“Thank you,” I said softly.

Althea stood. “Stay safe, sweet girl. Be good. Be wise.”

I nodded, and she kissed me on the forehead.

“Rest, if you can. Your bags will be at the harbor in the morning.”

Outside Saint Christopher’s, I knelt beneath the hazel tree I’d watered with my tears not an hour before. Unpinning the ivy circlet from my hair, I set it in front of my mother’s headstone.

I miss you.

I scooped a little dirt from her grave into the damp handkerchief Godmother Althea had given me, tied it off, and put it into my pocket beside my rosary. I left the graveyard with my limbs weary, my head throbbing.

There would be no rest for me tonight.

7

Dawn broke as I reached the harbor, bitingly cold and swathed in a haze that seeped into the fabric of my dress.

Somewhere far away, a rooster crowed. Though I’d left them sleeping a couple hours before, the cows would be stirring in their meadows and in the barns, the sun rising over the fields. Any other day, I would already be on my hands and knees, acquainting myself with my morning chicory coffee, letting damp earth cradle me as I began to work.

But today, a few people on the pier and a rookery of ships waited for me instead. The ships hovered on the foggy surface of the Potomac, their white sails folded like albatross wings.

And as I approached the river, another figure appeared in the mist.

Carved into the prow of one of the ships was a girl. Her long arms were flung wide, fingers splayed, and apples and olive branches rippled like hair around her shoulders. Sinuous carvings like ocean waves hinted at a flowing gown, with high-heeled shoes visible beneath, but she was ready for battle: a sword and a bow and arrow were crossed over her chest. Her face was blank but for enormous stars etched where eyes, ears, and a mouth would be.

Overhead, a tough-looking, tanned girl in black scaled the rigging to fit Potomac’s blue-and-gold flag above the crow’s nest. Sails unfolded like daylilies around her as two East Asian men, one young, one older, secured the ship’s lines. Striding over the deck with Homer Maionides and a stocky, boyish-looking sailor with black hair was Captain Lang.

This must be the Beholder.

Lang caught sight of me staring and waved. Homer and the boy turned to follow his gaze.

My cheeks burned. My dress was damp and dirty, my hair disheveled from the night I’d spent walking through the humid air, saying goodbye to all the places I would miss. My remaining shoe I carried in one hand; I raised the other arm, stiff and cold, in reply.

At a tap on my shoulder, I spun, and met Peter’s eyes.