The Bone Charmer Page 19

  Bram shakes his head as if he can sense the tenor of my thoughts. “I’m not trying to deceive you. Your mother trusts Esmee. At least she did once. And I trust her now.”

  I chew the inside of my cheek. I need to find out more about the dark magic Latham was using, and this seems like as good a plan as any. “Where does she live?”

  “Not far from here. We could get to her home in a day or two.” Bram tugs on the back of his neck. “There’s only one problem.”

  I raise my eyebrows in a question.

  Bram sighs and points behind us. “She lives that way.”

  Our first chance to disembark comes the next morning in Calden. The day dawns bright and cool. Bram and I dress in plain gray cloaks. We carry my belongings in a basket stolen from the kitchens, with a layer of fruit tossed on top. Hopefully it will make us look like traders—simple farmers going from village to village, selling the food we’ve grown.

  But no one gives us a second look as we disembark. Perhaps the ship’s crew hasn’t been warned to watch us. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary, because someone else is watching us. Someone who doesn’t need to be close. Someone who can observe from the comfort of Ivory Hall.

  A shiver goes through me.

  Bram and I combine the last of our coin and scrape together just enough to hire a small boat to take us back upriver. After we sail past the capital, it’s another day’s journey south to the harbor at Grimsby. As we travel, Bram tells me about Esmee—how she’s a historian, knowledgeable about all the bone magics, but an expert on Bone Charming in particular. He doesn’t say how he met her, and I don’t ask. The earlier tension still vibrates between us like the moments just after the clash of cymbals—not quite noise, but not silence either.

  It’s late in the day by the time we arrive. The sky is tinged with soft light that is slowly melting toward darkness. The town casts a spell over me the moment I step off the boat, captivating me with its charm. Brightly colored buildings with vivid green roofs press together like wool-hatted children huddling in the cold, and cobblestone streets dip and rise over the hilly terrain.

  Bram leads me past all the shops—an apothecary with rows of glass bottles, a bakery with a half dozen pies in the window, a toy shop that spills children’s laughter from its open door.

  We don’t speak as we move through the quieter part of Grimsby, past all the homes, to the very outskirts of town. The sun has disappeared by the time Bram leads me deep into the woods.

  My steps slow. A flutter of unease ripples through me.

  “Still not planning to murder you,” Bram says over his shoulder.

  I bristle. “I didn’t think you were.”

  He tosses a glance in my direction. “Are you sure?”

  A flash of annoyance goes through me. “Stop saying that.”

  He turns. “Stop asking if you’re sure?” He’s being purposely obtuse and it makes me want to take off a shoe and throw it at him.

  “I don’t think you’re going to murder me.”

  He quirks one eyebrow.

  “Though if you were,” I say, under my breath, “this would be the perfect spot.”

  The corners of his mouth lift. And then he laughs as if he can’t help himself. As if the sound tumbled from his mouth, unexpectedly, surprising even him.

  Something in my chest loosens, like a fist unclenching. Or a tightly closed flower bud bursting into bloom. It makes it easier to breathe when we start walking again.

  Gradually the day stretches and the light fades.

  “It’s not much farther now,” Bram says. The sun disappeared long ago, and the moonlight glimmers through the leaves on the trees.

  After the long trek through the dense forest—branches brushing the top of my head, twigs snapping underfoot—I’m expecting to find a rough-hewn hunter’s lodge or a little hut made of straw. But Esmee’s home is just as lovely as the rest of Grimsby. The cottage is tucked in the middle of a clearing of wildflowers. The windows glow with candlelight.

  Bram puts a hand on my forearm. “One more thing you should know about Esmee …” He swallows. “She wasn’t bone-matched.”

  I’m hit with a wave of cold shock. It freezes the hope inside me. “But you said she was an expert…. You said …”

  “And she is,” Bram says. “Everything I told you is true.”

  “You trusted my fate to a leftover?” The panic is slick inside my veins. I put my palms on his chest and shove him as hard as I can, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t even shift his weight. “You tricked me.” I push him again, frustrated at his strength. At my weakness.

