The Gracekeepers (19 page)

Avalon wanted to pout, to cry, to slap Jarrow in his stubborn face. The thought of the bear-girl raising that bastard child on land, flouncing about in a mockery of the life that Avalon
should be living—it made her sick. But it would never happen. Not while Avalon's heart still beat.

She slid her slim arm around her husband. He simply needed time to absorb what she had said. Soon he would come around to her way of thinking.

If this plan did not work, no matter—she had already begun thinking of another. And if that one did not work either—well, if she had to tear down the whole world to build a new one with her husband and child, then she would.

“My husband,” she cooed. “My wise, wise husband. I am sure that you are correct. But let's not speak of others. We are the only ones here. We are the only ones who matter. Us, and our child.” She pulled him back on the bunk, pressing kisses along his hairline. She took hold of his hands and slid them along her hips. She was ready to love him. Gently but firmly, Jarrow pushed her away.

“Alas, my queen, I cannot. It's not a good idea.”

“Oh, but it's a very good idea indeed. Look, I'll show you how good it is.”

“Avalon!” Jarrow pushed her aside and stood abruptly, thudding his skull on the overhead. “Enough, please!”

Avalon could not respond. Nightdress rucked, hair tousled, legs at awkward angles, she stared at her husband.

“My queen. Let me explain.” Jarrow sat back on the bunk, reaching for her hands. “I fear for our baby. So many of our children have been lost.”

Avalon tipped back her head and laughed in relief. “Oh, Jarrow! This one is different, I can feel it. You can't harm him.”

“I just think—can we be safe? I don't know what I would do if I lost this one too. I need you both kept safe.”

“Of course, my love. How wise you are.”

Avalon felt the flame inside her flare, then fade. She collected the feelings, squeezed them small, held them in her fist so that she could examine them. The rough edges of a plan began to smooth together.

“Thank you, sweet husband,” she murmured. “You always know the right thing to do.”

There were many ways to be unsafe at sea. Storms could drown you, sharks could bite you, pirates could attack you. You could starve or die of thirst. Your own crew could turn on you. And the dangers of a circus at sea were even greater: twisted limbs, animal attacks, falls from a great height.

So many dangers. So many reasons to choose land over sea. Avalon rested her hand on the swell of her son and smiled. If Jarrow would not leave the circus for love, then he would leave it for fear.

 

N
orth woke shivering. Her bear's arms weighed heavy around her, but she shrank further into them for warmth. She had dreamed of bells chiming under the sea, of ghosts as translucent and choking as chalk dust, of linked hands with webbed fingers. In the coracle, Melia and the bear were still snoring. The air was so cold it ached. Last night, North had tied her canvas tight to keep out the reek of earth—but she could feel that it was past dawn, and the sun should have warmed her coracle by now.

She slipped out of her bear's grasp and stretched up to pull back the canvas. Dew plipped on to her shoulders and scalp as she peered out. Even from inside the coracle she could see what was causing the chill: the massive bulk of the revival boat, casting its shadow across the
Excalibur
's tiny convoy. The boat's crew had left their painted banners unfurled, blaring out redemption to any
passing sinners. In the shade, the Virgin's blue eyes and blue robe were as dark as a bruise.

This was their fourth morning in its shadow. It was following the circus from island to island—or perhaps the circus was following it. North hoped that Red Gold had a plan to shake the revivalists off. It was affecting the size of the circus's crowd, which affected the size of their payment, which affected the size of their dinners. It was bad enough that her own belly was empty, but she couldn't stand to hear the rumbles of her bear's stomach. She'd never seen a revival show, but from the music and stamping coming from the ship—and the dazed, dreamy looks in the landlockers' eyes when they exited—it was not dissimilar to the circus.

It made sense, she supposed. Landlockers visited the circus to escape, to believe in something magical, something powerful: something bigger than their own tiny muck of land. As far as she could tell, religion held the same appeal. As she slipped back into her bunk, North wondered if the revivalists had a bear too.

N
orth woke hours later with the sun in her face and bells ringing in her ears. She was glad to see that the revival boat had moved on. Melia was already up and out of the coracle, so North washed, dressed, and went to the mess boat to get breakfast, which was dinner's leftovers: a few salted white beans, crisped chicken skin and half a slice of toasted rye bread. Melia was not in the mess boat, and in her early-morning fog North forgot to ask Bero whether she'd already had breakfast.

North and her bear ate their food and washed their faces. More specifically, North washed herself, and then the bear sat still
while North washed his cheeks and snout, which were speckled with smears of bean and grease from the chicken.

It was then, with her damp hands rubbing at the bear's fur, that she felt her baby kick again. Her guts shifted and she gripped her fists, trying to swallow her excitement. She breathed slow and hard through her nose until the feeling passed, but she couldn't help the grin spreading across her face. She finished the washing, feeling her baby wriggle along with her bear.

