House of Salt and Sorrows (Sisters of Salt #1)

Creak.

Creak.

Creeeeeeeak.

My fingers were on the handle of Eulalie’s desk drawer when I heard the floorboard in the hallway and froze, my heart high in my throat, certain I was about to be caught. While there was no actual rule about not entering our departed sisters’ rooms, it didn’t feel like the kind of thing I wanted anyone to know about. A flood of possible excuses crashed into my head like a tidal wave to the shore, each sounding weak and unbelievable.

When no one raced into the room and accused me of trespassing, I tiptoed to the door and peered out into the hallway.

It was empty.

With a sigh of relief, I quietly shut the door and studied Eulalie’s room, wondering where to look next.

When I returned from Selkirk, I found a nearly empty house. Morella had taken the triplets to Astrea again, and the Graces were still at their lessons with Berta. A series of erroneous notes clunked loudly from the Blue Room’s piano as Camille practiced a new solo. With everyone preoccupied, it was the perfect time to slip into Eulalie’s room and search for something to prove my theory of a scorned lover.

In her absence, everything had straightened into an orderly neatness she would have hated in life. Books were stacked into tidy towers on her writing desk, not strewn about at the end of her chaise. The floor was remarkably free of clothes, and white drop cloths covered most of the furniture.

I wandered around the room, unsure what to look for until I spotted the tall pedestal near the window. A maidenhair fern, now wilting and in desperate need of attention, languished on it, concealing a hidden drawer I remembered Ava once mentioning. Eulalie kept her most beloved treasures within it.

After several moments of poking and prodding, I discovered a lever and released it to reveal a cache of objects. I pulled out three slim volumes, hoping they were diaries filled with accounts of her days and secrets. Skimming the first few pages, I saw they were novels Papa had forbidden her to read, citing passages too graphic for young ladies’ eyes. I set the books aside, oddly pleased she had read them anyway.

At the bottom of the drawer was an assortment of hair ribbons, jewelry, and a pretty little pocket watch. I opened it and found a lock of hair tied together with a bit of copper wire. Twisting it between my fingers, I wondered at its color. When Mama and our sisters died, we all received snips of their hair to keep in memory books or braid into mourning jewelry, but this lock was a pale blond, almost white, far too light to have come from a Thaumas head. I slipped it into my pocket to mull over later.

There was also a vial of perfume and a handkerchief too devoid of embroidery and lace to have come from Eulalie’s collection. It singed my nostrils, reeking of a particularly strong pipe smoke.

“What are you doing?” a voice called out, startling me.

I jumped, dropping the handkerchief. It fluttered to the floor like a butterfly at first frost. Heart pounding, I snapped my head toward the doorway, where Verity stood, sketchbook in hand. Her short chestnut curls were swept back with a large bow, and her pinafore was already dusty with pastels. I let out a sigh of relief, grateful I’d not been caught by Papa.

“Nothing. Aren’t you supposed to be in the classroom?”

She shrugged. “Honor and Mercy are helping Cook with petits fours for the ball. Berta didn’t want to teach just me.” She nodded toward the triplets’ room across the hall. “I wanted to see if Lenore would sit for a portrait.”

“They’re out with Morella. Final fittings on their dresses.” I shifted, letting my back close the pedestal’s door.

Her mouth pursed into a rosebud as she studied me. “I don’t think Eulalie will like you being in there.”

“Eulalie isn’t here anymore, Verity.”

She blinked once.

“Why don’t you go see if Cook needs more help?” I suggested. “I bet she’ll let you taste the icing.”

“Are you borrowing something?”

“Not exactly.” I stood up, letting my skirts cover the handkerchief.

“Did you come in here to cry?”

“What?”

She shrugged. “Papa does sometimes. In Ava’s. He thinks no one knows about it, but I hear him at night.”

Ava’s room was on the fourth floor, directly above Verity’s.

She leaned in, peering about the room with curiosity but unwilling to actually enter it. “I won’t tell if you are.”

“I’m not crying.”

She reached out, beckoning me over to her. I left the handkerchief on the floor, hoping she wouldn’t see it. Verity traced one fingertip across my cheek and looked disappointed when it came away dry. “I still miss her.”

“Of course you do.”

“But no one else does. No one remembers her anymore. All they talk about is the ball.”

I squeezed her shoulders. “We haven’t forgotten her. We need to move on, but that doesn’t mean they don’t miss and love her.”

