Dearest

  Friday cupped the brass bed knob in the pocket of her skirt. It remained cool to the touch, though she had not let go of it since they had set sail. Mr. Jolicoeur suggested they not use her gift until they were well clear of the shore and out into open waters.

  “Does the height bother you?”

  Philippe’s question drew her attention to the sheer expanse of the water below her—the water she had almost died in at the ocean’s creation. He wore a thin shirt of mail and a sword at his hip, purloined, no doubt, from the training grounds.

  “No,” she answered honestly. “I am not afraid.”

  “Good,” he said. “Because if you fall this time, I’m not coming after you.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to,” Friday shot back at him. “Right now, I have Tristan’s love and the faith of every person aboard this ship. I feel like I could conquer the world.”

  “Luckily, we only need to conquer one island nation.”

  Friday took a deep breath. “I think I can do that.”

  “I’m not asking you to.”

  “Of course not,” said Friday. “You don’t ask for help. You punch first and ask questions later.” She took hold of the railing and turned her face into the wind. “I have a sister like you.”

  The boat rocked over a particularly large wave, forcing Philippe to grab the railing as well to maintain his balance. “I like her already.”

  Friday smirked. “She’s the same one who created this ocean.”

  “Hmm. Then I take it back.”

  “But you would do the same, wouldn’t you? You would break the world and let chaos reign, just as long as it meant you could kill Mordant.”

  “Yes.” There was no hesitation in his answer. Friday shivered from the passionate intensity that one word held.

  “It’s amazing,” she said. “You look so much like him, but you feel so . . . different.”

  “Different how?” he asked. “In a way, you were as much a part of my destiny as his. What is it that binds you to him and not . . . the rest of us?”

  But Friday did not hear Philippe say “the rest of us.” She heard him say “me.” What is it that binds you to him and not me? Friday looked at him, and for the first time, she was able to sense beyond the anger with which he shielded himself from the world. Deep inside that steely young man was an incredibly frightened little boy. One very tired, very lonely little boy.

  Friday slid her hand down the railing toward his. She wanted to reassure him that all was not lost. She wanted to promise him that he would find something, someone—that his heart would heal in time, if he only had the patience to let it. The second her hand touched his, indigo-blue sparks jumped between their skin.

  Philippe immediately pulled his hand away and fled to the other side of the ship.

  Friday stayed where she was, dumbfounded, one half of her hand a mass of pins and needles. She had embraced all the rest of Tristan’s brothers at one point or another, had danced with them at the ball . . . but she had never touched Philippe before this moment. She had been Elisa and the brothers’ destiny, yes, and Tristan had been her destiny, hadn’t he?

  Hadn’t he?

  “Milady. Friday.” Conrad’s voice pulled her out of her shock. “There’s someone in the hold asking for you. I believe she’s a Sister of Earth.”

  “Thank you, Conrad.” Friday released the railing and followed her squire down into the ship’s hold, an area made surprisingly airy and spacious due to their considerable lack of cannons. At the far end, leading a circle of men and women in a prayer to the gods, was Sister Carol. Friday waited politely for the closing chorus before embracing her first mentor.

  “It is so good to see you!” Friday said with relief. “Here I thought I had greeted everyone. I had no idea you’d come aboard.”

  Sister Carol gave a wry grin. “You had no idea I survived, you mean. We tough old birds don’t give up that easily. Oh my.” She put a hand on Friday’s arm. “That was careless of me, my dear. I’ve heard about your recent adventures with the swans, of course. Please forgive me.”

  Friday forced herself to smile. “It is you who should forgive me, Sister. I’m afraid our plans to make me a dedicate to the Earth Goddess have been thwarted.” Earth acolytes were destined to live only for the Goddess. Once Friday had fallen in love with Tristan, she knew this path would become closed to her. Not that she minded; the alternate path set out before her seemed lined with roses. Assuming, of course, that Seven’s Seas arrived in time for her to rescue her beloved. “Though if I fail, perhaps the Goddess will find it in her heart to take me to her breast once more.”

