The Gracekeepers Read online

  No one would go hungry that night, even those with totems on their plates: their island had good rich soil and could sustain many crops and animals. They had bread and wine, pears and apples, roasted potatoes and spit-fired pig, enough to fill the bellies of the whole island.

  Veryan sipped her tea. It tasted of nothing, but she did not mind. Her tongue tingled with the memory of tastes. It was just yesterday that she’d eaten that rabbit, after all—or if not yesterday, then she was anticipating a taste to come the following night. She rubbed the tight joints of her knuckles.

  After the islanders’ bellies were full, the sacrifice could begin. The youngest islander had been born only a few weeks before—she suspected that the child’s mother, married at last year’s procession, had conceived in a well-timed way so that the child would have this honor. Perhaps she would try the same thing, so her child could be honored too. One by one, the islanders passed their platters along, forming a tall oak tower in the center of the main table. It reached higher than their heads, but it did not waver: oak was strong like that, which was why it was the finest of trees, which was why this was the finest of islands.

  The child’s mother clambered on to the table and placed her baby on the platter: a symbolic meal offered to the gods. The islanders lit fresh branches from the final sparks of the old ones, forming a circle around the tables with the raised child at the center. Up rose the islanders’ voices, inverting their earlier chant as they stamped and cheered around the banquet tables.

  All withering grows to green

  All withering grows to green

  The child wailed at the noise and the lights, but only because he did not understand the great honor. In time, he would be proud. The damplings told stories about the islanders killing babies to appease their gods: a tiny life traded to protect hundreds more. But that had never happened, not that she remembered—and she remembered everything. It was just nasty talk among the damplings. And they were nasty, the damplings: full of spite and wickedness, and it couldn’t be burned out of them. Even the islander children knew it: they invented little chants and taunts, daring one another to cross the blackshore and grab handfuls of seaweed to fling at the boats. It was all in fun, of course—just the play of youth—but those nasty damplings did make such a fuss about it, feeling so sorry for themselves. She tried to pity the damplings. It came from a lack of heritage, of family. How could anyone feel steady without good land under their feet?

  The procession had marched itself to bed and the island was asleep. She was nineteen—the perfect age for a bride. The island council had chosen her husband, and they had chosen well. Now all that remained was their wedding night. Making love was making life and that was her duty, she knew, though it was never spoken.

  Her husband was green-eyed and strong-boned with hair the color of oak leaves. She waited for him at the edge of the copse. Her underwear was scented with lilac. His cheeks were red from the spiced wine and he came to her with the passion and honesty of a lit candle. Afterward her skin was raw, parallel scrapes down her thighs and back, and she thought of the lines left by the melting wax. She would be proud of her burns. They were a mark of duty, of worship. Her husband kissed them before heading back to the feast. She stayed in the cool dark of the woods, praying to the gods that she would conceive soon, so that her child could be honored at next year’s procession. She could not concentrate; her scrapes ached.

  She wandered alone across the island to the shore, looking for seaweed to soothe her skin. Damplings were disgusting, but some of their old folk remedies did work. There it was, spreading in lines across the blackshore: damp from the water, slimy and repulsive. But her scrapes burned. She bent to gather an armful of seaweed and her feet slid on the wet sand. She landed on her back in the blackshore’s embrace. Her skin sighed at its coolness. She stayed.

  She fell into sleep. Then: a slow pull out, reality seeping into her dreams. A mouth pressing against hers, cold as the sea. Was this her husband, come back to love her again? She felt the weight of a body on her own. She raised her hips. In the dim light of the stars, she saw the silvery gleam of scales.

  Veryan’s tea was cold, but she drank it anyway. There was a draught coming from somewhere, wrapping itself around her throat; she pulled her shawl tighter and hunched her shoulders. She could still feel the squeaking strands of grass that he’d plucked from the ground and braided into her hair. She could smell the sharp green scent of the grass, and of him. She inhaled: no grass, only dust and damp wool and cinders from the fire. From her sleeve she pulled a feather, its iridescence faded, its barbs tatty from touching. She stroked it against her cheek.