The baby was fine. The bear was fine. And if they were fine, so was North.

North settled her bear back in his bunk before setting off in search of Melia. She'd need to be quick; her bear could not be left alone for long, and there was always the danger of nosy landlocker children climbing aboard. It had not happened yet—their fear of crossing the blackshore saw to that—but still North worried. Her bear could pose no harm to the children. He was tame and good and safe. But perhaps he was not.

She'd already tried the mess boat, and she could see that the
Excalibur
's deck was empty. Melia wouldn't be in Ainsel's coracle, so that left the glamours' boat. She tapped on the hull before pulling back the canvas and dropping inside.

The Island of Maidens smelled of honey-spiced perfume and dusty fabric, with something rotting-sweet underneath. North inhaled: she couldn't identify the smell, but it made her think of the inside of her bear's mouth when he yawned, or the mess boat on warm nights. The coracle was bigger than North's, but felt smaller due to the clothing rail that stretched like a spine through its length, strung with dozens of circus costumes.

“Cyan?” called North into the mass of feathers and velvet. “Teal? Mauve? I'm looking for Melia, is she in here?”

She ventured deeper into the coracle, pushing aside swathes
of leather and cotton. Her steps were tiny; the soles of her feet were hard enough for stray beads or sewing needles, but she feared stepping on whatever was making that raw, meaty smell. Sequins gleamed back at her like hundreds of fish-eyes. Strings of beads bumped her head and bright hairpieces tickled her shoulders as she passed. She recognized the white dress from her funeral waltz; she'd given it to Cyan for repairs, as her bear's claws had nicked a seam during the last performance.

Her hip thudded against something solid: a table, bolted to the deck. It was dark among the dusty embrace of the costumes. She squinted down at the table and discovered the source of the smell: fish guts, scooped-out mussel shells, inedible animal parts. Whatever Bero could not fashion into a meal, the glamours ground up for dyes. North had never been squeamish, but now her stomach roiled like a stormy sea. She clutched at her middle and turned to fight her way out of the coracle.

“North!” cawed Cyan. “It's an honor. Do you need…” She lifted one of North's golden braids and examined it. “Yes, I suppose you do. Come on in and we shall prepare some lovely new dyes for you.” Cyan folded an arm around North's shoulders and led her further into the coracle, ducking and bending expertly around the swathes of hanging fabric.

Teal and Mauve were arrayed on a bunk as if they were about to perform a maypole: bodies draped in pink and orange silks, limbs stretched, eyes languid. Now that North thought about it, the glamours always seemed ready to perform at a moment's notice. She wished she could develop the same skill in her bear—not that he'd satisfy a crowd of clams, his broad furry body wrapped in ribbons, gyrating around a maypole. That thought tweaked a smile, lessening the roil in her belly.

Cyan kept up a constant monologue, puttering around the
coracle. “Teal has been experimenting with the leftover bits from the chicken hearts—not much color in them, mind, but they do mix up so nicely with the razor-clam shells. Oh, watch yourself! There's sharp edges on those sleeves, we're making them for your crucifixion so you don't need to carry the blades, isn't that clever? All Mauve's idea, you know how the thinking goes, our Mauve was always so good at sharp things, and are you all right? You look a bit sick. Tell me if you're sick. I won't be having sick in here, the smell of it, I can't stomach it. Here, you sit down next to Mauve and I'll make you some herbal tea. Bero's just brought a kettle over, he's such a darling, though Teal thinks he was trying to get a peep at us in our undones!”

Cyan's giggle and hair-toss seemed more threatening than flirtatious. North managed a weak smile as she reached for the tea.

“I was looking for Melia,” she said. “I thought she might be in here, but…” She peered into the mass of costumes, but knew it was pointless.

“She's not here,” said Teal with a sigh.

“She's not here at all,” added Mauve, with a little wink at Teal. They giggled together, and how did the glamours make laughing and hair-tossing look like they wanted to start a fight?

“What do you mean?” asked North. “Where is she?”

Mauve and Teal shrugged in unison, a tandem dance. “Oh, somewhere. We're all somewhere, wouldn't you say?”

North had had enough. She drained her tea in one go, forcing herself not to wince at her scalded tongue. “Thank you for the tea, Cyan.” She began elbowing her way back through the storm of fabric, calling over her shoulder: “I'll come by later to collect my costume.” She suspected that her words were swallowed by the layers of velvet and silk, but it did not matter. What
mattered was getting out of the coracle and seeing the sky, and breathing clean air, and finding Melia.

North hunched over the edge of the glamours' coracle and clenched her teeth until her nausea passed. When she straightened, she saw that she was being observed. Avalon stood at the stern of the
Excalibur
, back straight, belly pressed out, as proud and round as a mermaid carved on a galleon.

“Feeling seasick, north child?” she called across the line of coracles.