  There was a look on Sister Carol’s face that Friday had seen before, something more than concern. Friday pushed her confusion about Philippe and her fears for Tristan aside, reaching out to Sister Carol with her soul. What she found was regret, and shame. “Sister?”

  The Sister folded her hands and bowed her head. “You were one of my finest pupils, Friday Woodcutter, and you were a boon to our temple, but you were never meant for the Earth Goddess. I blame myself; in my selfishness, I could not let you go.”

  Friday forced herself to remain calm enough to pose the question she did not want to ask. “Was the Goddess ever going to accept me?”

  “Oh, Friday.” The Sister took Friday’s warm hand in her cool ones. The skin was callused, but soft with age. “We are all children of the Goddess. She will always love you, as She loves all her creatures. Earth is simply not your nature.”

  Simply? There was nothing simple about this. Of all the things racing through Friday’s mind on this rescue mission, the true nature of her, well, nature was something she wasn’t ready to add to the list. But . . . it made sense. All of Sister Carol’s actions, her attitude toward Friday—it all fell into place.

  She tilted her head and considered the Sister. If earth was not her element, then what was it? Not water; Friday felt as foreign on this ship as a bird in mud. Air? No, if that were the case, she would have felt an even stronger connection with Elisa. The only other element left was—

  “Fire,” Friday whispered. “There is fire in my nature.”

  Sister Carol sighed. “You can see why we were reluctant to send you to their temple for teaching.”

  Fire acolytes were not known for their modest dress or purity of soul. Even thinking about the things they taught at the Fire Temple set Friday’s cheeks aflame with blush.

  “Your gift, the empathy, it is based on passion. Your sensitivity to emotions, the deep connections you form with people, your sheer capacity for love—it is all based on the highest level of Fire Magic. It is Spirit Magic.”

  Friday turned to Conrad. Her squire had known it all along. He had seen the color of her magic with his gift, and in the sky tower she’d seen it, too. Elisa’s magic had appeared pale blue as the wind, but Friday’s had been red as blood. Red as fire. How had Conrad described it? The essence of love itself.

  What a fool she was, to spend her whole life serving and planning a path to the wrong god! It seemed that Fate had stepped in with Tristan and saved her from another disappointment, but it still felt like a blow.

  “Do not despair,” Sister Carol said quickly. “You have not been forsaken. I would have told you before this, had there been a decent teacher in Arilland for you, but all the Spirit Guides walked high into the mountains long ago and disappeared with the dragons. Your mother felt it was best for you to remain with me, with the children, and concentrate on your skills as a seamstress.”

  Friday wasn’t the least bit surprised that her mother had a hand in this deception. Mama had doomed her second child to death with a slip of the tongue, so Friday understood why she might have taken extra care in this matter. Considering the stigma surrounding the Fire disciplines, had Friday known of her true nature, she would have lost herself in misery and self-loathing. Her young life would have been very different, devoid of joy and hope. In Mama’s place, Friday most likely would have done the same.

  Sister
Carol leaned in and placed a kiss on Friday’s forehead. “In my humble—and slightly blasphemous—opinion, I believe your true nature transcends that of the elemental gods.”

  Friday eyed the Sister quizzically. “How exactly is that?”

  “Your ability to find the silver lining. To see the best in everything. It is something each one of us strives for and few ever truly achieve. You, Friday Woodcutter, Princess of Arilland, are a guiding light all on your own.”

  Friday hugged the Sister tightly and thanked her for her kind words, but one lingering thought still niggled in the back of her mind. What would Tristan say when he discovered this? Would he be able to look at her the same way again?

  And what on earth was she going to do about Philippe?

  Without warning, the boat lurched to one side. Friday was glad to have been holding on to Sister Carol so that they both weren’t tossed to the floor like the rest of the people in the hold. Cold seawater sprayed through the portholes. Friday felt the apprehension of her fellow passengers wash over her too.

  “What is happening?” Sister Carol whispered, so as not to further alarm anyone.

