“That woman!” Hanna spat out as she finished unfastening the tiny jet buttons running down the back of my dress. She helped me step out of it before pushing back her salt-and-pepper curls with a huff. “Using what was supposed to be Eulalie’s day to announce such startling news. What gall!”
Camille flung herself backward onto my bed, next to Ligeia, rumpling the embroidered coverlet. “I can’t stand her!” She twisted her voice into a high-pitched mockery of Morella’s. “And just like the god of light, Vaipany, with his sun, my son will be a shining, sunny ray of sunlight, like the sun, my son.” Camille buried her snort in a pillow.
“She could have chosen her timing with better care,” Rosalie admitted, leaning against a bedpost, twirling the end of her russet braid. The triplets, identical in every way, had a shade of auburn hair I envied, completely different from the rest of us. Of all my sisters, Eulalie had been the fairest, her hair nearly blond but not quite. Mine was darkest, the same shade as the black Salann sand, unique to the island chain’s beaches.
I released the garters around my thighs with a low hum of agreement. Though I was happy for her and Papa, the news truly ought to have been announced at a later date. Rolling the drab, dark stockings down my legs, I wondered what Morella’s trousseau was filled with. Had Papa lined it with white silk hose and ribbons and laces, thinking a new wife would put an end to his bad luck? I threw a black voile nightgown over my head, whisking away thoughts of satin underskirts and jewel-toned dressing robes.
“What does it mean for us if it is a son?” Lenore asked from the window seat. “Will he become heir?”
Camille sat up. Her face was puffy from crying, but her amber eyes were sharp and peevish. “I inherit everything. Then Annaleigh, whenever the curse claims me.”
“No one is being claimed,” I snapped. “That’s a bunch of nonsense.”
“Madame Morella doesn’t think so,” Hanna said, stretching on tiptoes to hang my dress in the armoire. The row of its identically shaded companions depressed me.
“That we’re cursed?” Rosalie asked.
“That you girls will inherit first. I heard her talking to your aunt Lysbette, gushing about how in her stomach is the next duke.”
Camille rolled her eyes. “Maybe that’s how they handle things on the mainland, but not here. I’d love to see the look on her face when Papa corrects her.”
Sinking onto the chaise, I pulled a light throw over my shoulders. I’d never fully warmed up after my walk in the rain, and Morella’s announcement had cast a further chill in my heart.
Ligeia tossed a bolster back and forth. “So your husband would become the twentieth Duke of Salann?”
“If I wanted,” Camille replied. “Or I could be duchess in my own right and let him carry on as a consort. Surely Berta taught you all this ages ago.”
Ligeia shrugged. “I try not to remember anything governesses say. They’re all so dreary. Besides, I was eighth-born. I hardly expected to inherit anything.”
As sixth daughter, I certainly understood how she felt. Born in the middle, I now stood second in line. The night after Eulalie died, I couldn’t sleep, feeling the heavy weight of new responsibilities pressing on my chest. The Thaumas crest—a silver octopus with arms flailed, grasping a trident, scepter, and feather—dotted the architecture in every room of Highmoor. The one opposite my bed stared down with an importance I’d never noticed before. What if something happened to Camille and suddenly everything fell to me? I wished I’d spent more time on my history lessons and less at the piano.
Camille taught me how to play. We were stair-stepped, the closest in age of all the sisters, save the triplets. I was born ten months after her, and we grew up as best friends. Whatever she did, I was eager to follow after. When she turned six, Mama gave her lessons on the old upright in her parlor. Camille was an apt pupil and showed me all she learned. Mama gave us four-hand versions of all her favorite songs, soon deeming us proficient enough for the grand piano in the Blue Room.
The house was always full of music and laughter as my sisters twirled around the house, dancing to the songs we played. I spent so many afternoons on that cushioned bench, pressed close to Camille, as our hands traveled up and down the ivory keys. I’d still rather play a duet with her than the most perfect solo all on my own. Without Camille next to me, the music felt too weak by half.
“Miss Annaleigh?”
Drawn from my reverie, I looked up to see Hanna’s eyes on me, eyebrows raised.
“Did she say how far along she is?”
“Morella? She thinks three months, maybe a little more.”
“More?” Camille smirked. “They’ve only been married four.”
Lenore left the window and joined me on the chaise. “Why does she bother you so much, Camille? I’m glad she’s here. The Graces love having a mother again.”
“She’s not their mother. Or ours. She doesn’t even come close.”