  He catches both of my wrists and holds them against his chest. “Well, I suppose this an improvement over you being afraid of me.”

  “You’re a liar.” I spit the words at him.

  “I didn’t lie to you.”

  “You withheld the truth. It’s the same thing.”

  “Just because Esmee wasn’t bone-matched—”

  But I don’t want to hear anything he has to say. I wrench out of his grip and turn away.

  “Saskia.” Bram’s voice is gruff, angry. “You’re a leftover now, too.”

  The words pin me in place. They steal the breath from my throat and make it impossible for me to speak for several long moments. “It’s not the same.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  I’ve been so focused on finding out what game Latham is playing that I hadn’t considered what getting expelled from Ivory Hall meant for the rest of my life. “My mother can protest Norah’s decision. She’ll fix it.” My eyes flick to his. “For both of us.”

  He rakes his fingers through his hair. “Maybe Esmee didn’t have anyone to fix it,” he says softly. “Does that really make her any less than you?”

  “I didn’t say she was less than me. I just …” But the words die on my lips. As much as I’ve resented the bones, I’ve also always trusted them as the best source of knowledge. But getting expelled from Ivory Hall hasn’t erased what I’ve learned any more than having well-prepared kenning bones made me more suited to bone magic than someone who was poor. My mother taught me better than this. But still, my first instinct is to mistrust anyone who isn’t bone-matched. The pinprick of realization stings and hot shame courses through me.

  “Give her a chance,” Bram says.

  I nod and follow him to the door. Esmee answers right away. She’s at least a hand-width shorter than I am, with a pleasant, heavily lined face and a shock of white hair that she wears piled in a bun at the back of her head.

  I expect her to greet Bram, but instead she turns her gaze on me. “Saskia Holte,” she says, “I’ve been expecting you.”

  Saskia

  The Tutor

  I sit in front of a velvet cloth scattered with a dozen metacarpal bones. For the last seven days, I’ve done little more than eat, sleep, and attempt to learn Second Sight Bone Charming from a Third Sight Charmer. I’ve had some success in performing readings on my mother, because I have access to her blood, but I’ve failed to see more than fuzzy outlines of anything else.

  My temples throb as I try to focus on Declan and give myself over to the tug of magic I feel low in my belly. But it isn’t working.

  I take in a deep breath and open my eyes.

  My mother watches me with such a hopeful expression that it hurts to shake my head and admit that I failed again. Her eyes dim as her optimism bleeds away.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I keep getting so close, but I can’t make out anything more than shadows.”

  She stands and goes to the window. Her fingers curl around the wooden frame. Her knuckles turn white. “We need Declan’s blood,” she says.

  Her irritation sparks against my own. “Why didn’t you just say so?” I ask. “I’ll run on over and ask him for some.”

  She presses her lips together. Her eyes flutter closed as if she’s summoning patience from some inner reserve. “I know you’re doing your best, Saskia. But it’s not enough.”

  “Then I
’ll start seeing Declan again. He won’t believe I’m ill forever.” My mother has kept Declan at bay—and Audra, too—by telling everyone that I’ve contracted a stomach bug.

  “No,” she says, “unacceptable.”

  “Do you have a better idea?”

  “Maybe.” Her gaze grows faraway. “There is a species of bat that feasts on blood. Their saliva contains a numbing agent so they can bite a sleeping animal without waking it, and lap up its blood in peace.”

  My stomach turns at the image. “So what? We find a Watcher who can control a vampire bat?”

  “I don’t trust any of the Watchers enough to ask,” she says, “but Gran once had a customer who was especially sensitive to pain, so she commissioned a special needle made from the bone of a bat wing. It was infused with the animal’s saliva. Gran could draw blood without the customer feeling a thing.”

  “I don’t suppose Oskar keeps needles like that in stock at the bone house?”

  She smiles for the first time in several days. “No,” she says, “but I think I can get one.”