  “We’ll go up on deck and assess the situation,” Friday said calmly. “You’ll see to everyone here?” Sister Carol nodded and immediately began ordering everyone to sit securely and calling for the wounded.

  Friday and Conrad made their way through the confused people back to the deck. Philippe met them in the doorway with the pair of swans and hastily shoved the birds belowdecks. “Mr. Jolicoeur needs you,” he said to Friday.

  The spray up here was far more ferocious than it had been in the hold. The salt stung Friday’s eyes, and her loose hair, now drenched, slapped against her face. Here and there, Peter and Velius were working to lash crewmen to whatever secure fixture they could find. It was a miracle that Friday and Conrad reached Mr. Jolicoeur without being swept overboard.

  Mr. Jolicoeur had his hands on the wheel of the ship. The giant muscles beneath his black skin bulged with tension. Friday sensed that Mr. Jolicoeur was pouring every bit of his not-insubstantial sinew into keeping the ship from losing control. The Seven’s Seas’ first mate was a very large, very strong man—but the sea itself was larger. And stronger.

  “Is it a storm?” Friday yelled to him.

  “Yes and no,” Mr. Jolicoeur said through gritted teeth. “Look.” He could not release the wheel to point with his hands, but his eyes went white as he looked up. Above them, the sky was as perfect as a summer’s day, clear and blue. A few fluffy, innocent clouds scattered across the horizon like lost sheep.

  “Is it a monster?” asked Conrad.

  Mr. Jolicoeur shook his head. He growled as the wheel slipped out of his hand for a moment and struggled to regain control. “I believe,” he said, “that the sea which came to visit Arilland is once more taking its leave.”

  Her first mate was right. For all that the Seven’s Seas was being buffeted on all sides, it was obvious that by and large they were moving swiftly eastward. Along the horizon, Friday began to see trees.

  “The gift!” yelled Mr. Jolicoeur. “Use it now!”

  Friday removed the bed knob from her pocket. At that moment, an enormous wave hit the side of the ship, ripping the brass bauble from her grasp. Spry Conrad leapt up to snatch the item out of the air, but his hands were too small, and it fell tumbling to the deck.

  Friday and her squire gave chase, throwing themselves in the path of the ball as the ship rolled this way and that, ever diverting the bed knob out of their reach. They raced up the length of the ship to the bow and back down again, swerving right and left, dodging crewmen and flying sails and rogue waves. Finally, as the bauble was about to fly beyond the stern railing, the ship shifted once more and Friday pounced. Her left forearm landed painfully on the knob, but her right hand managed to swoop in and capture it before it had a chance to slip away again.

  Mr. Humbug had told Friday to cup the ball in her hands and whisper to it, but Friday wasn’t sure the gods would hear a whisper in this din. With the ball wedged between her hand and her forearm, Friday yelled, “Please take us to the Green Isles!”

  The world beneath them roared. Friday managed to push the bed knob back into her pocket. Philippe fell to the deck beside her, grabbing Friday with one arm and the railing with the other. Friday held on for dear life. Beside her, Conrad did the same.

  From their vantage point at the ship’s stern, the three of them saw everything. And in the heat of that moment, with emotions running high all over the ship, Friday felt everything as well. She focused on her own fluttering heart, and Philippe’s, in an attempt to keep from losing her grip on reality—or the railing.

  Earth and water rose up behind and beneath them at the same time. In the waves of earth rose all the colors of autumn, gold and russet and green. Rolling hills of forests and orchards and meadows and field after field of crops re-laid themselves in their wake. In the waves of ocean crashed schools of fish and larger creatures that Friday had only ever read about in Wednesday’s books. Dolphins and narwhales and Great Wyrms raced the ship to the sea—the proper sea, the one that had existed long before Friday’s hotheaded sister had summoned it.