North did not answer. She waited, but there was no movement from the taut canvases of the other coracles. Without breaking Avalon's gaze, without cradling her inferior bump, she began her steady progress across the chains toward the schooner. Avalon's eyes flickered, but she did not flinch, and she did not retreat—not even when Red Gold came up behind her, wrapping one arm over her belly and hailing North with the other.

North stepped from the Island of Maidens to her own coracle, to Ainsel's coracle, and on to the deck of the
Excalibur
. She did not want Red Gold to recognize her standoff with Avalon, but neither would she be the first to break their gaze.

After a heartbeat, Avalon tilted her head up and smiled at her husband. “Are we not lucky, my king? A visit from our darling future daughter-in-law. I shall leave you two alone.” She darted a kiss at Jarrow's raw cheek, then perched on a pile of blankets along the boat's port side. She took a long look at North's midriff, eyebrows raised, before resting her chin on her hands and gazing out at the bustling port of the island. North's cheeks felt as burning red as the ringmaster's.

“It's Melia,” said North abruptly.

“Ah, yes,” sighed Red Gold, draping a heavy arm around her
shoulder and leading her belowdecks. “I'm glad that you feel it's time we discussed Melia, my little north child. Do you feel she will be ready for a new act tomorrow night? Or shall we wait until the night after? I shall bow to your knowledge and judgment, my dear.” And he did bow, forehead almost touching his knees, arms spread wide like bird-wings.

“Tea?” cooed Red Gold, straightening. “Avalon made some. She will insist on me drinking this peppermint nonsense. For my stresses, she says.”

North shook her head; her tongue still burned from the glamours' tea.

“I'm worried about Melia. She's gone.”

Red Gold sighed and poured the tea. The act was oddly dainty, the teapot absurdly small in his meaty hands. “I know, sweet child. She hasn't been the same since we lost Whitby, has she? At times I fear we will never have her back.”

North's head spun from the dust and guts in the glamours' boat. She felt as if she'd slept too long and missed a whole day during which the world had changed. “Is she—did you put her somewhere? To heal?”

“What on oceans are you talking about, North? Melia is with you.”

“She's not! That's what I'm trying to tell you. She's not with me and she's not on the mess boat and she's not with the glamours, so where is she?”

In the sea
, hissed a voice in North's head,
in the sea with Whitby
, but she would not listen to the voice.

“Hush now,” said Red Gold, leading her to a bench that was once upholstered in velvet but was now mostly patches. “Calm yourself. It's not good for you, in your condition.”

North gaped. She was tired and she was confused and that
was what Red Gold meant, it must be; he must see the shadows under her eyes and the shake in her hands.

He swallowed the contents of his dainty cup in one go, then turned to North and patted her hand. It was absurd, the whole thing was absurd, and she needed to find Melia, and she needed to get back to her bear, and it was taking all her self-control not to vomit her breakfast right into the ringmaster's lap.

“I know about the baby,” he said.

North forgot how to breathe. Red Gold frowned down at her. For a moment, North thought he was going to loom toward her and press a cracked, bloody hand to her forehead to check her temperature.

“I was referring to your future joy. Yours and Ainsel's. My own first grandchild.”

“Ainsel. And me. And my…” She locked her fingers over her belly—whether to hide or highlight it, she wasn't sure.

“It is Ainsel's, yes?”

“It—well, I…”

Red Gold's voice was deep and low, burring through the cabin.

“Because if it is not Ainsel's,” he said, “then that means it is someone else's, and that makes it a bastard. You are free to do whatever you like, love whomever you like, sleep with whomever you like. I do not own you. But I do own the
Excalibur
, and any coracle that is lashed to her. Any bastard baby that lives inside you cannot live in your coracle, because that coracle belongs to me. Do you understand, my north child?”

North's body fell cold and still. Red Gold's voice vibrated through her bones. “Yes, Jarrow. I understand.”

“Then it is fortunate indeed that your child is my grandchild, is it not?”

“Yes, Jarrow. Of course it's Ainsel's. I didn't mean to—well, we didn't…”

“No matter, no matter. Ah, but perhaps I should not call you our north child any more? Clearly you are a woman now.” He chuckled as if he'd made a joke. “My Ainsel is a fine-looking boy, don't think I don't know. You're young, you're in love—well, it's not as if you're the first couple who couldn't wait until their wedding night!”

There was a storm in North's ears, blowing in rhythm with her heartbeat. She took a breath.

“Are you well, my north child? Is the pregnancy tiring you out? Is the baby addling your brains?” His expression was pure concern.

North ached a smile across her face. “I am quite well, Jarrow, thank you. But I should go and lie down, just to be safe. To protect my—Ainsel's—baby.”

Red Gold went to speak, but his words were drowned out by a louder sound: the long, low blast of a horn. North's guts twisted and the baby kicked a drumbeat on her ribs. The military were boarding.