The Cerulean (Untitled Duology, #1)(90)

“It’s all right,” Ebenezer said, keeping his focus on the road. “And . . . I’m sorry. That doesn’t seem fair at all.”

“Well, life isn’t fair,” Agnes said. “Especially if you’re a woman in Kaolin.”

They crossed into the East Village, which served as Old Port’s artist colony. The buildings were painted in bright colors, pinks and yellows and blues, and the residents dressed in outlandish clothes, revealing necklines, and feathers and high-heeled boots. Cafés spilled out onto the sidewalks, tables filled with bohemian types drinking wine or espresso, smoking cigarettes and discussing the latest book or philosophy or song. Agnes loved driving through the East Village but had never dared to walk its streets; she felt so apart from it, like an unwelcome guest. Her high-collared blouse, fine skirt, and Solit brooch would make her stand out here more than she did as a woman in the financial district.

“Why do you think she married him?” Ebenezer asked.

“Sorry?”

“Your mother. I mean, I get that your father needed her money, but if they didn’t love each other, why did she agree to the marriage?”

Agnes thought for a moment. “I have no idea.”

“Maybe he was quite the handsome catch back then,” Ebenezer mused.

“Ew,” she said, cringing. “I don’t want to think about that.”

He chuckled. “Fair enough.”

He made a good point, though, she had to admit. Why had her mother married her father? Why leave Pelago and come to Old Port, where she was seen as a freak, an oddity, a perversion of what a proper woman should be? She looked so strong and carefree in the photograph Agnes had. It was hard to reconcile that woman choosing to be with someone like her father.

But then, as she had pointed out to herself many times, she did not really know anything about her mother.

They turned left onto Anchor Avenue, and soon the first sails were in sight, masts peeking up over the huddled taverns and brothels and shops that lined the docks.

“This friend you’re helping, is she on a ship?” he asked.

“No.” Agnes paused. “How do you know it’s a she?”

He gave her a look. “I don’t think you’d be going through all this trouble to help some Old Port boy.”

“You’re awfully perceptive.”

“Perceptive enough to know when to stop asking questions,” he said with a sigh. “Let me know where to drop you.”

“The Wolfshead Tavern,” she said.

The streets were packed with cars and horse-drawn carts, and every space between was crammed with people.

“They’re all in search of that island?” he said in awe.

“Wealth is a powerful motivating factor,” Agnes said.

“Do you think your father is right, that those ruins can let you see the future or speak to the dead?”

“No,” she murmured. “But there is something special in them, of that I have no doubt.”

Ebenezer pulled the car over when they reached the tavern and let it idle. The building had stained-glass windows and a carved wolf’s head over the open front door. Music and raucous laughter could be heard from inside. Agnes felt a thrill of fear that had nothing to do with the tavern’s appearance or clientele. Vada was in there. She suddenly wished she’d dressed a bit less conservatively.

“Agnes, are you sure about this?” Ebenezer asked.

“I am,” she said. Then she surprised both of them and leaned forward to peck him on the cheek. “Thank you, Ebenezer. You’re the best man I’ve ever met in Old Port.”

“Another compliment,” he said, looking bemused, his face pink, his glasses slightly askew.

She laughed. “Don’t let it go to your head.” Then she stepped out of the car, gathered her skirts and her courage, and walked into the tavern.

The interior was lit by an enormous chandelier crafted out of antlers hanging from one of the rafters on the ceiling. There was a long bar curving around half the room, chipped wooden tables with men playing cards, and booths tucked away where prostitutes were dandled on the laps of sailors. Agnes felt even more out of place here than she would have on the streets of the East Village. Men at a few of the tables closest to her turned to stare, one old sailor licking his lips; she stiffened, kept her gaze ahead, and marched up to the bar.

“Good afternoon,” she said to the bartender, a portly man with thick glasses and a dirty rag tucked into his apron.

“Drink?” he asked gruffly.

“Er, no thank you. Actually, I’m looking for someone. She’s a Pelagan sailor, about my age, named Vada. She frequents this establishment and I was, um, wondering if you’d seen her today by any chance?”

The bartender spit on the ground. “Drink?” he asked again, and Agnes realized she was going to have to purchase something if she wanted information.

“All right, I’ll have an orange juice, please.”

He stared at her like she had stopped speaking Kaolish. She was beginning to think she should have just gone to the ship first to see if Vada was there, but the docks were so crowded and she didn’t want to risk running into someone who might tell her father she was here.

“Agnes?”

She turned and saw Vada’s head sticking out of one of the booths, a prostitute in a flimsy purple dress sitting on her lap. All the blood rushed to Agnes’s face, prickling as its heat traveled across her scalp and down her spine.