The Cerulean (Untitled Duology, #1)(55)

Mrs. Phelps opened a door to a windowless room filled with steam. A girl in an apron was pouring a bucket of water into a massive porcelain basin large enough for Sera to lie down in. There was a sink inlaid with a mosaic of roses and a dress hanging up by an oval looking glass similar to the one in her mothers’ bedroom. A little dresser sat in one corner with brushes and combs and tubes and powders on its surface.

“Here she is, Hattie,” Mrs. Phelps said, and the girl nearly dropped the empty bucket at the sight of her. “I’ve got to get back to the kitchen. Have her washed, dressed, and ready in one hour sharp.”

“Y-yes, Mrs. Phelps,” Hattie stammered. Once the older woman had left, the girl reached for Sera’s dress.

“Stay away!” Sera cried, backing up against a wall.

Hattie looked confused. “I was only trying . . . you have to disrobe before you bathe.”

“My orange mother made me this,” Sera said, wrapping her arms around herself. “You will not take it from me.”

They’d already taken so much. Her bracelets. Her necklace. Her freedom.

“Please.” Hattie could not understand her words, but her actions were clear. “I’ve got to get you clean and you can’t bathe in that thing, it’s filthy.”

“You will not take my robe!” Sera shouted.

“Hattie?” There was a loud banging on the door.

“Agnes?” Sera gasped. Hattie looked torn.

“Hattie, open this door at once!”

Sera’s knees went weak with relief as Hattie opened the door and Agnes strode into the room.

“You shouldn’t be here, miss,” Hattie was saying, but Sera had already run over and thrown her arms around Agnes, who stiffened, as if surprised at being hugged, but then returned the embrace with feeling.

“It’s so good to see you,” she whispered in Sera’s ear.

“You too,” Sera whispered back, not caring that Agnes couldn’t understand.

“Leave us, Hattie,” Agnes said, releasing her hold on Sera. “I’ll get her ready.”

“Your father—”

“My father wants her clean and dressed, and I’m more than capable of doing that. Go see if Mrs. Phelps needs any help in the kitchen.”

Hattie hesitated, then made a dipping movement with her legs and left. Agnes took a key out of her pocket, closed the door, and locked it.

“Oh, Sera, I’ve been so worried about you,” she said. “How have they been treating you? Where have they been keeping you? They haven’t hurt you, have they?”

But Sera had questions of her own. “Did you find anything in my hair that would help me get home? Is there a way to get to the roof of this dwelling? I need to see the sky and find the tether!”

But it was hopeless. They could not understand each other any more than a starbeetle could understand a sun trout. Now that they were face-to-face once again, Sera was desperate to be able to communicate, to tell Agnes everything, to have someone to confide in, to help her. Talking to Errol simply wasn’t the same. Agnes felt more like . . . like Leela.

She looked down at her hands again. Her green mother had told her it had taken the Cerulean quite some time to talk to those giant birds, but they had figured it out. And they were more knowledgeable then—they had visited planets regularly. She’d never been challenged like this before, and maybe the trick was simply in believing it could be done. Her brow furrowed as she concentrated on her heart pumping her blood through her body, sensing the magic within her. A smattering of light crackled across her palms.

“Of course you can’t answer me,” Agnes was muttering to herself. Then she slapped her forehead. “But you can write! Pen and paper, that’s what we need. . . .”

She went over to the small dresser and started rifling through its drawers. But Sera’s mind was churning. Agnes was more like Leela . . . like Leela . . . had she given herself the answer? Humans and Cerulean were similar in physicality. They spoke in words, not colors or hums. The difference was their coloring and the magic in Sera’s blood. Could she blood bond with Agnes? Sera did not know if her magic alone would be enough to let this human girl read her heart, to open some line of communication. It was daunting, not only because Sera had blood bonded with only four others in her whole life, but because Agnes’s blood did not contain magic. So would it even work?

“You will let me speak to her,” she said to her hands in what she hoped was a commanding tone. “You will work as you did in the days before the Great Sadness.”

“Are you all right?” Agnes asked, stepping away from the dresser.

Sera called on her magic and her fingertip began to glow.

Agnes gasped. “What is that?”

“Give me your finger,” she said, holding her own up and motioning for Agnes to do the same.

The girl was sharp—she held up a finger and said, “This? Is this what you want?”

Sera nodded. The human finger looked so plain next to her own. A seed of doubt began to sprout, and Sera squashed it before it could fully blossom.

I am a Cerulean, she thought fiercely. My blood is magic. And it will do as I command.

Then she pressed her glowing fingertip against Agnes’s.





21

Agnes

AGNES DID NOT FULLY COMPREHEND WHAT WAS HAPPENING.