Page 5 of A Dark and Drowning Tide

“I need open air. I need interesting people,” she continued. “I have worked far too hard on this for you two upstarts to ruin it for me.”

Upstarts. It stung more than Lorelei expected. Of course, Ziegler did not truly mean it; she often lashed out in a temper. Even so, Lorelei could not help feeling like the broken twelve-year-old girl she’d been when Ziegler first took her under her wing: as desperate to please as she was to escape.

“This is entirely von Wolff’s fault.” Lorelei hated the petulance of her own voice, but she could not stop herself. “I was on time.”

Sylvia shot her a mutinous look. “I was testing a theory that will proveinvaluable—”

“Enough. You’re giving me a headache.” Ziegler pinched the bridge of her nose and heaved a long, exasperated sigh. “I can’t bear to look at either of you right now.”

A hot rush of shame struck Lorelei first. But as she stared at Sylvia, it was consumed by a steady, burning hatred. Nothing was safe. Not her pride, not her position, not even the affection of their mentor. By the time they graduated, Sylvia von Wolff would take everything from her.

Lorelei angled herself sharply toward the window and stared out at the passing city. As the sun settled like a banked coal on the horizon, it occurred to her that it was the eve of the day of rest. Her parents and younger sister, Rahel, would soon be making their way to the evening service. Lorelei couldn’t remember the last time she’d prayed, or when exactly she’d stopped feeling guilty about it. Even so, she couldn’t tamp down the longing that rose within her when she saw the temple’s spires reaching out of the gloom.

She missed the bustling hours before sundown, how her family would cook and clean as if about to welcome the king himself to their home. She missed the soothing rhythm of her father’s voice as he blessed their wine at dinner, the sweet scent of braided bread. Sometimes, she even missed the interminable morning services. Lorelei didn’t mourn her faith, only the girl she was before she met IngridZiegler—thegirl who still belonged in the Yevanverte. Every night, she returned to her family more a stranger than the last: more Brunnestaader than Yevanisch.

They neversaidanything, of course, but Lorelei was not oblivious. She saw how it pained them when she spoke to them in Brunnisch without thinking, or when she couldn’t recall which of their neighbors’ children had gotten married last month, or when she burned another candle down to nothing, working long after everyone had gone to sleep. Still, she awoke each morning to tea and a slice of apple cake on the table. She came home every night to a place set for her at the dinner table. She endured all of their needling about her well-being and happiness and marriage prospects. Even if they no longer understood her, they loved her. If only she could say she was doing all of this for them.

Someday, maybe, they’d benefit from her selfishness.

Soon, the royal palace rose before them. She had only ever seen it from a distance: a pale smear on the other side of Ziegler’s lonely office window. Up close, it was an ostentatious sprawl of white stone crowned with a dome of copper. The moon seemed to balance on its tallest peak, silvering the gardens with a soft hand. The air was thick and sweet with the scent of roses. Thanks to the king’s veritable army of royal botanists, they blossomed in every imaginable color, from dusky gold to purest white. But it was their thorns that Lorelei most admired, each one a bolt of silver in the dark.

The coachman brought them to a stop at the end of a line of carriages. A footman rushed to help Sylvia down from the carriage. Rolling her eyes, Lorelei shoved open her own door.

Another footman appeared at her side. Before he could open his mouth, she snapped, “Don’t touch me.”

Together, the three of them ascended the palace’s marble staircase. The doors looming over them might have been awe-inspiring were they not so utterly tasteless. The wood paneling was inlaid with gold, and the lintel was ornately carvedwith—ofallthings—nixiesrising from sea-foam. Sylvia, to her credit, said nothing of it.

When she’d imagined herself walking through those doors tonight, it was a triumph: the end of a long and brutal road. She would’ve been greeted by the king himself. She would’ve been introduced to the most esteemed naturalists in the country. The reality was worse than anything she could’ve conjured herself.

Without a word, Ziegler thrust their invitations toward the doorman, who scanned first the invitations, then their faces, with something resembling judgment. “Welcome.”

When he opened the doors, the sounds of conversation and laughter spilled out. Clearing his throat, he called, “Herr Professor Ingrid Ziegler, leader of the Ruhigburg Expedition; Miss Sylvia von Wolff, naturalist of the Ruhigburg Expedition; and Lorelei Kaskel, folklorist of the Ruhigburg Expedition.”

It was as though he’d dropped a bell jar over them. Every sound suddenly grew muffled and indistinct. Some were amused, others clearly suffered from secondhand embarrassment, and still others were deeply unimpressed. Lorelei felt like a specimen pinned on a naturalist’s table, open for dissection.

She must have been scowling, because Sylvia leaned in and jammed an elbow into her ribs. Lorelei managed a rictus of a smile, which caused the nobleman closest to them to shrink back as though she’d thrown hot oil at his feet.

“Good evening!” Sylvia said, too sunnily to be entirely convincing. “Thank you so much for coming tonight.”

Just like that, the spell broke. Conversation resumed, the music soared high above them, and Lorelei took the opportunity to vanish into the crowds.

The dazzle of the chandeliers and the incessant drone of the crowd plucked at the headache she hadn’t quite shaken. A good night’s sleep would set her straight, but she couldn’t help feeling irritated with herself. She shouldn’t have used magic sofrivolously—orrecklessly, for that matter. Magic always drained its channeler; how much depended on the volume and speed of the water, as well as the channeler’s proficiency. By all accounts, she shouldn’t have attempted what she did, but that hungry, dangerous look in the nixie’s eyes had awakened some selfless impulse within her. Lorelei bit down on a furious groan.

Next time, she’d let Sylvia wade to her own pointless death.

She kept her chin lifted as she navigated through the press of bodies. Among all this finery, she was remarkable in her unremarkableness. She had dressed, as she usually did, in black. Her mother had insisted on taking the jacket to the tailor, who had embroidered the lapels and cuffs with roses in glossy black thread. Lorelei now wished she hadn’t given in. The ruined extravagance of it embarrassed her even more than herdishevelment—andit wasn’t as though she had anything to celebrate tonight.

It took her no more than a minute to locate the far-flung corner where the rest of the unsociables lurked. She had gotten this far. She had no dignity or expectations left to shatter. All there was to do now was survive until the end of the night. When a servant passed with a silver platter of wine flutes, she took one and immediately swilled it.

“Kaskel,” said a familiar voice.

As if her evening hadn’t been ruined enough.

She turned to find Johann zu Wittelsbach, the expedition’s medic and future duke of Herzin, standing there in full military dress. Half his hair was pulled back from his face, and the rest tumbled down to his shoulders in a spill of gold. He wore a ceremonial saber and an expression that suggested he was both surprised and affronted to find her here.

The feeling was quite mutual.

“Johann,” she said curtly. “You’ve obviously come here for some good reason. What is it?”