  She was going to have a child. She would not see her baby for a while, but already she could imagine her: a tiny baby girl, fingers curled like daisies before dawn, skin petal-soft and scented with milk. She would name the baby Callanish, after the old sacred land.

  Callanish, came a whisper.

  Veryan slid out of her chair in silence, as if to catch the speaker unawares. She looked all around the house: the hay-mattress bed, the chest of sealskins, the big tin bath, the almost-empty pantry. Nothing.

  Callanish, hissed the voice again. She realized now that it came from outside. She tucked the feather back into her sleeve and pulled open her front door. Outside, two of her neighbors were deep in whispered conversation over the front gate. When they saw her they straightened up, looking guilty.

  “Are you speaking of my child?” asked Veryan.

  “No, Veryan.” One of the neighbors—Veryan could not think of her name—attempted a smile. “You have no child, remember?”

  She remembered, of course she did. She would remember the neighbor’s name too, if she’d known it, so she must never have known it. And she had meant her one-day child, the glory of her future—that should have been obvious. But she did not need to tell this strange, gossipy neighbor that. She wouldn’t understand.

  Veryan did not bother with a response. She went back inside and sat at the table. She went to sip her tea, but the cup was empty. She tipped it to read the leaves. In all their clusters, the leaves only made one shape: a baby. There was her proof. There was the promise of a child. Her baby, her Callanish, would be blessed by the gods. She would inhabit all possible worlds. She would do anything and everything, and she would always be happy.

  Veryan remembered the scent of woodsmoke, the enchantments of flutes and tambourines, the softness of a fur cape, the tall pile of wooden platters, the crinkle of the oak-leaf mask against her cheek. She remembered feasts and flames and weddings. She remembered everything.

  16

  AVALON

  Avalon’s time was approaching. She felt it like a lit coal in her chest. This was love: a white-hot burn, bright enough to obscure everything else.

  She’d been awake for hours when Jarrow snored out of his dreams. Just like every morning, she pretended to be asleep. It was difficult to contain her smile. She lived for the mornings: the moment when her husband loved her unobserved. The warm weight of his hand on the swell of their child, the comfort of his fingers on her lips. When she was awake, he loved her with distraction. There was always a coracle to be fixed, a whining performer to be fed. Always, always a problem to be solved. But just then, just for that wakening moment, her sleeping face was his whole world. She kept her breath steady, filling her lungs with the scent of his hands.

  She held herself still until he had clambered out of the bunk and up on to the deck of the Excalibur. Only then did she let her mouth slide into a smile. Jarrow’s saltwater smell, his bear-broad shoulders, the glitter caught beneath his skin: all of it quickened her heart. When she was sure he had gone, she allowed herself to stretch her limbs, cat-sleek.

  She slipped out of the bunk. Her baby nestled low inside her, and she took a moment to rest her hands on him. This was why. Her husband, her child: for them, it would all be worth it.

  Above her, on the deck, she heard Jarrow’s heavy tread. It was too late to slip back
into bed and enjoy his touch again.

  “Queen of mine!” he crowed, his voice filling the tiny cabin. “You have surfaced. But calm yourself, my sweet. I have plans to winkle a cup of special tea from our fire-breather and bring it to you in bed.”

  Avalon wanted nothing more than to luxuriate in their bed, sipping tea and feeling her child grow. But she had something more important to do.

  “My king,” she purred, reaching out her slender arm to her husband. “You are kind to take such care of me. But perhaps I could convince you to take care of me in a different way?” She pulled Jarrow closer, wrapping her hands around his, using them to slide the hem of her nightdress up her thighs. She leaned into him to whisper in his ear: “A wife needs her husband.”

  Avalon had loved Jarrow from the moment she met him. Fiercely, fully, she loved him. She dreamed of growing old with him, the two of them with their feet firmly on land and their arms around their children. She would never let the flame sputter out, no matter what it took. But everyone knew the danger of flames on a boat.