  Friday felt the wood of the ship creak beneath her under the stress of . . . flying. They must have been flying. Friday couldn’t tell for sure, but she doubted they were low enough to touch so much as a crest of the endless high waves of water and earth wrestling below. They would surely be ripped apart between the two forces, if they weren’t ripped apart by the Four Winds. Did Philippe’s patron gods care enough about him to bless a flying ship full of strangers? Friday trusted Papa’s skill and the protective runes Peter had carved from stem to stern, but if the gods had meant for ships to fly, they would have invented mechanical wings.

  Even if she had full control of her Fire nature, she wouldn’t have been able to help the situation. The last thing any sailor wanted on his ship was a fire. Instead, Friday concentrated on what Sister Carol had said and found the beauty in the situation. She reached up to the seam where her needle hid and pressed the pad of her thumb against the tip. For the first time in her life, the sharp point pierced the skin.

  Friday had not learned runes from Fairy Godmother Joy as Peter had, so she drew the most powerful symbol she knew: a circle. A circle was complete and never-ending. It represented family, a whole greater than the sum of its parts. Friday took the colorful image of the churning earth and water before her into her heart, and from there shared the amazing, impossible image with every person on the ship.

  She could almost feel the collective intake of breath at the sight, the gasps of delight and awe. Tears were shed, and each mind wondered how to put it into words so that they might tell their children upon their return. Friday could do nothing about the strange forces at work beneath them, or the overall integrity of her father’s creation, but with her power over emotions she managed to turn a ship of frightened strangers into a ship of confident dreamers in the space of a few heartbeats. This image, this shared experience, would bind them together forever like few other things in life would.

  Like her bond with Tristan.

  She felt Conrad’s hand reach out and pat her ankle reassuringly. He knew what she was up to; he could probably see the color as she worked her magic. If the passengers of this ship had not been an army before, they were now.

  Philippe pulled Friday to him, buried his head in her shoulder, and wept. She hugged him back, so that he knew he was not alone.

  Faster and faster the ship flew, until there was nothing below them but calm, blue ocean. They raced the clouds in the sky and won. The wind dried her hair, tangling it mercilessly, and chilled her to the bone. She shut her eyes against the blast. Deep in her soul, she felt the people belowdecks huddle against one another for warmth.

  She did not know how much longer the ship meant to fly—safely past the Troll Kingdom at least, she hoped—and so she tried to think warm thoughts. She brought to mind a sunny day in summe
r in a meadow full of dandelions. She recalled the hardest day of her chores when she worked up a sweat, and the fur-lined gloves Papa had given her last midwinter. What else was warm?

  And then she remembered Tristan’s kiss, their last kiss, deep in the dungeons when they had arrived at the end of the curse and there was the very real possibility that he would live no tomorrows as a human. Through their lips they shared what might have been one of Tristan’s final breaths. The memory of it still brought a flush to her body and made her toes curl.

  In her arms, Philippe went very still. On the decks beneath her, she could feel the crew sigh.

  It occurred to Friday to be embarrassed for sharing such a moment, but all the people who had joined this crew knew exactly what they were in for, and why. If they had any lingering doubts that Friday’s love for Tristan was less than true, those doubts had vanished.

  Friday had not always considered herself to be equal among her siblings, but by the time the ship finally came to rest in the harbor, she felt she had finally lived up to the Woodcutter name. Philippe removed himself from her presence immediately. But she was still afraid to let go of the railing.

  Beside her, Conrad slowly got to his feet. “Milady?” He held out his hand to her, and she let him help her stand. Before he did anything else, he bowed to her, as low as he might have to any king or queen. “It remains my honor to serve as your squire,” he told her.

  “Thank you,” Friday said, for she was not sure what else might be appropriate in this moment. “Mr. Jolicoeur?” Friday asked tentatively.

  The large man seemed to be frozen to the wheel. Friday rubbed her hands up his arms, willing his muscles to release. Finally, Mr. Jolicoeur exhaled, relaxed, and let go. “Thank you, my captain.”

  “You have steered us well,” said Friday. “I think.” In truth, she had no idea where they were. The three of them made their way to the bow of the ship, helping the crew to unbind themselves from masts and railings along the way.