Page 8 of Ocean of Ink
The best lies were ones as close to the truth as possible.
“The morning will come soon,” Wren said as a way to end their conversation. She couldn’t have him asking to see the journal or letter. It would be difficult to weave a reason as to why she wanted to keep it private.
Ivanhild looked toward the still dark window, then back at her. Suspicion wasn’t something she could feel with her Curse, but she knew a man who spent his days amidst lies and deceit would not be easily dismissed.
“I haven’t slept since I fainted on the steps,” Wren told him. Worry rippled in the air around her. There it was. Her chance at escape. He cared.
“You should rest. Tomorrow will come early,” Ivanhild said and stood.
Wren followed suit. “Thank you for speaking with me, and for your kindness toward my brother. I know he would be happy that you were here in his stead.”
Wren’s words were genuine, but also calculated. The more she thanked Ivanhild and brought up her brother, the less suspicious he would be of her.
“It is my great honor to have carried him home.” Ivanhild crossed his arms over his chest and bowed to Wren. “I will do my best to bring his killer to justice once I’m back at the academy. By next Eventide, I hope to have news of their capture.”
Wren bent her knees in a soft curtsy. “Thank you,” she murmured.
He bowed once more, then slowly opened the door and slipped out. Shadows wrapped around Wren like a coat of armor. She padded to the trunk that he’d pointed out earlier as soon as he was gone. She flipped up the latches and used her candle to look for the parcel inside. Sitting beneath a stack of blankets was a package wrapped in brown paper and twine. Heron had scrawledTo: Birdieon the top in black ink. She swallowed downher grief, then set the candle on the floor and sank to her knees beside it.
Her fingers trembled as she ripped the paper away. It was a wooden box with a gold latch. She opened the box to find a statue carved out of some kind of black stone. It was of two birds flying together, wings spread wide. A heron sheltered a small wren beneath its wings. Wren pressed the statue to her chest and curled around it. Tears streamed down her face as silent sobs wracked her body.
She lay on the floor beside her brother’s belongings until her crying subsided. Memories of their childhood intertwined with images of his casket until she became sick with rage at the person who had stolen him from her. The muscles in her body ached with exhaustion as she stumbled to her feet, statue in hand. She looked down at the birds again.
Determination like nothing she had ever felt before stole through her like a fire through dry brush. She would avenge Heron. He had brought justice to the one who wronged her all those years ago. She would not stop until the same was done for him.
Wren would not sit back and wait on Ivanhild to find her brother’s killer. No, she would find them and do exactly what her brother had done for her: kill.
Year 816, Week 35, Adira (Fourteen years old)
I saw a heron waiting on a rock in the middle of the lily pond today. It was so still I thought it a statue. Until it struck out to grasp its prey in its thin beak. I came home and pondered aloud to Heron about what control the creature must have had to wait until the precise moment it could accomplish its mission. He chuckled then told me he should observe his namesake more, because he did not have such patience, and that our father named him after the bird for its mastery of stealth, of which he was also lacking.
I disagreed, of course. He is rather fond of poking fun at himself, in spite of being the finest man I know. After I made my disagreement known, he told me I was true to my namesake as a bringer of hope and a symbol of warm weather to come.
I am uncertain, though, that he is correct. Perhaps I possessed warmth as a young child, but now all I feel is cold and barren. Sapped of all that was good, devoid of anything of worth. Heron would not like such thoughts, so I don’t give thema voice. I cannot bear to feel his responding pain. The constant guilt he carries is heavy enough.
Castien’s quill scratched against the pages of the journal that held the details of his investigation. He’d taken to rewriting old information, since nothing new had come out. Finn had yet to bring him anything of note.
A frustrated growl left Castien’s throat. He shut the journal and sat back in his oversized chair. Eventide was almost over, and they had made no progress in the two weeks since Heron’s body was put on a boat. Once Eventide ended, the students and staff would flood the grounds again, and Castien’s investigation would grow more complicated. The Tides were always dangerous, but it was impossible to sail for much of the year due to the intense storms and high waves. Eventide was the safe season.
The door opened and Finn sauntered in. You wouldn’t be able to tell he was out conducting an investigation, given his relaxed posture and roguish grin.
“Did you learn anything?” Castien got right down to the matter.
“I learned a great many things. Most of which you would find unimportant.” Finn sat in a smaller chair opposite Castien.
“Then why are you here? You know better than to come before you have anything.”
“I saidmost, dear cousin, not all.” He folded his hands over his abdomen. “And shouldn’t you be delighted to see your favorite cousin, no matter if I have information or not?”
“Marina is my favorite cousin. I tolerate you.”
Marina was Finn’s younger sister. At ten years of age, she was a delightful combination of sweet and precocious that everyone who met her adored. Including Castien, who gave out his affections as sparingly as the Tides were safe.
Finn placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “That hurts, Cas. After all we’ve been through!”
“You mean after all you’ve put me through?” Castien questioned dryly. “Like not giving me important information because you enjoy being insolent.”
“I prefer incorrigible.”
