The Cerulean Page 26

  “And you know I don’t give a fig for social ladders. You’re twice the man your father is.”

  Ebenezer grinned. “Why, was that a compliment, Miss McLellan?”

  Agnes had to laugh. “They slip out sometimes. When deserved.”

  They walked down the steps of the bank together to the sidewalk. Xavier’s motorcar was mercifully gone, Agnes noted.

  “So what do you need all those krogers for?” Ebenezer asked.

  She hesitated. “A rainy day.”

  “Right. Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

  “No, I . . . I’m trying to help a friend. That’s all.”

  “Well, that is one lucky friend.”

  They stood for a moment in the shade of the bank, men in suits swarming past them.

  “You’re quite a good actor, you know,” Agnes said. “My father should hire you for one of his productions.”

  It was Ebenezer’s turn to laugh. “I don’t think my father would much approve of me taking up an actor’s life. Besides, your father’s interests lie elsewhere now.” He took his glasses off and cleaned them on his shirtsleeve. “Would you like a ride home? I don’t much fancy the idea of you walking around with all that money.”

  Agnes felt another rush of gratitude for this scrawny, bespectacled boy.

  “I would love a ride,” she said. “But I’m not going home. Could you take me to the Seaport?”

  30

  Sera

  THE TETHER.

  It was still there. She had seen it with her own eyes in the picture of that stone temple, shooting straight into the sky from its highest point, a thin chain that glinted where the light hit it. And she had overheard Agnes’s father say to all those males that it was on an island that hadn’t been seen until now, which meant the picture was recent. The City Above the Sky was there. Her home. Her family. Sera’s eyes pricked with tears. They had not left her.

  They’d brought her back to her crate after that red-haired male took her blood again, and she squinted, welcoming the morning light as Francis cranked open the cover over the glass ceiling. He slid a bowl of soup and a glass of water through the opening in Sera’s crate, and then, to her surprise, a blanket. “I figured you could use something to sleep on,” he said. Then he blinked. “Wow. That’s an awfully pretty dress they put you in.”

  Sera had forgotten about the dress. It was pretty, she had to admit—she especially liked the pink lacy part. Dresses in the City Above the Sky only came in shades of white and blue. The maid called Hattie had taken out the pins she had put in Sera’s hair, and now it fell in big bouncing curls around her shoulders.

  The blanket was soft and gray, and Sera wrapped it around her as if she could hide away in it.

  “I hear they started calling you Azure,” Francis said, standing up and brushing some dust off his knees. “That’s nice, but not your real name. We don’t know any of your real names, do we, Boris?” He moved to prune some of the young saplings, talking to them gently as he talked to all things. “No, we don’t know anything,” he murmured.

  My name is Sera Lighthaven, she wanted to say. I am a Cerulean and I am going home.

  Just how she could accomplish this was unclear. But as James and the other storytellers arrived to start the day’s rehearsal, Sera refused to fall into despair again. For the first time since she had come to this planet, she felt a real, pure, true hope take root inside her, a seed that was strong and fast-growing. She knew the tether was still there and she knew where it was. That was more to hold on to than she had had yesterday morning. She wasn’t sure where that temple itself was, or the island it was on, but she was confident Agnes would know. And now they could actually speak to each other.

  She ignored the storytelling today, the voices of the performers fading into background noise as she mulled over her blood bonding with Agnes. It had worked—she had been right to try it, despite the thrill and terror that had come along with the unexpected intimacy of sharing memories. And then the sense of control she had, the way she had commanded her magic and it obeyed her. But now, just as she was beginning to truly understand it, she was threatened by men wishing to take it from her. She could not let that happen.

  It was as if, in the time since she’d been on this planet, her magic had become stronger, declaring itself in ways that she was unused to. But she liked it. It was like connecting to a piece of herself she’d never truly known, the same way she had felt when she realized she was attracted to males. James caught her eye then, delivering an impassioned monologue about his determination to bring Errol and Boris back to Kaolin and defeat Gwendivere; she tried not to give in to the weightless, shivery feelings, the thought of running her fingers over the muscles of his arms, entwining his hands with hers, his lips pressing against her own. . . .