“She’s trying,” Lenore allowed. “She asked if she could help plan our ball. We can use it as our debut, since we can’t go to court during mourning.”
“You can’t throw a ball either,” Camille reminded her.
“But it’s our sixteenth birthday!” Rosalie sat up, a pout marring her face. “Why does everything fun have to be put on hold for a whole year? I’m tired of mourning.”
“And I’m sure your sisters are tired of being dead, but that’s how it is!” Camille exploded, pushing off the bed. She slammed the door behind her before any of us could stop her.
Rosalie blinked. “What’s gotten into her?”
I bit my lip, feeling as though I should go after her but too tired for whatever fight might ensue. “She’s missing Eulalie.”
“We all miss her,” Rosalie pointed out.
A blanket of silence descended over us as our thoughts drifted back to Eulalie. Hanna roamed the room, lighting tapers before lowering the gas sconces until they flickered out. The candelabras cast wavering shadows to the corners of the room.
Lenore stole part of my throw and burrowed under it. “Do you think it would be so very wrong to go along with Morella’s plan? To have a ball? We only turn sixteen once…. We can’t help it that everyone keeps dying.”
“I don’t think it’s wrong to want to celebrate, but think of how Camille feels. Neither of us debuted. Elizabeth and Eulalie didn’t either.”
“So celebrate with us!” Rosalie offered. “It could be a grand party—to show everyone that the Thaumas girls aren’t cursed and everything is fine.”
“And we don’t turn sixteen for three weeks. We could mourn till then and just…stop,” Ligeia reasoned.
“I don’t know why you’re trying to convince me. Papa is the one who will have to approve it.”
“He’ll say yes if Morella asks him.” Rosalie smiled slyly. “In bed.”
The triplets fell into fits of laughter. There was a knock at my door, and we all hushed, certain it was Papa coming to chastise us for making so much noise. But it was Verity, standing in the middle of the hallway, drowning in a dark nightgown two sizes too big for her. Her hair was mussed, and glittering tracks of tears ran down her face.
“Verity?”
She said nothing but held out her arms, begging to be picked up. I hoisted her into an embrace, smelling the sweet warmth of childhood. Though she was sweaty with sleep, goose bumps ran down her bare arms, and she snuggled into my neck, seeking comfort.
“What’s the matter, little one?” I rubbed soothing circles over her back, her hair as soft as a baby robin against my cheek.
“Can I stay here tonight? Eulalie is being mean to me.”
The triplets exchanged looks of concern.
“You can, of course, but do you remember what we talked about before the funeral? You know Eulalie isn’t here anymore. She’s with Mama and Elizabeth now, in the Brine.”
I felt her nod. “She keeps pulling my sheets off, though.” Her thin arms encircled my neck, clinging to me tighter than a starfish at high tide.
“Lenore, check on Mercy and Honor, will you?”
She kissed the top of Verity’s head before leaving.
“I bet they were only teasing you. Just a game.”
“It’s not a very nice one.”
“No,” I agreed, and carried her over to the bed. “You can stay tonight. You’re safe here. Go back to sleep.”
Verity whimpered once but closed her eyes and settled into the bedclothes.
“We should go too,” Rosalie whispered, sliding off the bed. “Papa will be checking on us soon.”
“Shall I walk you back to the second floor?” Hanna offered, holding out a pair of candles for Rosalie and Ligeia.
Rosalie shook her head but accepted a hug and the light before stepping out of the room.
“Think about what we said,” Ligeia added, kissing my cheek. “Ending the mourning would be good for us all.” She hugged Hanna good night and scurried down the hall.
The triplets refused to have their own bedrooms, saying they slept better together.
Hanna’s attention shifted to me. “Will you be going to bed too, then, Miss Annaleigh?”
I glanced back at Verity, snuggled deep in my pillows. “Not yet. My mind feels too full for sleep.”
She crossed to a side table, and I drifted back to the chaise, folding and unfolding the throw in my lap. Hanna returned with cups of cinnamon tea and sat down beside me. Something about her movements transported me back six years, to the night of Mama’s funeral.
Hanna had sat exactly where she was now, but I’d been on the floor, my head buried in her lap as she comforted as many of my sisters as she could. Camille was next to me, her eyes swollen and rimmed red. Elizabeth and Eulalie knelt near us, folding the triplets into a sobbing embrace. Ava and Octavia bookended Hanna, each holding a sleeping Grace. The only one missing was Verity, just days old and with her wet nurse.