  Jarrow smiled at her, but she knew that he wasn’t really seeing her. His mind was on coracles and circuses.

  “Alas, my queen. I wish I could. The day is upon us, though, and I have duties that I must—”

  “I understand,” she interrupted, biting back a sigh.

  This was love observed. This was love at sea. If they had a home, a steady home on steady ground, then Jarrow could love her unobserved all day. He could look at her and truly see her.

  She pulled her nightdress back down. “Before you begin your day, would you help me to the mess boat? Our son is restless this morning, and I must feed him. This life at sea is not good for him. The unsteadiness. The constant movement. A child needs somewhere to plant his feet and stand tall.”

  Jarrow did not reply, but simply waited while she continued dressing and washing. As she scooped water over her body, she peeked over her shoulder to see if he watched. His eyes were distant, looking at nothing.

  He had barely touched her since she had fallen pregnant. And—she could be honest in her own mind, if nowhere else—there had not been much touching before her pregnancy either. In the first years of their marriage, their passion could set a boat aflame. But grief can dampen any fire. All those babies, lost before their first breath.

  She straightened her dress, pinned up her hair, and leaned girlishly on her husband’s arm as they emerged from the Excalibur’s cabin. She didn’t need his help, but she knew he liked to look after her. In truth, Avalon had never felt healthier. Her son nourished her as she nourished him, and each day she felt her strength grow.

  Strength was good. Strength was important, because this was an important time. She needed to get it right. For the baby, and for her husband. She knew what they needed—she only had to work out how to get it.

  —

  After Jarrow had deposited Avalon at the head of the mess boat’s long bench with a cup of nettle tea and a rough-lipped kiss, she sat. She watched. She waited. A plan would reveal itself as long as she was ready for it.

  She saw the twittering, glittery nonsenses from the beauty boat descend in a clumped trio, flirting aggressively with the fire-breather before taking their seats at the far end of the bench. How they managed to lever any food into their mouths while spewing all that gossip from them, Avalon didn’t know. She averted her eyes, sipping her tea with dignity.

  She saw the clowns slump through one by one, exchanging winks with the fire-breather and swallowing their breakfast in fast, furtive spoonfuls. They were planning rebellion, no doubt. Avalon had told Jarrow a thousand times that the clowns weren’t to be trusted, but he would never listen. He never doubted his crewmembers’ loyalty. Avalon, on the other hand, never doubted anyone’s deviousness, and that was why she was always a step ahead.

  She saw Ainsel drop effortlessly into the mess boat, ignoring the slats bolted to the coracle’s inner wall. He sauntered to the serving hatch. He must have seen Avalon—perhaps his whole louche show was for her benefit. She sipped her tea and made sure that she didn’t look at him, but also that she didn’t obviously avoid looking at him.

  She prodded at her guilt, but it did not give. She could not regret her nights with Ainsel. The logic leading up to it had been clear. All those babies with their unbeating hearts. All those nights that she and Jarrow could not stand to love each other. This baby was a Stirling, and it was alive. Those were the only important things.

  She would never know how close Jarrow had come to giving up on their marriage. But it did not matter. Now she had a baby, and he would never give up on her. Ainsel had served his purpose, and Avalon was grateful. But Jarrow’s old family had had their time, and now it was her turn. Hers and her baby’s. Ainsel would be fine; he would be the ringmaster. He was a man, and men should make their own way in the world. Let him earn his own home, as Jarrow had.

  Lost in thought, Avalon had not noticed Ainsel approaching her at the head of the table. The sway of his steps at the corner of her eye snapped her awake. She saw him dare a glance at the glorious moon of her belly. She saw a smile spread slow across his face. She saw him move to sit beside her. She turned her face away from him. He hesitated.

