State of Sorrow (Untitled #1)(60)

“Unless it was a joke,” she said, more to convince herself than Irris and Luvian. “Or intended as a pet?”

But the box had been sealed. Airtight. Even as she said it she knew she was clutching at straws.

“From now on, I open all your mail,” Luvian had seethed. “This won’t happen again.”

Days later, Sorrow remained shaken by it. Someone had deliberately set out to frighten her, or warn her. Someone who would hurt a kitten to do it. And as hard as she tried, she found she couldn’t stop thinking about it, especially at night. Couldn’t stop seeing the box, and imagining the pain and confusion of the poor creature. She tortured herself wondering if it had been alive when it was put in the box, or killed before.

Night after night she lay in bed, listening to the golden-haired monkeys that gambolled over the roof, calling to each other, only to fall into a doze and imagine they were cats, looking for their dead friend. Then she’d wake, staring into the dark, until the sun rose and it was time to get up.

Finally, the night before the presentation, Irris suggested she use the sleeping draught she’d once used on her father, and Sorrow had agreed, annoyed she hadn’t thought of it before. She couldn’t afford to be groggy or slow when she spoke.

When she woke, it took her a moment to understand it was still dark, that she shouldn’t be awake. Then she heard a sound, a scrabbling from above her, and she realized that was what had pulled her from her sleep. The monkeys.

There was a thud directly outside the balcony doors that led into her room, and Sorrow groaned softly. There were dozens of trees in the gardens, could they not play there instead of on her roof?

Then the door handle rattled lightly, and every hair on Sorrow’s body stood on end. That wasn’t the monkeys.

Someone was trying to get in.

For a single, impossible moment she thought it must be Rasmus, finally forgiving her, and that was enough to make her sit up, trying to blink away the fogginess from the sleeping potion. Her hand snaked out for the lamp by the bed, her fingers seeking the dial to light it.

She froze when she heard a chime of metal hitting tile, followed by an insistent rasping from the door.

The lock. They’d knocked the key out, and were trying to pick it.

Rasmus would have knocked.

Rasmus wouldn’t come at all, she reminded herself.

Then she remembered the dead kitten.

She lunged for the lamp, desperate for light, knocking it to the ground. The crash as the light clattered to the floor was like cannon fire, blasting apart the silence of the night. By the time Sorrow managed to cross the room and pull back the drapes, the balcony was empty and there was no sign of whoever had been there. The gardens below were dark, and Sorrow bent down and picked up the key, staring at it as though it might hold an answer.

She’d fitted it back in the door, about to turn it, when she realized whoever had been there might not be gone. If they’d come over the roof, they could have returned there… Could be waiting…

She dropped the curtain into place and took two steps back. Her foot nudged the lantern and she looked down to find it hadn’t shattered. She returned it to the bedside table, sitting on the bed and turning the dial enough to give a reassuring glow. Go and wake Luvian, she told herself. And Irris. Tell them about the intruder. Tell the guards at the entrance to the wing.

But she was so tired, the sleeping potion still thick in her veins, slowing her heart, tricking her into believing the danger had passed.

I’ll rest for five minutes, she decided, leaning back against the pillows. Just five minutes…

The next thing Sorrow knew, golden light was streaming in through the windows, and she was lying on the bed, a sheet tangled around her. She sat up slowly, trying to understand why she felt strange. A kind of tugging in her stomach told her there was something she was supposed to have done, and she racked her brains for it. Snatches of dreams came to her, sounds and sensations, and she found herself staring at the window. There had been someone there, hadn’t there? Or was it a dream?

She was saved from thinking too deeply about it by Irris knocking at her door. Irris kept up a stream of chatter as she poured them both cups of strong coffee, the mere smell making Sorrow feel alert. As the drink took effect, the memories of the night before became even hazier, like smoke drifting away from her, and when Irris began to reassure her briskly that she couldn’t be any more prepared for the debate, the knots that formed in her stomach made her forget about the night completely.


Later that day, Sorrow sat backstage, in what Luvian told her had once been a music hall, hastily whitewashed and swept in the days leading up to the presentation. There was a brown patch of damp on the ceiling, and Sorrow found her attention drawn to it, her mind making shapes in it: a rose, a turtle. A face.

The venue was in Prekara, a district Sorrow had never visited. Prekara was an archipelago, jutting out into the sea, divided by service canals that neatly carved up the territory.

It was a county of ruffians, smugglers and thieves. More people lived on boats than in houses, easy to move around if need be. And there was often a need – almost a third of all those imprisoned in Rhannish jails hailed from Prekara. The watery, labyrinthine streets bred criminals, and it was the seat of felonious dynasties like the Finches, the Monks and the Rathbones. It was hardly an obvious or illustrious choice for Sorrow to present her plans for Rhannon.