House of Salt and Sorrows (Sisters of Salt #1)

I woke up screaming and fighting to free myself from tangled sheets.

Blinking against the early-afternoon light pushing in through half-closed curtains, I struggled to sit up, feeling sick and ready to vomit. My stomach lurched. The sheets were soaked in sweat, and my nightgown clung to me like a clammy shroud. A sour funk permeated the room, coating my mouth and choking me. I stumbled to the windows and pressed my flushed cheeks to the cold glass panes, gulping in the salty breeze and slowly coming back to myself.

It was the third night in a row I’d had the nightmare.

After returning from our night in Pelage, sneaking back into Highmoor just before the kitchen staff woke, I managed to stay awake until breakfast, then collapsed in an exhausted stupor. While I slept, Camille and the triplets returned to the Grotto, seeking invitations for the next ball. And the next ball. And the one after that.

We’d gone dancing every night for a week.

Not all of us, though. The Graces couldn’t stay up so late. They had lessons with Berta, and she’d fretted over the dark circles under their eyes, worrying Hanna and Morella. They stayed behind, quite grumpily, while the rest of us primped and powdered, dressing for whatever the night’s theme was in Mama’s gowns. Cobbler Gerver’s claims of the fairy shoes lasting for a whole season were wildly exaggerated. After a week of dancing, the stitching was unraveling and the soles were worn bare. We were forced to squeeze our big toes into Mama’s golden slippers and sandals. The aged leather frayed even faster, and stacks of spent shoes grew beneath our beds.

I found the dances great fun at first, seeing new places, meeting new people. A thrill raced down my spine as I stepped into a new ballroom, hoping Cassius would be there. But he never was, and the sleepless nights were catching up with me. I slept in later and later, but my slumber was interrupted by strange dreams, extensions of the dances themselves.

They always started normally enough, with gorgeous dresses in beautiful halls. A handsome man would emerge from the crowd and hold out his hand.

“Dance with me?” he’d ask, and we’d be off, twirling through a series of steps.

But as the dream wore on, the music would take on a different pitch, the notes turning flat and sour. We’d spin around again and again, and a strange light would appear, tinting the room sickly and greenish. No one but me ever seemed to notice. The crowds just kept on dancing. No one ever stopped.

I’d try to, forcing myself to lose momentum, begging my partner for a reprieve, but my feet would never listen. They’d continue following his steps, no matter what I did.

“Dance with me,” my partner would plead, but the voice never matched his body. It was raspy and harsh, as though multiple voices spoke the words, wanting to blend into one but not completely synced.

I’d shake my head, backing away. This wasn’t right. Something was terribly wrong. I wanted to leave the dance floor now—right now—and that’s when she’d grab me.

Her skin was pale and mottled, like a mushroom grown too large and soft. Black hair swirled about her, tangling in her layers of gray chiffon, weightless and writhing. Worst of all were her eyes, dark as night, hostile, and shedding pitch-black tears. They ran down her face, leaving behind oily tracks that dripped to her bare gray feet. Sharp, pointed teeth winked from a sly grin as she pulled me closer.

“Dance with me,” the Weeping Woman would whisper, and I’d wake up, gasping for air.

“Don’t tell me you’re still in your nightgown,” Hanna said, bustling into my room. She carried a basket of mending and set it down with a whoosh of breath.

“I had a bad night.”

“You and everyone else, it seems. Camille is still asleep. Short of stomping into her room with a pair of brass cymbals, I’m not sure how to wake her.” She turned to my bureau, sorting stockings from the basket.

I flexed my aching feet back and forth. I’d broken my last pair of Mama’s slippers and could feel hot blisters on the side of my little toes. We needed new shoes.

“Your father is coming home today,” Hanna continued.

“Today?” I brightened. Perhaps he’d arrive back from court in high spirits and I could finally tell him all I’d learned about Eulalie’s final night.

“Madame Morella received a letter after supper yesterday. She’s been up for hours, waltzing about the house and singing the news to anyone who will listen.” She sighed. “And if I have to hear about those babies one more time…Do you really think they’re boys?”

I pushed the last traces of sleep from my eyes. “I don’t know. Mama said she thought we’d all be boys too.”