  She shook her head and turned away from the stage. Focus, she had to focus. Her magic might be getting stronger, but it could not get her out of this crate, nor could it break the chains that had bound her wrists last night. She knew in her heart of hearts that Cerulean magic was not made for that sort of thing—it was healing, and loving, and communicative. It wasn’t violent or aggressive. And even if she did get out, where would she go next? She needed help. She could not do this on her own.

  The performers only practiced until early afternoon. Once they had gone and the theater was empty, Sera called out for Errol. It took some time, but he finally emerged, looking disgruntled.

  “It is too bright, Sera Lighthaven. Light may be pleasant for Cerulean but not for mertags.” He held up a clawed hand to block out the sun.

  “Errol, I need to ask you something,” she said, her fingertips flashing. “Do you know of a temple made of stone? It would be on an island somewhere, on a cliff overlooking the sea, with spires protruding from it, and a many-pointed star above its doors.”

  Errol let out his croaky laugh. “She speaks of the temple of Braxos,” he said. “But no human has seen Braxos in many, many long years, by waves and whitefish. So how does a Cerulean know of it?”

  “I saw a picture,” Sera said. “In the place they took me yesterday. The humans have seen it, Errol.”

  All the laughter vanished from Errol’s face, and his huge eyes bulged even bigger. “That is not possible,” he said, his filaments lighting up in serious blues and grays. “Humans cannot find Braxos. Only mertags know which waters lead to it.”

  “How do mertags know where it is?”

  Errol puffed out his smooth green chest. “The first mertag came from Braxos. It is known by all of us. It is in our scales, in our fins, in our bones.”

  “Is it close?” she asked. “How do I get there?”

  “Not close, Sera Lighthaven. Oh no, in Pelago is where it lies, across the Adronic Ocean and far, far to the north, in islands hidden by rock and fog and other dangers.” He shuddered.

  “But you could find it? If you had the chance?”

  “Of course I could.” He swept out a hand at the space around them. “But neither you nor I will be sailing across the sea to Braxos any time in the future.” Then he cringed, hissed at the light shining down from the ceiling, and wriggled back into his pond with a plop.

  A thought occurred to her then. If Errol was right—and she believed he was—then he was the surest way to find this island. She must bring him with her. And she felt a private relief at not having to leave him behind. But now there were two who had to escape instead of only one. She chewed on her bottom lip, wondering if she was creating more problems for herself than she could solve.

  Suddenly Errol’s head popped back up over the mossy banks. “Ask Tree,” he said. “She will know Braxos too.” Then he vanished.

  Boris looking to be sleeping. It was hard to tell with her three-eyed tree face—it wasn’t expressive like a human’s, or even a mertag’s. Her branches drooped and her saplings seemed to lean toward her as if wishing to rest their heads against her trunk. More flowers had grown around her since Sera’s arrival, cheery yellow chrysanthe
mums, big blue hydrangeas, and slender red tulips. And right beside Boris’s trunk there were tiny silver flowers that Sera could swear were moonflowers, except that moonflowers were Cerulean and should not grow on planets. It was a jubilant explosion of color that was at odds with the prison they were all trapped in.

  She sighed and brushed a curl out of her eyes. She didn’t know how to speak to Boris. Errol’s lights had come naturally and blood bonding with Agnes had made sense, but how exactly did one talk to a tree?

  “There must be a way,” Sera said. “If I can hear her, I can make her hear me.”

  The High Priestess would probably know the answer—she had been around at the time when the Cerulean would visit planets. She must know how this facet of their magic worked. But hadn’t Sera just been feeling a sense of control over this part of herself? Hadn’t she been feeling stronger all on her own? She looked down at her hands, and they began to glow.

  Show me what to do, she commanded. Show me how to speak with her.

