The countess jerks her head up and bites down.
My teeth clench.
“Do it! You have a right to defend yourself. You are justified in this.”
No.
The countess’s eyes change. She’s shifting into her Siren state.
“Do it now. Before it’s too late. If she speaks with her Siren voice, you’ll be done for. You’ll never find the rose. Never achieve what you’ve worked so hard for.”
What choice do I have? The voice is right.
Free hand trembling, I raise it in the air. I pause. But then the countess opens her mouth and my hand comes down.
The blow is hard.
The blow is deadly.
The countess does not wake.
ACT IV
Her Voice
FORTY-ONE
Upon the Water
Welcome aboard the Iron Lass. I do hope ye enjoy the voyage.”
Isaach winks, then brandishes a pint, uncorks it, and chugs. Ale leaks and courses down and around the corners of his mouth, flecking his beard with alcohol droplets. Gone is the sour demeanor he wore during the council meeting. This man is a swab-bucketful of just enough drinks and not enough kilt. My gaze avoids him when he lounges on a nearby barrel, legs wide and drink punching the air. Unicorn Joust indeed. This man should not be allowed near weaponry of any sort. Ever.
Our crew goes to work, joining with the Iron Lass bunch to ready the vessel. It’s not as large as the Seven Seas and designed more like a Viking ship, with one sail at the center, lengthy oars protruding from either side, and the head of a Dragon carved into the wood at the bow. Yes, I finally learned the difference between stern and bow. I’m a true pirate now. Savvy?
My sisters and I share one oar, which is heavier than it first appears. We’re setting sail from the south side of Tecre Island, opposite of where we entered through the Tecre Sea. Just getting out of what I’ve been informed is Sarames Bay is difficult enough. Countess Ambrose didn’t come to see us off and Tide didn’t show either. We waited, but Ky figured our resident surfer dude decided to remain behind with his people. Makes sense but a glance at Ebony’s heartbroken expression has me irked. Tide, at the very least, could’ve said good-bye to her.
Dawn breaks but the air remains chilled. My face is numb and I rub my hands together, blowing hot breaths between them. According to Ky it’ll take all day to reach the Fifth’s Threshold. My arms scream from the burn brought on by rowing. But the work feels good, just as it did when we helped clear the Fourth’s wreckage.
Each day I grow stronger, more confident. When I happen upon my reflection it’s leaner, more toned. My round face has lengthened. My cheeks are more defined. It’s been awhile since I even bothered to feel self-conscious of my mirrormark. I was worried about change, terrified of what it would bring, but perhaps it’s for the better.
The old me would never be able to handle what’s happened. The old me would have fallen apart over Joshua’s betrayal. Yes, it hurts, but it won’t break me. I won’t let it. As Ky said, Joshua makes his own choices. I can’t be blamed for them, and I won’t be made to feel guilty for his despicable actions.
Joshua and I have been through so much and not enough. Through everything and nothing. Through beginnings and endings.
Joshua and I have been through . . .
We’re through.
The wind picks up a few miles out and a horde of dark clouds brews in the distance. Even from here I can see the lightning flashes within them. A natural squall or something caused by the draining Thresholds? Captain Isaach is passed out, and Ky orders us to draw in our oars. We do so, locking them in place. He struts to our trio, brows knit and eyes searching the waves.
He’s thinking what I am. Drat. We’re headed straight into a storm and it may be another side effect of the Void’s hold on the Verity—the Verity’s connection to the Void. I rub my right arm, which still hurts, but I’ve gotten used to the ache. Is that good or bad?
“It’s neither,” Ky assures my mind. “Believe me, there’s no other way to cope with the pain but to live with it.”
Wind whistles past my ears. I lift the hood of my sweatshirt. What should we do?
“What do you suggest, my queen?”
I’d roll my eyes, but the seriousness in his thought makes me think better of it. My gaze descends. This is really the first time anyone has looked to me for guidance. The task is harder than it seems, and I make a note to put together my own council when and if I ever return to the Second. I’d include Mom and Makai and Stormy. Maybe I’ll earn some points back with Preacher if—
“Em?”
I chew the inside of my cheek. See who has one of the three remaining Callings. If we’re lucky maybe there’s a water Magnet on board who can help calm the storm. Unlikely, but all avenues should be exhausted before we buckle down and wait. Man, now I really wish I’d brought Stormy.
“Good idea,” Ky thinks. “Why don’t you go ahead and shift, scout things a few miles out. Don’t fly too close to the gale, but get close enough to report what we’re up against.”
Aye, aye, Captain.
He turns, moving from crew member to crew member, asking if they’re Called and if any are Masks or Scribs or Magnets. Not that a Scrib could do much, but who knows? Maybe someone carries knowledge of hurricane survival. What could it hurt?
I move to the stern, crouch behind a crate, strip off my top layer of clothing. Then I release the song within. My voice has grown stronger, clearer. I let the lyrics surround me. Wait for the familiar feeling of weightlessness.
But nothing happens.
Try again.
Fail.
Again.
Nothing.
Ten times. Ten times I sing my Mirror melody—the notes their own symphony—and neglect to transform. No. Not again. The Verity has absorbed another Calling. My voice is stronger because of it, but what does this matter? I’d hoped Mask would be the last to go. Nothing is ever so fortunate.
My heart an anchor at my feet, I don my clothes. Head across the ship to give Ky the worse-than-sucky news. But before I reach him, Ebony stops me.
She’s gotten super easy to read. The mischief perking her cheeks lets on she has a plan B. Hands on her hips, she quirks a brow. “Trouble in the butterfly department?”
“What are you thinking?”
Lips curving at the corners, she says, “I think you’re ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“What else?” She flips her hair. Her Calling may be gone. Her makeup and nice clothes absent. But she’s Fifth Avenue as ever, all attitude and class. Poise. “I think it’s time we teach you how to project.”
If you’d told me two months ago that Quinn Kelly—in any shape or form—would one day teach me how to not only harness the Magnet within but project it, I’d have laughed. “Magnet what?” I would have said. “How much crazy-sauce did you eat last night?”