzy. Approaching the second floor, I could hear the triplets squabbling over the best mirrors and who stole whose lip color. As Rosalie shouted for a maid to help search for a pair of wayward hair combs, I hurried away.

Once in my room, I opened my bureau, intending to lay out my undergarments. A worn envelope pressed against the back of the drawer caught my eye.

It was a letter from Fisher, written years ago, after he’d begun his apprenticeship on Hesperus. I ran my fingertips over the familiar handwriting.

    I really shouldn’t even be writing to you, since you made such a stink when Lord Thaumas chose me as the next Keeper of the Light, but Mother says I ought to take the high road. It’s pretty stupid, if you ask me. There aren’t any roads on Salten and certainly not on Hesperus.

It’s quiet here, and Silas wakes me up at all hours of the night to scrub Old Maude’s windows. I hate it. That should cheer you, at least. And if it doesn’t, no matter. I wrote you, as Mother said I should. So there.

But write me back, Minnow. I miss home more than I thought I would. You especially.

Sincerely,

The Terrible Traitor Formerly Known as Fisher



“Are you taking a bath or not?” Camille barged into my room, surprising me. I shoved the letter under a pair of wool tights. “I’ve been waiting all afternoon.”

Snatching up a pair of stockings, I ran my hand over the silk, as if checking for runs. “Go on, then.”

“Have you bathed?”

I tossed the stockings aside. “No. I’m not even sure I’m going to.”

She pulled a face. “Is this about Verity’s drawings? Elizabeth isn’t going to drown you in the tub, but I might if you make me late. Get in there before I dump you in myself.”

“Just take the bath, Camille.”

“I won’t have you looking anything less than your best tonight. We’re both finding suitors.” She grabbed my robe from a hook and threw it at me.

“I thought you said I just needed to be myself,” I muttered peevishly, trudging down the hall. Camille followed after me, presumably to make sure I actually went in.

“Your best, bathed self,” she clarified.

I shut the door in her face with a bit of satisfaction and quickly locked it before she could force her way in, issuing more orders. I faced the bathtub with trepidation. This was silly. I’d bathed here many times since Elizabeth died.

As I turned the brass handles, waiting for the water, the pipes creaked and rattled, like echoes of Eulalie’s screams when she discovered Elizabeth’s body.

After adding a sprinkle of soap, I stepped out of my day dress and studied myself in the full mirror. Dark spots edged along the beveled lines, clouding the reflection. Had drops of Elizabeth’s blood seeped into the glass, staining it forever?

I tried to let the hot water relax my tense muscles, but it was no use. My imagination was working overtime. Noises in the house became my departed sisters creeping in, ready for me to join them. When a bar of soap bumped my thigh, I nearly screamed.

“You’re being ridiculous,” I chided myself before scrubbing my hair. The soap smelled of hyacinths, and as I breathed it in, I felt my body relax, releasing its worries.

Fisher was coming.

I hadn’t seen him in years, not since Ava’s funeral. We weren’t allowed to leave the estate while mourning, and Silas kept him too busy for frequent visits. But he’d been a constant fixture of my childhood, eager to play elaborate rounds of hide-and-seek or go fishing in the little skiff Papa let us use if the weather was good.

He was twenty-one now. Try as I might, I couldn’t imagine him as a grown man. Fisher had been such a lanky beanpole, with a mop of sandy brown hair and twinkling eyes, always ready for mischief. I couldn’t wait to see him again.

“Are you still in there? Hurry up!”

“I just need to rinse my hair!” I shouted at Camille.

She groaned and stomped away.

Plunging under the water, my head cracked against the back of the tub. It knocked the wind out of me. I came up crying in pain, and as the stars cleared from my vision, I let out a shriek.

The water had turned dark purple, nearly black. Murky brine burned in my nostrils, sharp and bitter. I struggled to push myself out of the tub. The bottom was slick with a silky viscosity. I tried to stand, but my feet slipped from under me, and I fell with a spectacular thud, splashing black water over the floor. I rubbed at my hip, already feeling a bruise.

I tried to scream for Camille but was suddenly yanked under by an unseen force. The dark water raced into my mouth, filling it with a brackish bite as I sputtered out a cry for help. I pushed upward, gagging on the fishy tang.

It was a surprisingly familiar taste. One of Cook’s favorite dishes to make in the summer months was a black risotto, full of clams, shallots, and spot prawns. The rice was an exotic obsidian, dyed with squid ink.