More relieved than I care to admit, I look at the empty spot where it had been, only to find a long, green satin ribbon.
This city has a veritable plague of large black birds. I cannot understand how I never noticed until now. I see them everywhere I go. But none get close enough for me to determine whether or not they are my ribbon
-fascinated stalker.
Which is why being awoken by one of the brutes tapping on my tiny window sets my heart racing and my teeth on edge. I flop back down onto my cot, hand cool against my fevered brow. There was a dream, with . . .
Finn. I can still feel the curve of his collarbone where I traced it with my finger. He was apologizing, and I was in his arms, the angles of his sharp shoulders wrapped toward me.
Another tap against my windowpane. I jump out of bed and scream, pushing the window out on its hinge and dislodging the bird in a flurry of black feathers. “And don’t come back!” I shout.
I lean my head out, closing my eyes against the soft mist drizzle the sky has been weeping for a fortnight. If it would only rain, that would accomplish a cleansing of the city, but this drizzle simply coats everything in a layer of slick damp over the usual grime and dirt.
Poor bird. I spend nearly all my time indoors and still I’m going mad with the weather. It was probably trying to find an alcove to get dry. I grab a tin of biscuits from my nightstand and set them out along the ledge as a peace offering.
To my surprise, the bird comes back immediately, claws grabbing onto the narrow stone ledge just outside my reach. A missing claw. Maybe the odd creature has imprinted on me? Though it is far from a new hatchling. It turns its head outward toward the rain, but one yellow eye remains fixed on me reproachfully. “Yes, fine. I apologize. Get dry and stay warm with a snack.”
Shaking my head, I close the window and sit back on my cot. The school is on holiday, which means as much studying, only done in this tomb instead of the library. I have become intimately acquainted with every inch of my tiny room. At one point I charted the precise rate at which the plaster splits, and extended the formula to predict when the next crack will appear and how many finger-lengths it will span.
I am going mad.
I wish Kelen had told me where he lived. I could use an outing, some excuse to leave the hotel. And I’d dearly love to talk about Melei and our childhoods there.
I hate that I have to wait for him to visit in order to see him. I don’t like being locked in my own thoughts. He’d be such a nice distraction.
There is a soft knock at my door, and I call, “Come in!” with a great deal of relief and urgency.
Ma’ati enters, closing the door behind her with a whisper of sound. She is the perfect maid—even when you are in the same room together it’s difficult to notice her. Her face is sweet and plain and round, her hair always pinned beneath a white cap. We cannot tell whether her Alben or my Melenese is worse, and our conversations always vary between the two in a confusing jumble of not-quite-right words before we settle on Melenese.
“How are you?” she asks, her eyes taking in books strewn on every surface.
I wave my hand. “I wish this rain could wash away the gray, but it seems to be adding even more.”
“I miss color.” Her eyes drift to my window. “And fruit ripe off the tree.”
“And the warm brown skin of men who work an honest day.”
“Oh, I still see some of that.” She blushes and her hand goes to her mouth as though she can pluck the words out of the air and put them back beneath her tongue.
I smile. “When will you and Jacky Boy marry?” She’s younger than I am, only sixteen, but there is something in the way she carries herself, telling a sad history that made her far older. It makes my soul light to think that she has found someone as strong and gentle as my cousin.
“You cannot speak of it! I haven’t—we haven’t—I would never do anything improper.” The word improper is in Alben, of course. It has much more meaning here.
“Ma’ati, sweet, I know that! But it’s obvious you two are meant to be together.”
Her dark eyes twinkle with light. “Spirits willing, next spring. We think the managers will let us stay on rather than lose two good workers.”
“Oh, Ma’ati!” I draw her in for a hug and wonder if, had they not left the island, Ma’ati and Jacky Boy would have ever found each other. Perhaps this dreary country is good for something after all.
“Oh, but that is not the reason I am here!” Ma’ati pulls back, her eyes alight with even more excitement. “You’ve had a package. It came just now. They brought it to me by mistake. Come on!” She takes my hand in hers and we run past the other servant quarters’ doors and into her room.
I see now why she elected to leave it rather than move it herself—it’s nearly as tall as I am and half again as wide.
“I have no idea what this is.” The box is made of wood so thin it’s nearly translucent, and a red ribbon encircles it, with a cream envelope tucked into the bow. I pull it out—the paper is heavy and thick in my hands. Jessamin Olea is written in elegant strokes.
“Open it, open it! I have three rooms to finish before midmorning and I cannot handle the suspense!”
Smiling nervously, I break the seal—an unmarked circle of black wax—and slide out two cards. The first is an invitation to a gala ball celebrating the opening of a new royal conservatory; the date is tomorrow night. I pass it to Ma’ati, shrugging my shoulders. The second is handwritten in the same elegant script from the envelope.