  My mother returns with the bone needle the next evening. She’s been gone for hours—so long that my optimism gradually transformed into worry. And then my worry became anxiety. By the time I hear her key in the lock, my anxiety has caught fire, blazing into irrational anger.

  I meet her at the door, a flood of questions pooling on my tongue—biting and bitter—but the moment I see her face, I swallow them one by one. She wears an expression I’ve never seen on her before. It’s raw and vulnerable. Guilty.

  Her trembling hands carry a small box. It’s not the kind usually used for bones—silver or gold, velvet lined … expensive. It’s made of plain, cheap wood and looks like it could hold fishing supplies.

  “Are you all right?” I ask.

  Her eyes don’t quite meet mine. “I’m fine, just tired. It was more challenging to get the needle than I thought; I had to resort to buying it from a less than savory trader. Not ideal, but I was out of options.” She tucks the box into the top drawer of her desk. “I’ll find Declan tomorrow and get enough blood for you to have plenty of practice.”

  The tenor of her voice makes me uneasy. “How? You can’t just walk up to him and stab him with it.”

  She gives me a tired smile and rests the backs of her fingers against my cheek. They feel like ice. “I’ll figure it out. Now get some sleep. You’ll learn better if you’re well rested.”

  She kicks off her shoes and pads down the hallway. Her bedroom door closes softly behind her.

  I stare at the empty space she left behind. The void feels as if it has a pulse—as if whatever stress she experienced to find the bone has grown into a living thing.

  I pull the wooden box from the drawer and remove the lid. The needle rests on a bed of soft fabric. Gingerly, I pinch it between my thumb and forefinger to examine it. It’s made from a thin, sharp bone and it’s practically weightless, so delicate that it could snap in two with the barest amount of pressure. The hollow tip has a chamber inside to catch the blood. I press it to the pad of my finger. I feel a gentle pressure, but nothing more. It isn’t until I move the bone away and notice a faint smear of blood on my skin that I realize the needle pierced me. I turn it over and gaze inside the hollow. A few drops of my blood fill the chamber.

  My heart races. This could actually work. But I can’t imagine any scenario where my mother gets close enough to Declan to use the needle without arousing suspicion. I have to be the one to do it. If I wait until morning, I’ll never convince her to let me go. Not without a fight. She refused to let me play in the Shard with my friends until I was ten years old because she was convinced I wasn’t a strong enough swimmer yet. This time, her desire to protect me might ruin us both.

  I go to my bedroom and riffle through the box under my bed until I find my father’s paint set. I haven’t refreshed my tattoo since I saw Declan last. I mix the colors and add one less drop of white than last time. If I were really falling in love, the long absence might have warmed my heart toward him. Once the paint is dry, I find the bone-carved hair clips he dropped off when he heard I was ill—a treasure brought from one of his trading stops that I haven’t been able to look at.

  But tonight I will need every advantage I can get.

  I gather two sections of hair—one above each ear—then twist them together and secure the style with the bone clips. Then I grab my cloak from the hook on the wall and slip into the night.

  Chilly air bites at my cheeks as I walk along the bank of the Shard. Only the barest sliver of moon lights the sky. The box in my pocket feels as heavy as a brick, even though it weighs almost nothing.

  I tried Declan’s house first—shinnied up the tree outside his window and tapped the glass with a branch—but either he was sleeping so deeply that he didn’t hear me or he wasn’t there.

  My next stop is the trading ship. Declan often spends the night onboard if he has a late night or an early morning. When I spot the vessel in the distance, moored alongside the dock, I’m torn between wanting Declan to be there and hoping he’s not.

  I make my way to the water’s edge and pull a pebble from my pocket—I’ve been gathering stones of various sizes since I left Declan’s house—and toss it into the water on the side of the ship where I know he sleeps. I wait, but the night is still. The soft light of an oil lamp glimmers off the water. I throw a larger pebble. Water splashes against the ship. Nothing.

  I toss three stones in quick succession. They smack against the water with a crack that reverberates through the night. But still, there’s no movement on the ship.

