a nod from her, a wink. All the girls worshipped her, too. Laurelle was from a well-to-do family out of Welden Springs. She had her own servitors and showered small presents of honeycakes and cloth dolls to those in her favor. But of even more significance, rumors abounded that Laurelle would surely be hand-picked at the next full moon’s gathering, only eight nights away.
It was an honor they all craved: to be chosen as a handmaiden to one of the hundred gods of Myrillia. The best the remainder could hope for was to be assigned in some small measure to the court of a god, to bask from afar in such Grace. Yet worst of all, many would simply be sent back to their families, humiliated and rejected. This was the worry they all shared.
And even more so for Dart-she had no family and no other home. All that she possessed, her only family, lay curled at her feet.
Still, the Conclave of Chrismferry lay in the very shadow of the elder god’s castillion and, of all the Conclaves, this school produced the most handmaidens and handmen. The teachers stressed this fact daily, imposing hard rules and firm teachings. The matrons and masters were proud of their school, the foundation stone of which had been blessed four thousand years ago by Chrism himself.
Laurelle straightened with another flip of her flowing black hair. Dart smelled the sweet-water oil in it. She truly felt like a weed before a flower.
Suddenly Laurelle yelped. She danced from the table.
“What’s wrong?” Sissup asked. Jenine was already on her feet.
Laurelle shifted up the hem of her skirt, revealing an ankle in white stockings. A bloom of red spread out across the white lace. “Something scratched me!”
Sissup fell to her knees, searching under the table. “Maybe a nail?”
“Or a sliver!” Jenine said. “These cruel benches are as old as the stones.”
Dart knew better. Though no one could see Pupp, she motioned her secret friend closer to her. She ducked lower, pretending to search for what injured Laurelle. “Bad dog,” she whispered.
Pupp lowered his head, wincing, glancing back toward the bloody ankle. He gained his clawed feet and shoved between Dart’s legs, passing ghostly through the flesh of her thighs as he sought a place to hide under her skirt. The only sign of his passage was a slight chill on her skin. His face appeared from her hemline, poking through the fabric as if it were air. His head cocked up toward her, eyes mournful with shame.
She felt bad scolding him. He was simply too ugly to be mad at for long. His features were dreadful, all hard planes of beaten copper, with iron spikes in a mane around his face. His eyes were faceted jewels above a muzzle filled with sharpened blades; his tongue was a lap of flame. The rest of his body, squat and bulky, was a mix of armor and chain mail, with four thick limbs ending in steel claws. All of it glowed ruddily and seemed to flow and melt in swirls, subtly reforming her friend at every moment. Pupp was like a sculpture fresh from the forge, still molten from the flame’s touch.
She reached down to reassure him, but as always her hand passed through Pupp. He wasn’t real. Still bent over, she glanced to Laurelle’s bloody ankle. Dart knew Pupp scratched her. At odd times in the past, he had done such things, affected the real world. Dart didn’t understand how this could happen. In fact she had no idea what Pupp was. Only that he was her friend, her companion for as far back as she could remember. She had long given up trying to convince others of his existence. Only she saw him, and no one could touch him.
“It looks like a deep scratch,” Margarite said, coming to the aid of her best friend. Though Margarite’s family was from the opposite end of the Nine Lands, she could have been Laurelle’s twin with her sleek fall of black hair, snowy skin, and full lips. She even dressed in the same finery of blue velvet and white stockings. “We should fetch Healer Paltry.”
Though Laurelle’s cheeks were flushed and her eyes moist with tears, she waved such a thought away, struggling for a dismissive demeanor. “I’m not a piddling firstfloorer.” She bent and ripped her stocking, which earned a shocked cry from Sissup, who was not from such a rich family. Laurelle used the snatch of lace to bind her wound, which had almost stopped bleeding already.
It truly was not a deep scratch. Pupp had barely nicked her.
Laurelle inspected her handiwork, then nodded and stood.
A smatter of applause rewarded her effort. “She’s so brave,” Jenine murmured to Dart as Laurelle left with Margarite in tow. The nigglish prank on Dart had been all but forgotten.
Almost…
Matron Grannice appeared at the doorway, ringing a small bell. “To your classes now, gentle lasses! No dawdling. Don’t keep the mistresses and masters waiting.” She worked down the two rows, adding her usual litany of warnings. “Sharyn, make sure you keep your ankles covered when climbing the stairs. Bella, if you stain your petticoat with ink again, I’ll make a washerwoman out of you. And Hessy…”
The scolding continued, trailed by a chant of, “Yes, mum,” as the girls fled the commons, heading to the morning teachings.
Dart held her breath, staring at her laden plate.
Matron Grannice stopped behind her. Though Dart kept her back turned, she sensed the sour look. “Why are you always such a stubborn and willful child?”
From under lowered brows, Dart glanced to the door and saw Laurelle standing there, staring back. At her side, Margarite waggled fingers toward Dart, smiling at her predicament.
“Answer me,” Grannice barked.
Dart met Laurelle’s eyes and mumbled, “I don’t know, mum.”
“And why do you always speak as if you’re carrying a cheekful of nuts?”
“Sorry, mum.” Dart watched Laurelle nod back to her. Satisfied that the prank would not be laid at her feet, Laurelle left with Margarite, but not before Dart noted a glimpse of something deeper in the other girl’s eyes. It was not satisfaction, nor shame. It made no sense, but Dart could not dismiss what she had seen. Always off to the side, Dart had learned to read the subtleties in another’s features: the narrowing of an eye, a pursed lip, a flush of color on a cheek. But what she saw in Laurelle still made no sense.
Why would Laurelle envy me?
Matron Grannice interrupted her reverie. “It seems there is only one way to straighten this arrogant bent. And that is to learn from those even more willful than you.”
“Mum?”
“It’s off to the rookery with you! Perhaps a morning of scooping droppings, scrubbing floors, and spreading hay will temper your demeanor, young lass.”
“But classes?” Dart sat up straighter. “We’re to practice for the moon’s ceremony.”
Grannice let out an exasperated sigh. “You can practice with the ravens.” Dart’s ear was grabbed and she was hauled to her feet. “You know where the pails and brooms and brushes are. Now off with you.”
Dart hurried from the room with a rush of her skirts. She saw the last few of the other girls heading down the stairs, giggling and laughing, clutching books to their bosoms. They were fifth- and sixthfloorers heading down to the courtyard and classes in the neighboring towers. She watched them disappear, then faced the spiraling stair that led upward.
“To me, Pupp,” she mumbled and began the long climb toward the rookery in the roost atop the tower. Her companion clambered past her, trotting a few steps ahead. The flow of his molten body seemed agitated. Pupp was clearly excited by the adventure.
They climbed the fourth and fifth floors, then past the levels that quartered the mistresses and matrons and healing wards, then up past levels vacant and dusty. At last, she reached a door at the top of the tower.
Beyond it lay the rookery.
Pupp nosed the solid squallwood door, then passed through it as if it were mere smoke. The only material that ever seemed to thwart Pupp was stone.
Continuing after her friend, Dart tugged the latch and hauled the way open for herself. She had to lean out with her slight body to fight the door’s weight and ancient hinges. The door squealed open, setting the ravens inside to flapping on their hundred perches and nests. Screeched complaints echoed across the cavernous stone chamber.
She ducked through and pulled the door behind her, leaving it cracked open to allow the outer hall’s torchlight to filter in. The only other illumination came from the twenty guano-stained windows high up the walls. The remainder of the room was cloaked in gloom. Large eyes reflected the meager light, stared down at her. The birds
