I
ALL good stories start with bad decisions.
This is the questionable mantra I repeat in my head as we watch the boat come in. It’s a beautiful vessel, so unlike the plain wooden canoes that always flock Atera’s river docks. The hull is glass, and through it I can see the dawn and the orange sands of the desert; the water and the reed-choked shore. As it draws nearer, the sun ignites along its edges like fire, the deep blue canopy above seeming to flutter in the heat. Guards with golden leopard masks and sickle swords patrol its railings, and in the river, the magic propelling it glows like a trail of fading stars.
It is a ship where legends are made.
It’s also a ship where poor choices will be made, but Hen said I have to stop focusing on that part. I’ve lain on this roof a thousand mornings, imagining myself sailing to all the incredible places the desert travelers speak of, and not once has playing it safe helped me follow in their footsteps. Their adventures never start with, “Well, I waited patiently at home for something to happen, and it did!” No—proper stories start with risks. Switching identities, drinking unlabeled potions, trusting mysterious strangers. I’m not sure any of them ever started with lying to a priest, but again—I’m not focusing on that right now.
“There he is,” Hen says, pointing to said priest: a shirtless bald man standing near the front of the boat. We’re lying atop the roof of her house, one of the many flat-topped homes that line the river’s shore. The second story gives us a perfect vantage point of the ship without it being too obvious we’re here. The priest’s gaze stays low, on the children who whoop and run on the muddy bank, their colorful tunics like flags. The tattooed prayers circling his pale arms and the pure white of his tergus kilt would have given him away even if Hen hadn’t pointed him out.
He’s the one carrying the ledger we need. No one boards that boat if their name isn’t listed, and if I don’t get to the palace now . . .
Well, there won’t be another chance. This is the first time a royal boat has ported in Atera in six hundred years.
“That’s the one we’ll really need to watch,” Hen says, pointing to a woman in a stunning blue jole—a formal wrap dress favored by the nobility. Hers is embellished with pearls and real lilies, and I squint, trying to make sense of my friend’s warning. There’s absolutely nothing daunting about the woman. In fact, compared to the armed guards and the scowl I now see on the priest’s face, she looks delightful.
“Who is that?” I whisper.
“Galena of Juvel,” Hen growls. “Royal Materialist, and thorn in my side. She’s the one who made lotus boots into a thing.”
I glance at the woman’s feet. Her sandals look no different from the ones Hen often wears, but instead of ending at her heel, black lotus flowers twist up her brown legs to her knees.
“I think they’re cute,” I admit.
“Of course they are! They were my idea!”
One of the guards looks toward the roof, and we both duck down.
“We’ve been over this,” I whisper. “Just because you get a weekly update on the lives of famous people doesn’t mean they have the slightest idea of who you are. I’m sure it was just a coincidence.”
“Was it?” Hen says, glaring as the woman drifts past. “Or was it conspiracy?”
“Well, when you’re the Royal Materialist, you can ask her.”
“Oh, I will.” She grits her teeth. “I will.”
I snicker at her response. One of my favorite things about Hen is her absolute confidence, as if rising from a simple—albeit distinguished—young Materialist in Atera to the person who crafts the latest fashions for the queen is only a matter of time. Though really, she’s already on her way. Now that we’re sixteen, this summer marks our last as apprentices, and Hen has already received dozens of letters from Orkena’s nobility, commending her creativity and requesting her services upon her transition to Master. Soon she’ll be traveling the country, using her rare ability to combine unusual materials, even fire or light or a stream of starlit water, into clothing for the elite. She can make dresses out of moonglow, and cloaks infused with dew so they stay cool even during the hottest afternoons. Meanwhile, the number of people excited for me to become a Master is one: my father. Which I appreciate, but it’s not the same.
Hen’s name is already on that ledger. I’m trying not to think too hard about why mine isn’t, and how that’s one of the many ways our lives are about to diverge.
“Just please don’t talk to her about the boots today,” I say, recognizing the glint in Hen’s eyes.
Her black hair swings as she looks over. “I make no promises when it comes to war.”
“And I’d be happy to help you plot later. But can we focus right now on the bigger task I’ll probably come to regret? They’re almost at the dock.”
Hen’s brown eyes narrow, tracking her mark. She taps a finger against her lips and shoves to her feet. “Follow me.”
She disappears down the ladder in the roof. I follow in haste, earning a splinter when I slide too fast down the wood, and drop to the tiled floor of the upstairs hallway. Cool air emanates from the enchanted mudbrick walls, the spell that chills them hidden beneath a layer of creamy plaster. Within the hour, the house will feel drastically cooler than the summer air outside. I try to absorb as much of it as I can through my thin working dress. The stable is never unbearably hot, but it definitely doesn’t hold on to the cold like Hen’s house.
Rainbow-hued mats line the floor, and I smile as we pass rooms I know as well as my own. Hen’s bedroom with her towers of dark, shimmering fabric, and her mother’s nearly as cluttered, its walls and dressers covered in the rare items she accepts in trade for her potions. A bright weaving from the river country ripples with the light; a giraffe carving made of sandalwood and ebony sits upon the nightstand. Before my mother got sick, she and Hen’s mother used to travel all over, selling potions and drinking in the world. I used to tell her that would be Hen and me someday, before I understood the magic I was born with wasn’t the kind that would help me leave Atera. Apparently the ability to talk to animals doesn’t actually impress anyone—including most animals—hence the lack of my name on the ledger.
But even our mothers had never been to the palace. And though tonight’s party will only encompass one glorious, wonder-filled night, it will be my chance to experience a sliver of the life I thought Hen and I could never have.
I cannot miss that boat.
“We’re going to go with the ‘distract and dominate’ plan,” Hen says, the hem of her green wrap dress flaring as she starts down the rosewood stairs. “You’re going to provide the distraction, while I sneak the ledger from the priest’s bag. I’ll slip out of view and add your fake name. Then I’ll put it back, and when they go to check people in later, aha! You’ll be there.”