  My chest tightens with equal parts disappointment and relief. I turn away.

  “Saskia?”

  I spin to find Declan, barefoot and shirtless. His hair is messy and his expression is dazed and sleepy.

  “You’re here,” I say.

  He rubs his eyes. “Yes, but what are you doing here?”

  Blood rushes in my ears. I feel nauseous. “I missed you,” I say. He shivers. “You’re cold. I’m so sorry.” I rub my palms along his arms and think of the anatomy books my mother has forced me to pore over for the past week. I take both of his hands in mine and trace my thumbs along the veins above his knuckles. But he’ll see if I try to use the needle there.

  He pulls me closer. “Don’t be sorry. I missed you too.” He laces his fingers through mine. I trace the artery above his wrist, but then quickly dismiss the thought. An artery will bleed too profusely. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Much,” I tell him. My gaze falls to the vein that runs under his clavicle. “I wanted to thank you for the hair clips.” I turn my head so that he can see I’m wearing them.

  He smiles. “Do you like them?”

  “I love them.” I stuff my fists into my pockets and nudge the box open with my thumb. I curl my fingers around the needle.

  Declan’s eyes drop to my hands and my heart seizes. “Is everything all right?”

  My mouth goes dry. “Of course. Why?”

  He tucks a stray hair behind my ear. “You went from touching me to shoving your hands into your pockets.”

  I swallow. Declan is fully awake now and paying attention. This is going to be even more challenging than I thought.

  “I got cold.” I take my hands from my pockets, making sure to keep the bone nestled in the crook of my palm.

  His arms slide around my waist. “I’m more than happy to warm you up.”

  A shiver goes through me that has nothing to do with the temperature. I trace my thumb against the contours of Declan’s throat, feeling for the gentle give of a vein. He sighs into me, his breath warm against my neck. I still can’t find a suitable blood vessel. And even if I could, he’s still not distracted enough for me to pull this off without him noticing.

  Gravity is working against me, making his veins too flat. I need them to swell. Which means I need him on his back.

  Nausea threatens at the back of my throat again, but I smile as I tug
on Declan’s hand. I lead him from the dock to the riverbank, where we sink onto a patch of cold grass. His wide pupils glimmer in the lamplight.

  “Where’s all this coming from?” His expression hovers somewhere between wonder and doubt.

  I slide my hand behind his neck, the needle still tucked into my palm. “I’m in love with you,” I say.

  His eyes go soft. He’s already seen my ever-darkening tattoo, but it’s a different thing to say the words aloud. More vulnerable. More intimate. He moves closer to me. I know what needs to happen next, but my heart squeezes in protest. This is a moment I will never get back. A moment I’m about to throw away.

  I tip my face toward him and our lips meet.

  My mind goes blank. It’s my first kiss and it’s nothing but a sham. The loss is like a swift kick to the gut. Declan pulls away and studies my face. “Are you all right? You got faraway again.”

  No one can spot a lie like a liar.

  I need to do a better job of selling this or I’m going to spoil everything. “You made me forget where I was for a moment,” I say, making sure I sound a touch breathless. “Maybe I’ll remember better if we try again.”

  This time I kiss him. I pretend he’s nothing more than a vessel to hold my anger, my worry, my fear. I pour every negative emotion I have into him until I feel like I’m on fire. I let my hands sink into his hair. I push him onto his back and let my fingers roam over his neck. He meets each kiss with hungry intensity.

  There. The squishy sensation of a vein. I’ve finally found his jugular. I press all my fingers against his throat at the same time I plunge the needle into his vein. He moans and deepens the kiss. I wait until I’m sure I have enough blood and then I remove the needle and press a thumb against the vein to stem the bleeding. Declan’s fingers roam over my face, but I continue to keep pressure on his neck.

  Finally, when I’m sure it’s been long enough, I slip the needle into the pocket of my cloak and pull away.

  “Come back.” Declan pulls me toward him, but I lay a hand against his chest.

  “My mother will wake up soon. I don’t want her to know I snuck out.”