Hanna crossed to my armoire and pulled out a blue gown. “She’s carrying so high, I think it must be girls. But she’s so sure….” She shook her head. “I fear she’s bound to be disappointed.” She caught herself and smiled at me. “Not that any of you were ever a disappointment.”

I pulled the sodden nightgown over my head before stepping into the dress she held out.

“Speaking of sons…” Her smile flattened with a wisp of sadness. “You’ve spent some time with Fisher since he got back, haven’t you?”

“A little,” I murmured uneasily.

In truth, I’d not spoken with him since that night in Pelage. When our paths did cross, he’d abruptly turn down another hall, ignoring my pleas. I tried sneaking into the servants’ wing to corner him in his bedroom, but he seemed to hear me coming every time. I always found the room dark and empty.

He’d even stopped coming to the balls, despite the triplets’ most fervent begging.

Using the vanity mirror, I watched her expression as she buttoned up the dress. Her forehead seemed to have more worry lines than usual. “Is everything all right, Hanna?”

“Oh, fine, fine. It’s to be expected, I suppose. It’s the first bit of free time he’s had in ages. It was silly to think he’d want to spend every spare second with me.”

I frowned. If he wasn’t at the balls and he wasn’t with Hanna, where was he spending all his time?

Hanna ran a hand down my back, smoothing out the bodice. “But I forget he’s not a little boy anymore.” She patted my cheek once. “Your mother was lucky to have so many girls. Morella ought to pray Pontus gives her daughters instead.”

“You’re home! You’re home!”

Verity, Mercy, and Rosalie raced down the stairs and straight into Papa’s arms, tumbling over each other.

“Can we use the catboat today?” Rosalie asked without preamble.

“Not in this soup. Haven’t you been outside?” He paused, looking Rosalie over. “You’re still in your nightgown.” He turned to me. “Is she sick?”

I opened my mouth but froze. I was terrible at lying.

“Just had a bit of a slow start this morning,” Rosalie filled in.

“This morning? It’s after three. At least you two are dressed,” he replied, picking up the little girls by their sashes as they squealed and giggled. “What do you need the cat for?”

Rosalie blanched. “We need to go into town for…supplies.”

“Supplies?”

“Shoes!” Mercy gasped, shrieking as he swung her.

He set them down, as out of breath as they were. “Shoes? For who?”

“All of us!” Verity spun down the hall, her excitement too big to be contained by a body so small. Mercy and Rosalie were fast on her heels, leaving echoes of laughter in their wake.

I glanced up at my father’s profile, pleased it was finally just the two of us. “Papa, there’s something I wanted to speak to you about.”

He seemed surprised to see me still beside him. “Surely you don’t need shoes too?”

My toes squirmed barefoot against the mosaic tiles. “I do, but that’s not what— It’s about Eulalie….”

Papa’s face hardened. I’d have to tread carefully. This wasn’t something he’d want to hear about.

“What about her?”

My fingernails dug sharply into my palms. I needed to come out and say it. “It’s about her suitors.”

“Welcome home, Papa!” Camille said, emerging from the Blue Room as though she’d been practicing at the piano for hours and had not just raced out of bed.

“Just a minute, Camille. Papa and I were talking about—”

“I just wanted to say hello.” She stood on tiptoe to give him a hug. “How was the trip? How is the King? Did you—”

“Camille!” I exclaimed.

Papa held up his hands, stopping the quarrel before it could start. “The trip was fine. King Alderon hopes you’ll join our next council meeting, Camille. I’ll fill you in on the details once I’m settled.”

She beamed, pleased to have gotten her way.

He turned back to me. “What’s this about suitors, Annaleigh?”

Camille’s smile faded. “Suitors? For whom?”

“Eulalie,” Papa said, his tone darkening.

The weight of their gazes fell heavily on me.

“Is this about that watchmaker? I told you it was just some stupid fantasy he made up to—”

“Watchmaker?” Papa interrupted.

“It’s not about Edgar, and please, Camille, will you leave us alone?” I pleaded, raising my voice to be heard above them.

Though she stalked into the Blue Room, a bit of her skirt protruded from the archway. She was obviously eavesdropping.

