“Bet that feels good, doesn’t it?” the male said, coming back and giving the trunk a pat.
Just then, a door at the back of the dwelling opened and a man with a mass of red hair carrying a small black bag bustled in, followed by a very familiar face.
Sera hissed as Leo walked up the aisle between the red-covered seats.
“Good morning, Francis,” the red-haired man said cheerily.
“Good morning, Mr. Kiernan,” the kind male replied.
“I heard we have a new addition,” he said, walking up a set of steps on the side of the platform.
“Indeed, sir.”
“Have you met Leo McLellan? Xavier’s son. He and his sister Agnes are responsible for this latest capture.”
Sera had not realized Leo and Agnes were related—they looked and acted nothing alike. Francis and Leo gripped each other’s hands and moved them up and down.
“Boris is looking happy today,” the man named Kiernan said. “That’s what we call the Arboreal,” he added, explaining to Leo. “And Errol is our mertag. He’s quite shy, I’m afraid. Spends most of his time at the bottom of that pond. Now.” He clapped his hands together and turned his attention to Sera. “Let’s have a look at what you discovered in the plains!”
He crouched by the crate, and when he saw her, the pink flush in his pale cheeks vanished, and his eyes grew so wide Sera thought they might fall out of their sockets.
“My . . . my goodness,” he said breathlessly.
“What is it, sir?” Leo asked. “Do you know what she is?”
“I am a Cerulean, you idiot,” Sera snapped at him. Leo looked startled at the fierceness of her tone, and Sera felt a grim sense of satisfaction, before she remembered she shouldn’t have spoken at all. But the two males did not notice she understood him.
“She doesn’t seem to like you much,” Kiernan said with a chuckle. “And I do not know what she is. She almost looks like . . .” He hesitated, leaning forward to study her more closely, then shook his head. “No, she is nothing I have seen before. But let’s find out a bit about her, shall we?”
Sera didn’t know what was happening. Kiernan was rifling through the bag, pulling out a long needle with a bulb on the end of it—Sera had a wild thought that he was expecting her to sew something when the needle pierced the skin on her foot and she gave a cry and then everything went dark.
17
Agnes
AGNES WAS MOROSE ALL THROUGH BREAKFAST.
Her father stopped in just as she was finishing her coffee. “Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” she replied stiffly.
“Ready to meet with your fiancé?” He frowned. “I should have had Leo pick you out something to wear.”
Agnes didn’t see anything wrong with her dress—it was navy blue with red accents and a white ruffle on the neck. Hattie had insisted on pinning a matching navy-and-red hat to the front of her hair. For Agnes, this outfit was positively flamboyant.
“I’m sure Ebenezer won’t mind,” she said sweetly. “He doesn’t have a choice, does he?”
“Sir.” Swansea came up behind her father, the day’s paper in his hands and an anxious expression on his face.
“What is it?” Xavier asked.
Swansea held out the paper. Agnes couldn’t see the headline, but whatever it was had her father out of sorts in a flash. “Get Kiernan back here at once. And Roth. Now.” He gripped the paper so hard Agnes thought he would tear it in two. “At last,” he said, and his tone was almost reverent.
Without a word of explanation or even a goodbye to his daughter, Xavier strode off to his study, leaving Agnes thoroughly confused.
Eneas popped his head into the dining room. “All set, miss?”
His thick, wavy black hair was spilling out from under his chauffeur’s cap, and his usually cheerful expression was tempered with pity. He knew where they were going and why. Agnes nodded and followed him out to the car.
“Have you seen the papers today?” she asked as he opened the door for her.
“I have not, but Olive Town was abuzz with some news about a discovery on one of the Lost Islands. Not sure if I believe it, though,” he said, starting up the engine and backing out of the driveway. “No one has seen a Lost Island in . . . well, not in my lifetime, or my mother’s, or her mother’s. That’s why they call them Lost, isn’t it?”
“Mmm,” Agnes murmured. Eneas was from Thaetus, the southernmost island of Pelago, and he always talked about it lovingly, the olive trees and vineyards, the rolling hills and warm crystal waters, and the big bustling market in the main city of Arbaz.
The Granges lived on the west side of Old Port, in an area called Ellsbury Park, not as posh as Upper Glen but still a nice neighborhood. It took forever to get across town, though—they were stopped for a full ten minutes in Central Square when a hansom cab wheel got stuck in one of the tram rails. Any other day Agnes would be pestering Eneas to teach her a new Pelagan word or phrase, or maybe wheedling some more information out of him about her mother.
But not today.
Whenever Agnes had thought about getting married, usually Susan Bruckner was the first person who came to mind. Susan had been in her class at Miss Elderberry’s Finishing School—her family was from Pearl Beach but they had sent Susan to Old Port for one year. She hadn’t minded Agnes’s eccentricities the way the other girls did; once she’d asked Agnes to help her with her corset, her smooth dark skin glowing against the white lace, her breasts spilling up in a way that set a sweet ache between Agnes’s thighs.
She opened the drawstring on her red satin purse and fingered the jewelry inside, her most expensive pieces. It wasn’t much, but Agnes hoped it would be enough to buy her a ticket at least to Arbaz. Thaetus was closer than Cairan, the main island where Ithilia was located, and hopefully less pricey a voyage. She had never arranged for her own travel before.
The motorcar stopped and she was brought abruptly back to reality. The Granges’ brownstone was only two stories, made of red brick with white trim, a large bay window on the ground floor and a small balcony above the front door. Agnes swallowed and found her mouth had gone completely dry. The car idled for nearly a minute before Eneas said, “I think it’s time to go in, my dear.”
Her legs felt disconnected from her body as she walked the path to the house, up four steps; then somehow, she was pressing the ivory doorbell. A great booming clang rang from inside. A few moments later, an aging servant with graying hair and a large Solit triangle pinned to his breast answered the door.
“Miss McLellan,” he said, bowing. “Young Master Grange is expecting you. Do come in.”
She followed the man into the drawing room, her stomach crawling with spiders. The room was decorated in light-colored wood with blue and copper accents. An oil painting of a ship in a storm hung over the mantel. There was a small bar cart with crystal decanters in one corner and a bookshelf with leather-bound volumes in another. The coffee table was set for tea, and there was a bouquet of lilacs and lilies on a side table. The air was muggy, even though the windows were open.
Ebenezer Grange sat on a periwinkle sofa, looking nearly as anxious as Agnes felt. He jumped at the sight of her, shoving something behind a throw pillow and standing.