  Luckily the bear-girl clumped in, and Ainsel took the chance to turn away from Avalon and bow low to North. He climbed the mess boat’s ladder one-handed, gripping his breakfast bowl, off to eat alone with the horses.

  North accepted two breakfast bowls from Bero, but ate neither. One seemed a reasonable portion, but the other was heaped with crab stew and topped with several wedges of knobbly brown pita, the stack so high it was in danger of toppling. For her dirty great bear, no doubt. Avalon and Ainsel’s horses needed a special diet of seaweed and oils, but the bear required no such consideration. It ate the same food as the rest of the crew, and did not seem fussy. Avalon did begrudge the scale of its portions, though; such a vast amount of food would be much appreciated if spread out among them. They never stopped muttering about their empty bellies. Avalon never complained about food, even though she should have the biggest portions. For the baby.

  All morning, none of the Excalibur’s crew spoke to Avalon. That was as it should be. They might pretend that they ignored her out of disdain, but Avalon knew it was because they were afraid of her. The clowns, the glamours, the fire-breather, the acrobat—and that irritating little bear-girl most of all. Why Jarrow seemed to like the wretched urchin so much, Avalon couldn’t imagine. Well, so much the better that the crew would soon have the circus all to themselves. They were too interwoven, tangled together like seaweed around an anchor. They were dragging Jarrow down, clotting him up, and if she could just—

  The bear-girl. If she didn’t marry Ainsel, then they could not provide a Stirling child. It wouldn’t be easy for Jarrow to set up another match for his son—it was too much of a gamble to choose a dampling stranger from another boat. No child meant that Ainsel’s claim on the house would be useless. Avalon’s baby would be the only Stirling.

  She had been holding on to North’s secret, waiting for the right moment to reveal it to her husband—but why complicate things? A smile spread across Avalon’s face. She lifted her cup of cold tea to hide it.

  —

  Now that Avalon knew she would soon be leaving the circus, she almost felt nostalgic for it. She enjoyed her steady afternoon progress from the mess boat to the Excalibur, her careful hold of the salt-crusted chains between the coracles.

  Here was the clowns’ coracle, where she’d made them fear and respect her. Here was the beauty boat, where she’d crept at mealtimes to steal perfumed oils to wear in bed with Jarrow. Here was North’s coracle, where—no, nothing good had ever happened there. Here was Ainsel’s coracle, where she’d spent hours alone grooming Lord and Lady when Ainsel was off being preened by the glamours.

  And here was the Excalibur, where she had first seen Jarrow all those years ago. She paused on the deck and lost herself in the memory. She loathed circuses, and ha
d only come that night to keep her sister company. Any excuse for an evening away from the cabin of their family’s fruit-trading clipper; any reason to avoid yet another evening sorting good apples from bad. The damplings’ section of the big top had been crowded and sweaty. But all that had faded to nothing when the ringmaster stepped on stage. His broad shoulders, his glittered cheeks, the boom of his voice so strong it vibrated through her ribs. She felt a flame burst to life in her chest. The show was dull—all the performers trying too hard to shock with their genderplay, their costumes ragged and their eyes desperate. But that didn’t matter. The ringmaster was all that mattered.

  Later, after the show, she unhitched the rowing boat and sculled from her clipper to the circus schooner. She climbed the anchor chain to the boat’s deck, letting the rowing boat drift free behind her. She would not need it again.

  Tap-a-tap on the cabin door. And there: the ringmaster, bear-broad, haloed by the seal-fat lamp.

  “And who are you?” he asked.

  She remembered the name painted on the boat’s side: EXCALIBUR. She thought fast.

  “Avalon,” she said. “My name is Avalon.”

  She’d spent the day sorting fruit. She knew that her skin smelled apple sweet and looked as white as just-sliced apple flesh.

  “I would like to come into your cabin,” she said.

  She stayed still, letting the air carry her scent to the ringmaster. It did not take long. She saw herself then, reflected in his eyes, and she liked what she saw. He lifted her in his arms and carried her into his cabin. And there she had stayed.