“She doesn’t think so.”

I frowned. “What do you mean?”

“She thinks everyone is too busy with their lives to remember her.” She glanced back out into the hall as if worried our conversation was being overheard. “Elizabeth says so too. She says we all look different now. But she doesn’t.”

“You mean when you remember her?”

She shook her head. “When I see her.”

“In your memories,” I pressed.

After a moment, she held out the sketchbook, offering it to me.

Before I could take it, Rosalie and Ligeia rushed down the hall, carrying a tower of boxes marked with the names of several Astrean shops.

“Oh good, you’re both here!” Rosalie said, struggling to throw open their bedroom door. “We need to go downstairs, all of us, right now!”

“Why?” Verity asked, her shoulders suddenly tense, worry evident on her face. “Did someone else die?”

I winced. What other six-year-old worried an announcement meant someone had died?

“Of course not!” Ligeia said, depositing her treasures at the foot of her bed. “They’re here! The fairy shoes! We stopped by the cobbler’s shop, and he was sewing on the last set of ribbons!”

Verity’s eyes brightened, and the sketchbook was instantly forgotten. “They’re here now?”

“Come and see!” Rosalie tore down the corridor, shouting upstairs for Camille to come quick. She must have retreated to her room after her practice session. Ligeia raced after Rosalie, their footsteps heavy on the back stairs.

“We should go,” I said.

“Don’t forget about Eulalie’s handkerchief,” Verity said, skipping down the hall before I could stop her.

I blinked once before turning to snatch it up. When I left, the door slammed shut after me, as if pushed by unseen hands.

It was raining again, a cold downpour that chilled the air no matter how many fireplaces were lit. Raindrops raced down the windows, blurring the view of the cliffs and waves below. The Blue Room smelled damp, with a faint trace of mildew.

Morella sat on the sofa nearest the fireplace, rubbing her back, an uncomfortable grimace drawn on her face. My heart went out to her. Planning and hosting such a large affair was trying even under the best circumstances. Doing so while pregnant must be exhausting. And the triplets had clearly run her ragged.

“Lenore, do you think you could find your father? I’m sure he’d enjoy seeing the shoes. My ankles have swollen something fierce with this storm.”

I grabbed a small tufted pouf hiding under the piano. “You should put your feet up, Morella. Mama had lots of problems with swelling during her pregnancies. She’d keep her feet elevated as much as she could.” I positioned the stool beneath her legs, trying to make her comfortable. “She also had a lotion made of kelp and linseed oil. We rubbed it into her ankles every morning before she got dressed.”

“Kelp and linseed oil,” she repeated, and offered a small smile of thanks.

I paused, sensing a way to both help her and make up for my outburst the morning after Eulalie’s funeral. “I could mix some up for you. It might help.”

“That would be very nice…. Has your gown arrived yet?”

It was the first time she’d shown any interest in what I was wearing to the ball. She was trying too, in her own way.

“Not yet. Camille and I have our final fittings on Wednesday. If you’re feeling up to it, maybe you’d like to come with us?”

Her eyes lit up. “I would enjoy that. We could get lunch in town, make a real afternoon of it. Remind me what color it is?”

“Sea green.”

She paused, thinking. “Your father mentioned something about a chest of Cecilia’s jewelry somewhere. Perhaps there would be something suitable for you. I remember seeing a portrait of her wearing green tourmalines.”

I knew exactly which painting she referred to. It hung in a study on the fourth floor where Mama had wedged a small writing desk into a sunny nook. On clear days, you could see all the way to the lighthouse. Papa hung the portrait there after her death.

“I would love something of hers for the ball. Camille would too, I’m certain.”

“And me!” Verity chimed in, eager to be included.

“Of course,” Morella said with a smile. “We’ll have to look through it.”

Mercy and Honor sprinted in, out of breath and sticky from their treats.

“Rosalie said the fairy shoes are here?” Mercy asked, immediately spotting the boxes.

We’d all taken to calling them fairy shoes. Though I knew they were only little leather slippers—beautifully dyed and styled leather slippers—we’d imbued them with a touch of magic. These shoes would be the beginning of our new start. Once we wore them, we couldn’t help but be different from who we were before.

Morella swatted at Mercy’s hands. “Wait for your father.”

“And me,” Camille said, bursting into the room with Papa.

We all piled around the sofa, giddy with anticipation.

