The Cerulean (Untitled Duology, #1)(113)

“Thank you,” Agnes said. “Feados na thaeias dul leatsou.”

He smiled. “May the goddesses go with you, too.”

Leo opened the door, and they were about to get out when Eneas said, “One more thing.” He hesitated. “Be careful around your grandmother. I know you are eager to meet her, Agnes, but . . . try to see things as they are, not how you wish them to be. Now go!”

They hurried out and shut the door. Eneas threw the car into drive and they watched the taillights vanish. The Seaport was not quite as busy as it was during the day, but there were far more people than normal for this time of night. Music and laughter could be heard from a nearby tavern. A drunk man stumbled past them, whistling. Agnes was suddenly very aware of her expensive gown and the money in her clutch. She tucked it under her arm and turned to Leo, who was staring up at the stars.

“Look,” he said, pointing. “Aetheus’s Harem.”

She smiled weakly. “The Knottle Plains feels like a lifetime ago, doesn’t it?”

He nodded, still gazing at the constellation, and Agnes got the sense he was thinking of something else, something private.

“She’s coming, right?” he said. “She’ll make it out. She’ll get here.”

“Yes,” Agnes said, touching his arm and wondering if there was more to her brother’s devotion to this trip than a sudden burst of conscience. “She’s coming. Let’s get to the ship.”





41

Sera

SERA WAITED ON THE SWING AS THE PLAY CONTINUED beneath her.

She could still feel Leela’s moonstone in her hand, as if it’d left an imprint on her skin. It had always been warm, but this time when she touched it, it was hot, like the High Priestess’s hands. True to his word, Francis had helped her onto the swing and closed the iron bracelets but not locked them, so once she had been hoisted above the stage, it had been a simple matter of wriggling her wrists until she was able to slip free.

Free. She clutched the chains tight—not because she was fearful of falling, but as a way to channel her nerves. Freedom was so close, but there was still much to be done. Her magic was like fire inside her, popping and crackling, as if it knew how crucial this moment was, that a time was approaching when she would be on her way to the tether.

She peered beneath her as James and the man named Grayson pretended to fight with swords. She wondered what her life would be like in the City, if she were able to make it back, knowing now how she felt about males. She supposed it was better than thinking she was incapable of love. She would simply resign herself to a life without that sort of desire, those sorts of wants. But she would have her mothers back, and Leela, too. That would have to be enough.

For some reason, Leo’s face popped into her head. The way he had bent his body toward her as a sign of respect. And he had brought the necklace back like he said he would. Not all males were terrible, she thought, even ones that had been at first. People could change, it seemed.

The fight ended and Gwendivere came onstage. She and James had their argument and then she pretended to stab him.

Here we go, Sera thought as her platform was lowered. Mother Sun, give me strength.

There were shrieks and cries as she appeared, followed by thunderous applause. Sera didn’t understand what they were clapping for—she hadn’t done anything. Not yet at least. She felt one of Boris’s leaves caress her bare foot.

I can do this.

“Go, little sapling,” Boris whispered, and her branches bent back, then slammed into the swing, pushing Sera out over the pond. The people watching gasped, but then Sera was swinging back over Boris, and suddenly, the air was filled with sprites. They spilled out of the earth like golden bees, sparking and twirling, darting this way and that, forming and re-forming, and the crowd went wild, getting to their feet to clap and stomp and whoop. James and Gwendivere stood by, stunned. Sera swung back through a cloud of shimmering sprites and yelled, “Now, Errol!”

The mertag burst out of the pond, his skin a green glow, his arms raised toward her. She almost missed him but managed to grab one of his wrists as she fell back through the sprites and over Boris.

Once more, she thought as Errol swung himself onto her back. She released his wrist and he clung to her tightly, his clawed fingers digging into her skin. He was a little heavier than she had expected. She leaned back to gain momentum and suddenly a cloud of sprites was behind her, pushing her forward with more speed. She kept her eyes focused on the upper balcony, a private box where only four people were seated.

She sent up a final prayer, held her mothers’ faces close to her heart, and jumped. For five or six endless seconds, she was airborne and the freedom was exhilarating. She pointed her lithe body toward the balcony, her arms outstretched, and when her fingers closed around the polished wooden banister, she wanted to cry with joy. But there was no time for tears. Her body slammed into the front of the balcony, knocking the air from her lungs. She held on, determined, as all the sound around her dulled and sparks exploded in front of her eyes.

Her breath returned in a sudden, painful gasp, and it was as if someone had turned up the volume louder than it had been before. People were crying out with uncertainty, shouting or cheering, as if unsure whether this was part of the show.

“Go, Sera Lighthaven!” Errol cried. “The ceiling, the ceiling!”