We’re not far from the harbour, where I can see the lanterns which illuminate the docks, their reflections in the water moving constantly. Viviane, the woman with red and white hair (costume mistress and cook), sits with me by the fire and tells me about the town. She was born here though it’s so long since she left, she no longer has family or a house to visit here.
‘It’s smaller than Breakwater, but it sprawls lazy as a big port,’ she says as she mends one of the costumes. ‘See those lights?’ She points away to our right. ‘Houses crawling up into the foothills; farms too and a foundry, tannery, carriage maker, carpenters and joiners, a hostelry too for those who can’t be bothered to come into town. To the north is the Singing Rock.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Ah, now don’t go wandering there, that’s where the rusalky gather.’
I sift through my memories and come up with one of Maura’s warnings: rusalky aren’t creatures who begin in the water, but end there. Maidens murdered and those who take their own lives, all ill-fated in love. Some can’t pass on and remain in their watery grave, transmuted into something else, creatures with a malign will. Their only goal is to bring others to drown. I say ‘Ah,’ and Viviane sees that I understand.
It’s better organised here than Breakwater, she boasts: the wharves are overseen by a strict harbour master, the streets leading away from the water and winding their way to form a grid. The only strangeness is the Vines District, an created island in the middle of the town where the richest have their grand mansions. It’s surrounded by a diverted channel of the river, and accessed by only six tidy bridges, each one guarded by an armsman day and night to ensure the wrong sort don’t cause mischief for their betters.
Ellingham has taken Ben, who’s given me a wildflower every day, has hairy palms and index fingers longer than his middle ones, to see the owner of the Aoide Theatre, where they will soon settle in for an eight-week season. It’s not quite in the Vines District, but located a stone’s throw from one of the bridges, making it one of those places the rich and poor may mingle, should they so choose. Ellingham told me he’s training Ben to become the manager for the day – far distant – when Orin himself decides he’s had enough. Ben’s a good lad, always quick with a joke and a helping hand. Thus, everyone else has departed to find their own peculiar brand of amusement for as of tomorrow everything will be about the performances to earn their keep. So, tonight is for their rest and my last night with them.
I could have gone with them and enjoyed a meal in a tavern and the company of others. I could have patronised one of the finer brothels for women on the far side of Bellsholm – where the men are handsome and do as they’re told (Viviane had said this wistfully). But I chose instead to remain with Viviane, who knows much and is good company, and who has trusted me with the least onerous of the mending so I might do something useful. Ellingham won’t accept anything from me, no matter how I insist.
‘What will you do, tomorrow?’ asks Viviane. ‘When will you leave, Miss Molly?’
‘I’ll visit the jewel-smith Ellingham recommended,’ I say. Bellsholm is a better spot to dispose of some of the pieces; let them be taken apart and made unrecognisable. I’d love to be rid of the engagement ring, but it’s too unique and too difficult to get the right price for here. I need a bigger city, perhaps Lodellan itself, though I’ve no plans to go that way, so the thing must remain with me a while longer. ‘I’ll buy a horse, food. Choose a road.’
‘Looking for Blackwater,’ she states. Not a question. I know Ellingham’s asked his people as if it’s his own enquiry, but no one’s come up with anything. And everyone’s looked at me once or twice, as if to ask how can we think them so stupid as to not connect my sudden presence with Ellingham’s sudden queries?
There’s not much point denying it. I nod.
Viviane says, ‘Best to ask any tinkers you meet on the road. We tend to travel the same route, year in, year out. We seldom go off the beaten path because we don’t need to. We stay where’s safest, although I’m not saying sometimes we haven’t gone out of our way from desperation and met with trouble in the form of robbers and the like.’
‘What’s happened?’ I ask.
She laughs. ‘Orin Ellingham can talk almost anyone around. Instead of stealing from us, all three times we’ve been fed and performed for them.’
‘Even blackguards need amusement, I suppose.’
‘Do you have a knife? Some kind of weapon?’
I pull out the pearl-handled pocketknife and she laughs again.
‘I know it’s not much,’ I say, ‘but it’s hidden and unexpected.’
‘True. That’s your backup, though. You need something bigger, something that might act as a deterrent.’ Her hand moves swiftly to the boot peeking out from beneath her skirts, then there’s something silver and sharp in her fingers. ‘There’s a weaponsmith next door to the jewel-smith in the Vines. Tell him I sent you.’ A swift flick and the knife disappears again.
We settle into silence for a while, both of us drawing thread through fabric with her brass needles; the firelight’s not ideal but this isn’t fine work. Then she says, ‘Who are you running from?’
‘A man,’ I answer, then, not wanting to continue that line of conversation, ask, ‘Why did you leave Bellsholm?’
‘A man.’
We snort.
‘A man I didn’t want to marry,’ I admit.
‘A man I did want to marry,’ she answers.
‘Did you?’ I ask. ‘Marry him?’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘And it was