  Her chest started to tingle, lightly at first, but then the sensation traveled down her arms, tickling her as if a hundred flower petals were drifting over her skin, and tiny spots of light appeared on her palms like stars. Sera watched in awe as the first star rose up out of her hand, her magic slipping out of her skin as seamlessly and precisely as a thread through a needle. But the lights were not stars—they looked like dandelion seeds, tiny bulbs with stems attached to a halo of delicate silvery hairs. As soon as the first one emerged, others begin to rise, until a dozen or more of them were floating in her cupped hands. And once she saw them, she somehow knew what she was supposed to do. Very carefully, she lifted her hands and blew the seeds of magic toward the sleeping Arboreal.

  They were captivating to watch, almost ghostly in their movements. The first one reached Boris and landed lightly on a blue-green leaf; the others seemed to take its command and followed suit. Soon her leaves were dotted with tiny shimmering lights, the seedlings’ feathery hairs pulsing in the air. And then they began to melt, leaving a farewell flash of silver before vanishing.

  Boris made a noise that sounded to Sera like a person being awoken abruptly from a dream, if that person was a tree—a shocked creaking groan, like a large branch bending before snapping.

  “Seeds of life,” Boris said. “Seeds of love in my leaves, in my roots, in my trunk. How I missed you.”

  “H-hello,” Sera stammered. Her voice once again had a slightly different timbre in her ears, but instead of a higher pitch, it was low and rustling. “My name is Sera Lighthaven, and I—can you hear me? Can you understand my words?”

  Boris looked at her with her three wise eyes and she felt like a little girl again, because despite Boris’s small stature, Sera had the overwhelming feeling she was looking into the eyes of something as ancient as the High Priestess.

  “She speaks the wind,” Boris gasped.

  “I—yes, I speak the wind.” Sera was delighted. “Do you know of the island of Braxos? And the temple on it?”

  “I know you,” Boris said, the same refrain Sera had heard her say before. “And you know me.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I know you and you know me. But the mertag who lives in the pond says you know the island with the stone temple on it.”

  Boris turned her leaves back and forth as a woman might when examining a new ring on her finger. “The first seeds came from the island. Seeds of life and love. Seeds to grow hope and replenish. I have not seen a seed in many, many years and I am old, older than the men in this false forest, older than the fish in that false pond. The Arboreals have become small and few. The island fades from our minds and hearts. I fear this world is not as it once was.”

  “But what is it?” Sera asked, her patience straining. “Have you seen the tether? Is that where the seeds came from?”

  It seemed to her that the tree frowned. “The island lives in all of us, as it lived in our Mother. We are all connected. Even the fish. Even Sera Lighthaven.”

  Sera pressed her forehead against the crate slats. Boris could not help her; she could only tell Sera what she had already guessed. She stared down at her palms and wished her magic could make her fly. Then she could get to Pelago or anywhere else.

  “Mother Sun,” she whispered, her breath catching in her throat. “What am I supposed to do? Please. Help me.”

  “Hush now, little sapling,” Boris said, and her words were like a song. “Hush now, don’t cry. All will be well.”

  But Sera could not see how. Errol and Boris might know the island, but neither of them could get her there.

  Boris began to hum then, a gentle melody like a child’s song, and it reminded Sera of the tune her purple mother used to play on the harp in the morning, a call for the dwelling to wake.

  A light appeared at the base of Boris’s trunk, not silver like the dandelion seeds, but golden yellow. Sera couldn’t tell what it was, exactly, except that it was small and thin, no bigger than her littlest finger. Then it began to move, scuttling across the wooden platform toward her like an insect, and when it reached the crate, it crawled through the slats and hopped up to perch on her knee.

  It was an odd-looking creature; a golden blade of grass with arms and legs and a tiny crown on its head. It gazed at her with wide yellow eyes, then did a little dance on her kneecap, finishing with a sweeping bow and doffing its crown. Sera could not help herself—she smiled and applauded. It felt like what was being asked of her. The creature beamed and put its crown back on.

