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“What? Why is it our last night together?” I said, a sour feeling settling in my chest.
“Because the second the Prince of Zidderune spots me, he’s going to whisk me away on his beautiful ship with the red sails and I’ll live in luxury for the rest of my days.”
I rolled my eyes. “Larka, Zidderune’s royal color is green.”
“I’ll be sure to write you,” she said before rolling over.
???
I awoke to an empty bed, but Larka’s heat lingered on her side. The stale smell of plain porridge wafted from the lower level into our bedroom. Larka often complained about porridge being one of our only dishes in Inkwell, but to be honest, I didn’t mind it. Porridge was food, and food was sustenance.
I padded down the stairs into our miniscule kitchen, my mother and father chatting across from each other at the stacked crates we called a table, a mug of warm water in my mother’s hands. A pot of porridge sat on the stove, and I peered in to see that we wouldn’t have much to eat this morning. “G’morning Ma, g’morning Da,” I chimed as I planted a kiss on each of their heads.
Both of my parents had lived their entire lives in Inkwell, their parents and grandparents before them as well. They were simply used to the fact that there was never much money to go around. Residents in Inkwell took care of each other, though, even if the district was large enough that it really could have been its own city. My Ma and Da met when they were both seventeen and were married the following year, garnering raised eyebrows when Larka was born just a few months later.
My father’s hands had been shaky for as long as I could remember. He often said the Benevolent Saints made him too strong, so the Blood Saints had to knock him down a peg. His subsequent laughs were always edged with the smallest bit of empty melancholy. The tremors had worsened to the point of almost complete dependence on his family for the smallest of tasks, and working was out of the question. Unable to feed himself what little food we had without his movements sending it flying across the room, we had all grown used to feeding him. He took the humiliation with grace and smothered it in humor. “Those damned Blood Saints,” he’d say.
“Happiest of birthdays, my love,” my father said, offering a warm smile, his hazel eyes bright. I mirrored his excitement.
“Happy birthday, Petra,” my mother said, rising from her wobbly chair to give me a hug. While life in Inkwell usually made women hardy and stalwart, my mother had retained the fragility of her youth. She was sensitive, overly perceptive, and too soft-spoken for her own good.
“Big day,” Da said, the smile still plastered to his face. While my mother was quiet and mild, his accent was thoroughly Inkwellian, harsh and intentional. He raised his shoulders to emphasize his excitement. My mother matched his smile. “Yer Ma and I are planning on walking down to the docks in about an hour. Might stop along the way to see Selina and Kolvar.” I grabbed a bowl and spooned in my small helping of porridge. “What’re yer plans?”
“I thought Larka and I would do the same and see where the day takes us. We’d like to see the carnival, too.” I leaned against the creaky counter, savoring the warmth of the porridge and the hot stove next to me. Three more spoonfuls and my bowl was empty, but I was too excited to pay attention to my hunger. “Larka is convinced the Prince of Zidderune is going to pick her out of the crowd and take her away to be his wife.”
My father almost spat out his water as he laughed. Ma giggled too, the airiness of it a warm spot in the cold autumn air that seeped through our walls. “She’s got a better chance of shooting gold coins out her arse,” he huffed.
“Sarek!” my mother scolded, laughing along with him. For all of my mother’s softness, Larka and I had inherited our father’s mouth.
Larka breezed in the front door, hearing her name in our conversation. I quickly caught sight of a thin, visibly dirty man peering into our front door from the other side of the street. I didn’t recognize him, and I peeked out the gap in the shutters over the window to find the spot where he’d been now empty. Fucking creep. Probably staring after Larka. Most men did. “You think I couldn’t captivate a prince?” Larka said playfully, spooning her own bowl of porridge.
“I think the prince would find ye beautiful, just as everyone else does,” my father continued, scratching the scruff that had appeared on his cheeks over the last few days, his hands shaking all the while. “But the second ye open that mouth, he’s bound to throw ye overboard.”
“That’s enough, Sarek!” Ma’s voice cracked into a laugh.
“Hey, if the prince can’t handle what I have to say,” Larka said, “then he’s no fuckin’ prince for me.” Ma slapped her hands over her face as the rest of us chuckled.
I had always admired Larka’s confidence. She had the beauty to match it, her hair shining like spun gold in the sunlight that streamed through the window my mother had unshuttered. Her nose was more petite than mine, too, a perfect slope ending in a point that made her appear much more innocent than she was. My nose was stronger, straighter. Her lips sat in a perfect pout atop her dainty chin where mine were thinner, and though we both had high cheekbones, hers were sharp enough to slice the heart from a man’s chest. While she was outspoken and blunt all the time, I was more mild and timid when it came to public settings. Her certainty was a stark contrast to my constant anxiety. My tongue was just as sharp as hers though, even if I didn’t use it as often.
Had she not been tainted by an Inkwell birth, her beauty would have been a prize to the Royal Court.
“I need to get ready,” I said, beginning to head to the front door.
“Your throne awaits,” she said flippantly, referring to the hovel we called an outhouse. I rolled my eyes and excused myself.
???
Inkwell was an afterthought of the city. The district reserved for Eserene’s poorest residents was shoved into the only remaining space that was left as the city was established, just making it inside the eastern wall when it was erected after the War of Kings. Gormill Road was the main street in Inkwell and one of our favorite places to wander. The eastern wall of Eserene served as an ever-changing mural of paint and flyers and chaos that the road ran against. Starving artists found space where they could add to the chaos, layering over the work of other artists, advertisements for brothels and pubs, and general filth.
On the west side of the street sat small shops filled with what we could get in Inkwell — mostly stale oats, root vegetables, mussels, burlap, and firewood. There was a seamstress, Caroline, who was far too talented for Inkwell, always sure to wave to me and Larka when we passed. There was a reeking bait shop for the fishermen who made their measly salaries fishing in the harbor, unable to afford larger boats to venture into deeper, more lucrative waters. Shops selling odds and ends, most of them stolen no doubt, dotted the lane, trying to pull in any currency they could to feed their families. Cottages patched with whatever materials were available punctuated the lane as well, and the chimneys of the ones who could afford firewood pumped thick black smoke into the sky.
Today, though, most chimneys sat idle as the residents of Inkwell woke up to Cindregala.
The gem of Gormill Road was at the end of it. The street spilled out onto the Eserenian waterfront. With the filth of Inkwell to one’s back, one wouldn’t know they were in the slums of the city by looking across the harbor.
Sapphire and teal and the deepest navy swirled together like clouds in the night sky to create Pellucid Harbor. It was a sight that took the breath straight from one’s lungs whether they scrounged for survival in Inkwell or dined on imported meats and fruits in the highest reaches of the High Royal Castle.
Arm in arm, Larka and I strolled toward the waterfront, eagerly awaiting the sight of the colorful patchwork quilt of sails. The street was humming with activity as Inkwell residents funneled toward the waterfront. It was the first and only Cindregala that Eserenian citizens would see in their lifetime, and the Benevolent Saints had granted the city the perfect day.
