House of Salt and Sorrows(44)

“That’s not— This isn’t just grief, Papa. I truly think someone hurt Eulalie. On purpose.” I gathered my courage, and the story flowed out in a rush. “Eulalie was running away from home that night. She was going to elope with Edgar, the clockmaker’s apprentice, but someone else was waiting for her.”

Papa stifled a laugh, and my heart sank.

“Edgar Morris? That little man with the spectacles?” His lips twitched in amusement. “He wouldn’t have the gumption to pick up a copper florette left in the cobblestones, let alone elope with my eldest daughter.”

He breezed into the Blue Room, joining my sisters.

“Papa, listen to me, please!” I cried, running after him. “Edgar proposed—he gave Eulalie the locket she was buried in, the one with the anchor and the poem inside. He said when he arrived to take her away, he saw a shadow on the cliff, just after she fell. She must have been pushed.”

“Nonsense.” He swatted his hand, easily dismissing my theory.

“It’s not! Someone was there. Someone who didn’t want Eulalie to marry Edgar.”

“That could be anyone,” Camille cut in. “I can’t think of a more unlikely match.”

Papa sank into his armchair, chuckling. “Quite true. If I half suspected Edgar capable of stealing Eulalie, I’d have pushed him off a cliff. Gladly.” He rubbed at his eyes. “That’s enough of this, Annaleigh.”

“But how can you be so sure—”

“I said enough.” His voice was sharp and swift, a guillotine axing the conversation. “Now, what’s this I hear about shoes?”

Everyone exchanged tense glances. Finally, Honor pushed her way forward and lifted her skirts to reveal very battered slippers. The soles were scuffed, and the navy dye had completely worn away in spots. Most of the silver beads had chipped off, and the ribbons were completely tattered.

Papa slipped a shoe off, mystified. “Are they all like this?”

The triplets glanced at each other before raising their skirts.

“The cobbler promised these would last all season. They look as though they’ve seen a hundred balls.”

Lenore twisted her mouth, visibly uncomfortable. “Maybe there was something wrong with the leather?”

“And you’ve no other shoes?” Papa asked, his skepticism evident. “I just paid three thousand gold florettes for a set that didn’t last a month.”

“You burned our others,” Camille reminded him. “On the bonfire with the mourning clothes, remember?”

Papa sighed, pressing the pads of his fingers to his forehead. “I suppose a trip to town will be necessary. But you’ll have to wait. I’m leaving for Vasa the day after tomorrow, at first light. There’s a problem there with a clipper’s hull. I won’t pay for shoddy craftsmanship.” He glanced back at Honor’s slipper. “Not on ships and certainly not on shoes. I could go early next week.”

“We can’t go barefoot till then,” Rosalie exclaimed. “Could we take the rowboat? We could go tomorrow. We all know how to row.”

“But not all of you will fit.” He glanced behind us. “Ah, Fisher.”

“Welcome home, sir,” Fisher said, lingering in the doorway. His face was smudged and his hair damp with sweat. He wore a thick navy sweater and carried a bucket of soft blades for cleaning boats. His amber eyes fell on me once before shifting away.

“Enjoying your stay? Must be nice to get a break from Silas’s cooking, I imagine,” Papa said, settling back into his chair.

“It is, to be sure. And it’s wonderful getting to spend so much time with Mother.”

I blinked, Hanna’s hurt still fresh in my mind.

“She’s put me to work today,” he continued, raising the bucket.

Papa winced with a laugh. “Scraping off barnacles like a little lad. I’m sorry to hear that.” He paused. “Actually, I might have something to help you out. The girls need to go to Astrea tomorrow if the fog lifts. Could you take them out on the cat?”

Fisher nodded. “I’d be happy to.”

“Oh, thank you, Papa! Thank you, Fisher!” Ligeia exclaimed, throwing her arms around Papa’s neck.

Papa raised a finger of warning to us all. “I will not make a habit of purchasing new pairs every week. Pick something sturdy to get you through the winter at least. No more fairy shoes.”





“Hurry up and choose something, Rosalie.” Honor hopped from one foot to the other, a petulant whine growing in her voice. Papa had given us sailors’ boots, found in one of the storerooms near the dock, and they were too big for even us older girls. On the Graces, they were comically absurd.

We’d been in the cobbler’s shop for over an hour. Fisher had carried in the boxes of worn slippers and dumped the contents on Reynold Gerver’s table, demanding to know why the shoes had worn out so fast.

The poor shoemaker had hemmed and hawed as he examined his creations, sputtering that such fraying should never have occurred so quickly. He’d offered new shoes for us all, at a fraction of the standard price.

“These are awfully nice.” Rosalie picked up a pair of satin shoes with a fashionable court heel.

“And impractical,” Fisher said, snatching them from her. “Your father made it abundantly clear I’m not to allow you to purchase something delicate and pretty. Just find something like the rest of your sisters.”