  “She knows you,” Boris whispered, and she sounded so tired. “And you know her. But she will not stay for long.”

  Even as the tree spoke, the little grass creature began to fade, pieces of it disintegrating until nothing but golden dust remained.

  “Boris, I—I’m so sorry,” Sera cried. “I don’t know . . . I didn’t mean to . . .”

  “Do not be sad, sapling. My sprites are not born to live forever. She had her time. Others have had longer. Do not mourn them. They come from the earth and they return to the earth. The humans tried to take them, to steal them, but they are too quick and too clever.” The slash of the Arboreal’s mouth quirked like she was trying to smile. “I must sleep now. My roots are old and they have been through much. But a great gift you have given me, Sera Lighthaven. Seeds of light and love. The greatest of gifts.”

  Silence wrapped around the space, as soft as the blanket around her shoulders, and Sera felt herself growing tired, as if Boris’s words had cast a spell upon her. She curled up in a ball, yawning. And as she began to drift off, she could not shake the feeling that Boris had seen a Cerulean before. But Sera could not see how that would be possible.

  She awoke at dusk, the sky in the glass circle above turning a velvety blue limned in pale orange. Francis must have forgotten to close the cover, and Sera drank in the colors of the evening. She stretched, her fingers curling through the slats, and as she sat up a prickle ran down the length of her spine, a warning that told her she was being watched. She turned and saw a shadowy figure walking down the aisle.

  “Agnes?” she called hopefully.

  Then he stepped into the light, and Sera’s heart sank.

  “No,” Leo said. “Not Agnes.”

  It took Sera half a second to comprehend what he said.

  “You . . . you can understand me?” she gasped.

  He walked up the steps to the platform. She was struck by his expression, so different from the one she was used to, the one she first saw after he had declared her to be his, caught up in a net and terrified. He looked older, she thought, or maybe worn was a better word. Defeated, perhaps.

  “I . . .” Leo looked down at his hands as if they could give him the words he needed to say. “Sera, I need to talk to you.”

  31

  Leo

  HE’D HAD TO LIE HIS WAY PAST THE PEMBERTONS GUARDING the Maribelle to get in.

  The theater was dim, the only light coming in from the glass ceiling, the sunset tinged with orange. The
crate was onstage, and Leo could see Sera’s form reclining within. A thick curl of blue hair had fallen through the slats. She was still in the pink lace dress he had chosen for her, a blanket draped loosely over her slender frame, and the curve of her back moved softly with each slow breath.

  Did she dream? he wondered. Did she see her home behind her closed lids? Did she miss her parents, her friends . . . maybe she had a sibling too, someone she fought with or teased. Leo knew absolutely nothing about her, yet he had taken her anyway, without a care, without a thought. All his life he had wanted to be just like his father, and with a start, he realized that he was.

  He also realized he was standing watching her sleep, and that was a bit creepy. He took a step forward and she stirred. Her body stretched, her fingertips peeking through the slats, the curl vanishing as she sat up. She shivered, turned around, and saw him.

  “Agnes?” she called hopefully.

  Leo walked forward until he was at the edge of the pond. “No,” he said quietly. “Not Agnes.”

  She stared at him, shocked, as he walked up the steps to the stage.

  “You . . . you can understand me?” she gasped.

  He’d forgotten that he was the only one who knew that information—he hadn’t even gotten to tell Agnes. He felt bent as he approached the crate, beaten down by the knowledge of what he’d done. He wished he could unlock the chain and let her out, but he didn’t have the key.

  “I . . .” He looked down at his hands. “Sera, I need to talk to you.”

  One of the saplings rustled, but otherwise the stage was silent. When Leo finally forced himself to look at her again, she was watching him with an expression he felt was usually reserved for spiders or unwanted vermin.

  “How do you know my name? How can you understand me?” she demanded.

  “I don’t know.” He stumbled over the words and cleared his throat. “Agnes told me your name. She didn’t mean to, it just slipped out. And I . . . I thought maybe you would know, you know, how I can understand you now when I couldn’t before.”