House of Salt and Sorrows Read online

  I couldn’t help my bemused look. “Well, it was a funeral.”

  She tucked a wisp of pale blond hair behind her ear, smiling nervously. “Of course, I only meant…why the water? I don’t understand why you don’t just bury her, like they do on the mainland?”

  I caught sight of Papa. He’d want me to be nice, to explain our ways. I tried to allow a trickle of pity into my heart for her.

  “The High Mariner says Pontus created our islands and the people on them. He scooped salt from the ocean tides for strength. Into that was mixed the cunning of a bull shark and the beauty of the moon jellyfish. He added the seahorse’s fidelity and the curiosity of a porpoise. When his creation was molded just so—two arms, two legs, a head, and a heart—Pontus breathed some of his own life into it, making the first People of the Salt. So when we die, we can’t be buried in the ground. We slip back into the water and are home.”

  The explanation seemed to please her. “See, something like that at the funeral would have been lovely. There was just such an emphasis on…the death.”

  I offered her a smile. “Well…this was your first one. You get used to them.”

  Morella reached out, placing her hand on mine, her small face earnest. “I hate that you’ve gone through so many of these. You’re far too young to have felt so much pain and grief.”

  The rain came down harder, shrouding Highmoor in muddled grays. Great boulders at the bottom of the cliffs were tossed about by the raging sea like marbles in a little boy’s pocket, their crashes blasting up the steep rocks and rivaling the thunder.

  “What happens now?”

  I blinked, drawing my attention back to her. “What do you mean?”

  She bit into her lip, stumbling over the unfamiliar words. “Now that she’s…back in the Salt…what are we supposed to do?”

  “That was it. We’ve said our goodbyes. After this wake, it’s all over.”

  Her fingers tinkered with restless frustration. “But it’s not. Not truly. Your father said we have to wear black for the next few weeks?”

  “Months, actually. We wear black for six, then darker grays for another six after that.”

  “A year?” she gasped. “Am I really meant to wear these dour clothes for a whole year?” People near the sofa turned their heads toward us, having overheard her outburst. She had the decency to blush with chagrin. “What I mean is…Ortun just bought my bridal trousseau. Nothing in it is black.” She’d borrowed one of Camille’s dresses for today, but it didn’t fit her well. She smoothed down the edge of the bodice. “It’s not only about the clothes. What about you and Camille? Both of you should be out in society, meeting young men, falling in love.”

  I tilted my head, wondering if she was serious. “My sister just died. I don’t exactly feel like dancing.”

  A crack of thunder made us jump. Morella squeezed my hand, bringing my eyes back to hers. “Forgive me, Annaleigh, I’m not saying anything right today. I meant…after so much tragedy, this family should be happy again. You’ve mourned enough for a lifetime already. Why continue to shroud yourself in pain? Mercy, Honor, and dear little Verity should be playing with dolls in the garden, not accepting condolences and making idle small talk. And Rosalie and Ligeia—Lenore too—look at them.”

  The triplets perched on a love seat truly only big enough for two. Their arms linked around each other, holding themselves like a fat spider as they sobbed into their veils. No one dared approach such concentrated grief.

  “It breaks my heart to see everyone like this.”

  I slipped my hand free of hers. “But this is what you do when someone dies. You can’t change traditions just because you don’t like them.”

  “But what if there was a cause for joy? Something that ought to be celebrated, not hidden away? Shouldn’t good news triumph?”

  A servant approached, offering glasses of wine. I took one, but Morella dismissed him with a skilled shake of her head. She’d quickly settled into her role as mistress of Highmoor.

  “I suppose so.” I hesitated. Another roll of thunder boomed through the air. “But there doesn’t seem to be much to celebrate today.”

  “I think there is.” Leaning in, Morella dropped her voice to a conspiring whisper. “A new life.” She discreetly placed a protective hand over her stomach.

  I swallowed my mouthful of wine, nearly choking in surprise. “You’re pregnant?” She beamed. “Does Papa know?”

  “Not yet. I was about to tell him, but we were interrupted by those fishermen, with Eulalie.”

  “He’ll be so pleased. Do you know how far along you are?”

  “Three months, I think.” She ran her fingers over her hair. “Do you really think Ortun will be happy? I’d do just about anything to see him smile again.”

  I glanced back at Papa, surrounded by friends but too lost in memories of Eulalie to respond to their conversation. I nodded. “I’m sure of it.”

  She took a deep breath. “Then such happy news shouldn’t keep, should it?”

  Morella crossed to the grand piano in the center of the room before I could answer. Picking up a bell from the lid, she rang it, effectively quieting the room.

  My mouth went dry as I realized what she was about to do.

  “Ortun?” she asked, jarring him from his thoughts. Her voice was high and thin, like the chiming of the bell in her hand.

  It was my mother’s bell. Camille and I had found it years ago while playing dress-up in the attic. We had loved its silvery tone and brought it to Mama when she grew too weak to be heard throughout the house. Now every time I heard it ring, memories of her last pregnancy came back to me with the force of a cold wave crashing into my chest.

  When he was at her side, Morella continued. “Ortun and I want to thank you all for coming. The last few days have been an unending night of darkness, but your presence here now is like the first warm tendrils of a beautiful sunrise creeping across the sky.”

  Her words, though obviously chosen with care, flowed easily from her. My eyes narrowed. She’d practiced this beforehand.

  “Your memories of dear, beautiful Eulalie paint our hearts with gladness, lifting them from the gloom. And we are happy—joyful, even—for in this bold new morning, a fresh chapter dawns on the House of Thaumas.”

  Camille, who had been in conversation with an uncle across the room, shot me an uneasy look. Even the triplets broke their tight link; Lenore stood next to the love seat, her fingers digging into the cushy arm.

  Morella held Papa’s hand and rested her other on her flat stomach, erupting into a wide grin as she relished the attention. “And just as night is chased away by morning’s glow, so too will the shadows of grief be pushed aside by the arrival of our son.”

  “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.”