“How do we know whom each box is for?” he asked.

“We each chose a different color,” Honor explained.

“Except us,” Rosalie said, speaking for the triplets. “Ours are a matching silver.”

“Well, shall we see if these fairy shoes were worth such a fuss?” Papa flipped the latch, and we all gasped as the box opened.

They were Camille’s, a sparkling rose gold. Metallic flecks were embossed into the pink leather, creating a shimmering luster. I’d never seen anything so exquisitely sophisticated.

Next were the triplets’ shoes. The leather glinted like Mama’s precious wedding silver. The ribbons were different shades of purple, matching the girls’ dresses. Ligeia’s were a soft lilac, Rosalie’s violet, and Lenore’s such a deep eggplant they looked nearly black.

Honor’s slippers were a dark navy twinkling with silver beads like the night sky.

Mercy had picked a frosty pink to match her favorite flower, sterling roses. She’d even asked the dressmakers to trim her gown with silk versions of them.

Morella had chosen a pair of gold slippers, glinting brighter than the sun. She beamed up at Papa as he presented them to her with a look of such tender admiration, I couldn’t help but smile.

Verity crept up to Papa as he brought out the smallest box. She leaned on his leg, pressing in to see her shoes the moment the box opened. As the lid came off, she clapped her hands with delight.

“What fine fairy shoes these are,” Papa praised, plucking out the purple slippers. Flecks of gold scattered across them like gilt trim.

“Oh, Verity! They’re beautiful!” Camille said. “They might be the prettiest of them all.”

Verity pulled off her boots and slipped them on, springing into a happy pirouette as we all applauded our tiny prima ballerina.

“These must be Annaleigh’s,” Lenore said, pulling out the last box.

Nestled on a bed of navy velvet were my shoes. I’d selected a jade leather, and the cobbler had added glittering seafoam and silver bits, concentrated heavily at the toes and fading as they swept across the slipper. They would match my gown perfectly.

Papa smiled as he handed them over to me. “I don’t think these are fairy shoes at all. They look fit for a sea princess.”

Verity frowned. “Mermaids can’t wear shoes, Papa.”

“Silly me!” he said, tapping her nose. “Are we all satisfied?”

Everyone chimed in with our happiness, and Morella grasped his hand. “With shoes like these, no one will be able to tear their eyes away from our girls. They’ll be dancing out of the house before we know it, Ortun.”

Camille stiffened. “Out of the house? What do you mean?”

Morella blinked once. “Only that you’ll be off and married, of course. Running your own households, just like me.”

Papa frowned.

“This is my household.” A bite crept into Camille’s voice.

“Until you’re married,” Morella filled in. Met with Camille’s stony face, her smile began to wane. “Isn’t that right?” Morella looked over to Papa, seeking clarification.

“As the Thaumas heir, Camille will stay at Highmoor, even once she’s married. I know it’s a nasty bit of business to think over, my love, but when I die, she inherits the estate.”

Morella tugged on one of her pearl drop earrings. “Only until…” She trailed off, holding her stomach as her face grew flushed. “Surely you girls ought to be somewhere else?”

The Graces all stood to leave, but Camille grabbed Mercy’s arm, stopping her. “This concerns them too. We should all stay to hear it.”

Papa looked uncomfortable. He turned toward Morella, trying to create a more intimate conversation. “You thought any sons we may have together would inherit Highmoor?”

Morella nodded. “That’s common practice.”

“It works that way on the mainland,” he allowed. “But on the islands, estates are passed to the eldest child, regardless of sex. Many strong women have ruled over the Salann Islands. My grandmother inherited Highmoor when her father passed away. She doubled the size of the Vasa shipyard and tripled the profits.”

Morella’s lips pressed together into an unhappy line. Her eyes raced over us, counting. “So our son would be ninth in line, even though he’s a boy? You never mentioned anything about this.”

His eyebrows furrowed. “I didn’t realize I needed to.”

His voice held a stern note of warning, and immediately Morella shook her head, backing down. “I’m not upset, Ortun, only surprised. I assumed Salann followed the same traditions as the rest of Arcannia, lands and family titles passed from father to son.” Her forced smile wavered. “I should have known you islanders would be different.”

Papa stood abruptly. He was proud of our seafaring heritage, and it hurt him when others thought less of us for living so far from the capital.

“You’re an islander now too,” he reminded her before stalking out of the room and leaving us with our pile of shoes.