“I keep wondering about Eulalie,” I said, turning to Papa. “I think someone was with her on the cliff walk that night.”

Papa sighed. “When someone dies unexpectedly, it’s normal to want to find someone to blame.”

“That’s not— This isn’t just grief, Papa. I truly think someone hurt Eulalie. On purpose.” I gathered my courage, and the story flowed out in a rush. “Eulalie was running away from home that night. She was going to elope with Edgar, the clockmaker’s apprentice, but someone else was waiting for her.”

Papa stifled a laugh, and my heart sank.

“Edgar Morris? That little man with the spectacles?” His lips twitched in amusement. “He wouldn’t have the gumption to pick up a copper florette left in the cobblestones, let alone elope with my eldest daughter.”

He breezed into the Blue Room, joining my sisters.

“Papa, listen to me, please!” I cried, running after him. “Edgar proposed—he gave Eulalie the locket she was buried in, the one with the anchor and the poem inside. He said when he arrived to take her away, he saw a shadow on the cliff, just after she fell. She must have been pushed.”

“Nonsense.” He swatted his hand, easily dismissing my theory.

“It’s not! Someone was there. Someone who didn’t want Eulalie to marry Edgar.”

“That could be anyone,” Camille cut in. “I can’t think of a more unlikely match.”

Papa sank into his armchair, chuckling. “Quite true. If I half suspected Edgar capable of stealing Eulalie, I’d have pushed him off a cliff. Gladly.” He rubbed at his eyes. “That’s enough of this, Annaleigh.”

“But how can you be so sure—”

“I said enough.” His voice was sharp and swift, a guillotine axing the conversation. “Now, what’s this I hear about shoes?”

Everyone exchanged tense glances. Finally, Honor pushed her way forward and lifted her skirts to reveal very battered slippers. The soles were scuffed, and the navy dye had completely worn away in spots. Most of the silver beads had chipped off, and the ribbons were completely tattered.

Papa slipped a shoe off, mystified. “Are they all like this?”

The triplets glanced at each other before raising their skirts.

“The cobbler promised these would last all season. They look as though they’ve seen a hundred balls.”

Lenore twisted her mouth, visibly uncomfortable. “Maybe there was something wrong with the leather?”

“And you’ve no other shoes?” Papa asked, his skepticism evident. “I just paid three thousand gold florettes for a set that didn’t last a month.”

“You burned our others,” Camille reminded him. “On the bonfire with the mourning clothes, remember?”

Papa sighed, pressing the pads of his fingers to his forehead. “I suppose a trip to town will be necessary. But you’ll have to wait. I’m leaving for Vasa the day after tomorrow, at first light. There’s a problem there with a clipper’s hull. I won’t pay for shoddy craftsmanship.” He glanced back at Honor’s slipper. “Not on ships and certainly not on shoes. I could go early next week.”

“We can’t go barefoot till then,” Rosalie exclaimed. “Could we take the rowboat? We could go tomorrow. We all know how to row.”

“But not all of you will fit.” He glanced behind us. “Ah, Fisher.”

“Welcome home, sir,” Fisher said, lingering in the doorway. His face was smudged and his hair damp with sweat. He wore a thick navy sweater and carried a bucket of soft blades for cleaning boats. His amber eyes fell on me once before shifting away.

“Enjoying your stay? Must be nice to get a break from Silas’s cooking, I imagine,” Papa said, settling back into his chair.

“It is, to be sure. And it’s wonderful getting to spend so much time with Mother.”

I blinked, Hanna’s hurt still fresh in my mind.

“She’s put me to work today,” he continued, raising the bucket.

Papa winced with a laugh. “Scraping off barnacles like a little lad. I’m sorry to hear that.” He paused. “Actually, I might have something to help you out. The girls need to go to Astrea tomorrow if the fog lifts. Could you take them out on the cat?”

Fisher nodded. “I’d be happy to.”

“Oh, thank you, Papa! Thank you, Fisher!” Ligeia exclaimed, throwing her arms around Papa’s neck.

Papa raised a finger of warning to us all. “I will not make a habit of purchasing new pairs every week. Pick something sturdy to get you through the winter at least. No more fairy shoes.”