None of us had wanted to be alone that night.
“It was a lovely funeral,” Hanna said now, twirling her spoon and bringing me back to the present. “So many young men. So many tears. I’m sure Eulalie must be pleased.”
I took a shallow sip, letting the spices linger on my tongue before agreeing.
“You’ve been awfully quiet tonight,” she prompted after the silence grew too long.
“I just keep thinking how strange this day felt. How strange everything has been since they…found her.” My mouth tripped over the words, as if the idea behind them was too unwieldy a shape to break into neat sentences. “Something feels wrong about her death, doesn’t it?”
Hanna was watching me. “It always feels wrong when a young person dies, especially someone like Eulalie, so full of beauty and promise.”
“But it’s more than that. I could understand why the others died. Each death was horrible and sad, but there was a reason for it. But Eulalie…what was she even doing out there? Alone and in the dark?”
“You and I both know she wasn’t meant to be alone for long.”
I remembered all those tearstained faces. “But why would she meet someone there? She didn’t even like going to the cliffs in broad daylight. The heights scared her. It doesn’t make any sense to me.”
Hanna clicked her tongue, setting aside her cup before pulling me into a hug. I caught just a trace of her soap then—milk and honey. Hanna was far too practical for perfumes or bath oils, but the warm, no-nonsense scent comforted me. I breathed it in as my head rested against her shoulder.
It was softer now, more giving, and the skin that peeked over the neckline of her shirtwaist was lined and crepe-thin. She’d been the nursemaid at Highmoor since Ava was born, always there to help patch skinned knees and soothe bruised egos. Her own son, Fisher, was three years older than me and grew up alongside us. Hanna laced us into our first corsets and helped pin up our hair, drying tears as the untrained curls refused to cooperate. There wasn’t any part of our childhood she missed, always nearby for a warm hug or a good-night kiss.
“Did you turn down the bed for her that night?” I asked, sitting up. Hanna would have been one of the last people to see Eulalie. “Did anything seem off?”
She shook her head. “Not that I recall. But I wasn’t with her long. Mercy had a stomachache. She came in asking for peppermint tea.”
“What about…after? You helped with…her body, didn’t you?”
“Of course. I’ve taken care of all your sisters. And your mother.”
“How did she look?”
Hanna swallowed deeply and made a sign of protection across her chest. “Such things shouldn’t be spoken of.”
I frowned. “I know she must have…it must have been terrible, but was there anything…amiss?”
Her eyes narrowed skeptically. “She plummeted more than a hundred feet, landing on the rocks. There was quite a bit amiss.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, deflating. I longed to ask her if anyone else helped prepare the body for its return to the Salt, but Hanna was done talking about it.
“You’re tired, love,” she said. “Why don’t you settle into bed and see how you feel in the morning?” She kissed the top of my head before leaving. The door clicked quietly shut behind her.
After checking that Verity had truly gone back to sleep, I crossed to the window, drawn by a strange restlessness. My bedroom overlooked the gardens on the south side of the house, three stories below. A wide fountain, showcasing a marble clipper ship, was at the center of the lawn, just off a decorative hedge maze.
Verity rolled over, murmuring sleepy incoherences. I’d drawn half the heavy drapes when a flicker of light caught my attention. Though the rain had ended, the sky was choked with dark clouds, obscuring the stars.
It was a lantern, flickering in and out of sculpted topiaries—sets of breaching humpback whales. As the light broke free from the trees, I spotted two figures. The smaller carried the lantern, setting it to the side before sitting on the fountain’s rounded lip. The candlelight caught the white streak in Papa’s hair.
What was he doing out in the gardens so late on the night of Eulalie’s funeral? He’d sent us all to bed early, saying we ought to use this time for solemn prayers to Pontus, asking for the sea god to grant our sister eternal rest in the Brine.
The hood of the other figure’s cloak fell back, revealing a headful of blond ringlets. Morella. She patted the empty space beside her, and Papa sat. After a moment or two, his shoulders began to shake. He was crying.
Morella leaned against him, wrapping her arm around his back and drawing him closer. I looked away as she reached up to stroke his cheek. I didn’t need to hear what she was saying to know her words consoled Papa like a soothing balm. She might not have understood our island ways, but I was suddenly glad of her presence at Highmoor. No one should have to bear such compounded grief alone.
Turning away from the window, I crawled into bed and snuggled up next to Verity, letting her measured breathing lull me to sleep.
