Shadow Scale: A Companion to Seraphina(23)

Josquin seemed friendly enough, however. I would try to give our escort the benefit of the doubt.

Dame Okra was digging through the credenza as if Nedouard might magically have opened its doors without us noticing. Josquin smiled indulgently at her; he was fond of her, certainly, as baffling as that seemed. “Good evening, cousin,” he said. “Seraphina, Abdo—I’ll be here early. Be ready to leave.”

He saw himself out. Dame Okra slammed the credenza doors, crying, “Why did I agree to house these monsters? I take it all back. They can sleep in the stable.” She stomped off toward the kitchen, hissing and spitting. I sighed and rested my forehead against the cool, smooth table. Dame Okra made me tired.

“I only have so much patience,” I mumbled to Abdo, “and she uses all of it.”

He mused, I wonder how hard it is to manipulate soul-light. The old priest, Paulos Pende, said it could be done. I already reach out with a finger of fire. He jabbed the table with an index finger. Could I mold hers with it? Could I make her kind, make her forget?

I froze. Forget what? I asked, fearing to learn the answer.

Well, I could start with the spoons. Then she’d forget she hates Nedouard—

I sat up sharply. “Don’t suggest it. Don’t even think it.”


He recoiled from my sudden vehemence, his eyes widening. Oh, madamina, don’t be angry. I only wished … Nedouard is kind and doesn’t deserve her contempt. I only thought to help him.

My mouth had gone dry, but I managed to say, “Dame Okra must have sovereignty over her own thoughts, Abdo, however noxious we may find them.”

He studied my face. There’s a story you haven’t told me. Is it about that lady you banished from your mind?

Another time, I said wearily. He nodded and left me to my thoughts.



At bedtime, I still felt shaken by Abdo’s blithe suggestion and how much it upset me. However many years in the past Jannoula lay, her shadow seemed to lurk below the surface like some dread behemoth.

I went to my room, hoping my bedtime routines would settle me. I washed and oiled the wide band of scales around my waist and the narrower one winding around my left forearm. I flopped onto the four-poster bed, breathed myself calm, and descended into my garden of grotesques.

Ever since Abdo had described my garden as a gatehouse, its surfaces had taken on an odd flatness when I arrived, as if the trees and statuary were a painted backdrop for a play. His suggestion had made me too aware that none of this was real, like a sleeper realizing she’s dreaming. It’s hard to stay asleep once you know.

I stood still a moment with my eyes closed, quietly breathing life back into my construct. When I opened my eyes, everything had righted itself: the sun warmed my face again; the grass individuated into blades, dewy and ticklish between my toes; I smelled roses and rosemary on the wafting breeze.

I checked Jannoula’s cottage first, making sure the padlock on the door still held, as if I might have summoned her just by thinking about her. I said good night to all the denizens I passed, and when I reached his golden nest, I patted Finch—Nedouard—upon his bald head, pleased to have found him, whatever his flaws. I blew kisses toward Bluey, the painter, in her stream of swirling colors and Glimmerghost, the hermit, in her butterfly garden; I was coming for them next.

Settling the garden settled me somewhat. I returned to myself in Dame Okra’s green guest room. I had one last task to attend to before I could sleep. I pulled the silver necklace out of my shirt and felt for the sweetheart knot thnik.

I flipped the little switch. Upon Glisselda’s desk in the study, an ornamented box would be chirping like a cricket. Mine was not the only device connected to that receiver. Comonot had one, as did some of his generals, Count Pesavolta, the Regent of Samsam, and the knights training at Fort Oversea. A page sat at the desk all day, waiting to take calls.

“Castle Orison, identify yourself, if you please,” droned a bored young voice.

“Seraphina Dombegh,” I said.

I thought the boy had made a rude sound, but it was his chair scraping back as he stood, and then there was the thump of the door closing. He knew whom he was to fetch if I called. I settled down to wait. When two dear familiar voices cried, “Phina!” in crackling unison over my quigutl device, I could not help smiling.





Josquin had been serious about the early start. He met Abdo and me at Dame Okra’s door before dawn, put us on horses, and led us through the dewy streets. Shopkeepers swept their stoops, the smell of first bread wafted enticingly, and traffic was light.

“All according to plan,” Josquin said proudly. “Santi Wilibaio’s market begins today. By noon the streets will be full of calves and capering kids.”

Santi Wilibaio was our St. Willibald, called St. Villibaltus in Samsam. Whatever our differences, we Southlanders share the Saints.

At the city gates we met our escort, eight soldiers, half sporting blond beards, all with white plumes bobbing ostentatiously above their soup-bowl helmets. Their breastplates were engraved with martial scenes; their puffed sleeves, in Count Pesavolta’s colors, were like great gold and orange cabbages. Their horses’ harnesses—and those of our own mounts, I noticed—were studded with brass ornaments and tiny bells. Clearly, we weren’t intending to sneak up on anyone.

Josquin hailed the leader, a man with broad shoulders, a big stomach, and a yellow beard like the blade of a shovel. He had no mustache; suddenly Josquin’s chin beard seemed less idiosyncratic. This was some Ninysh fashion.