Deva Fagan - Nightingale

Deva Fagan

Nightingale

For Charlie

M aybe it was because my name was Lark, but I had always loved heights. The way everything small fell away, leaving me with the thrill of possibility. Even now, when I was about to do the most dangerous thing Id ever done.

Perched on the roof of the Royal Museum, I could almost convince myself that the world was full of opportunity. The city of Lamlyle spread in glittering splendor around me like the spangled skirts of a fine ladys gown. Aether lamps sparkled their otherworldly light, tracing the patterns of streets and outlining the dark mystery that was Prospect Park. If I squinted, I could even make out the lights of the great barges on the river. Barges that could carry me away to grand and faraway lands, to find adventure, to be free.

But the truth was, I wasnt free. My debt to Miss Starvenger bound me tight and heavy as iron, and just as unbreakable. If I didnt escape it soon, Id be trapped forever in a life I hated. A life my mother had died fighting to save me from.

That was why I was here. All I needed was to make this last leap over to the museums west wing, then drop down to pick the lock on the window. A wiggle inside, and I was golden. Literally. There were enough treasures in the Royal Museum to pay off a thousand debts.

I probably should have felt guilty, but really, all I felt were nerves. Guilt could wait. No, guilt could go stuff it. Guilt was for people who had other options.

I breathed in cool night air dashed with the scent of smoke and sugarcakes from the nightmarket in the next square. The gap before me seemed wider now than it had a few minutes ago. But it was the only way to reach the west wing, to get inside and claim my prize. The great glass dome of the central observatory was too slick, and there was no convenient wisteria vine on which to climb.

Just jump, I told myself. Id practiced it a dozen times. But my feet remained rooted to the roof.

A quaver of voices sent me hunching down, wary of being spotted by the patrolling watch below. Peering over the edge of the roof, I saw two girls on their way to the nightmarket. Girls like me, from the looks of it. Ragged around the edges, underfed, underloved. As they passed out from under the glow of the lantern, I blinked. Because the light seemed to chase after them. It wrapped around them, a faint luminous gleam that bloomed from their skin, their patched and faded smocks, even the long braids slipping down their spines.

Factory girls. People called the folk who worked in the aether shops haunts for a good reason: they looked like living ghosts. The luminous aether dust seeped into their clothing, their hair, their flesh. Beautiful and terrible. The magical stuff might power marvelous works of artifice, but it was dangerous. Too much of it, and you truly did become a ghost. You couldnt touch things. Couldnt eat. Couldnt speak. Eventually, your body faded completely away.

Not that anyone seemed to care. The factories kept right on hiring, and there were always folk desperate enough for coin to answer.

A swell of fury rose in my chest, ember-hot and useless. If I could, Id stick Mr. Pinshaw, the factory owner, at one of his own grinding benches to see how he felt after breathing in poison all day. But I was only twelve. An orphan. It took every scrap of my strength just to stay alive and whole. Wishing to do more was like wishing for a star to fall into my pocket. My mother had tried to change things, and shed died because of it. I wasnt going to make the same mistake.

One of the girls below stumbled, coughing. Soundless gasps shook her frail limbs, nearly bending her double. Her friend tried to reach for her, but her hand slid right through the sickly girls arm. My own body tensed in useless sympathy. Maybe it was just a momentary flicker. Please, let it just be a flicker.

Finally, the girl straightened, catching her breath. I sagged in relief as they walked on, slipping away like gleams of moonlight lost in the clouds.

That sad scene was my fate if I didnt find the gumption to make this leap and seize fortune by the scruff of its neck. Plenty of Miss Starvengers other girls were already answering the whistle, trotting down every morning to grind raw aether ore into dust, coming home gleaming and flickering. That was Miss Starvengers idea of charity. Take in a clutch of young girls from the orphanage, then squeeze every scrap of copper and silver out of us that she could. Even if it meant sending us to the haunt-shops. We owed it to her, she said, for all the care shed invested in us.

Not me. Never. The factories had killed my mother, but they werent taking me. Even if I had to risk death and dishonor.

I tugged a bit of black cloth from my pocket and tied the makeshift mask across my eyes. Five paces back along the roof. A turn. My legs coiled tight and strong. I ran, straight toward the edge. Launched myself into the air.

Flew.

My feet slammed into the roof of the western wing. I stood, shaky but victorious, shoulders back, feeling the air fresh and triumphant in my lungs.

I would make my own fate, starting tonight.

I didnt belong here. Everything in the posh halls of the Royal Museum made that utterly clear. No matter how carefully I stepped, my footfalls rang like warning bells through the dim corridors. The displays full of lush velvet robes mocked my threadbare breeches and coat. But none of that was going to stop me. I needed coin, and no one was going to notice a few missing trinkets.

My pulse buzzed with anticipation as I crouched before a glass-fronted cabinet. A bevy of small gold trinkets lay within: a handful of rings, a toothpick, a thimble. Because of course when you already ruled an entire country, you couldnt possibly use a brass thimble. Or pick your teeth with slivers of wood like the rest of us.

Then my gaze caught on something even better: a set of silver hair combs shaped like songbirds. Larks! And silver was easier to fence than gold.

I tugged a thin bit of metal from my cuff. The lock didnt look bad. The moonlight filtering down from the skylights above revealed no protective runemarks, either. A moment of careful fiddling and the lock gave a satisfying click. I was about to pull open the doors and claim my prize when a distant scuffing made me freeze.

My breath burned in my chest as I held it, listening.

There it was again. Something, somewhere behind me in the hall with all the swords and armor, also known as my escape route. Wonderful.

I could leave the loot and run for it. I could take off my mask and make up some story about getting lost as the museum closed. If they caught me, Id only be guilty of trespass. Given my age, it was likely Id escape serious punishment.

But if I gave up, this entire escapade was a waste. All the planning. All the time Id spent watching the guards, plotting my route to the roof. That final, perilous leap.

And, worst of all, if I didnt make my weekly payment to Miss Starvenger, shed order me to the factories to work off the rest of my debt. Turn me into a haunt, like those girls Id seen, coughing and fading away.

The silver combs glittered, taunting me. Stuff it, I hadnt come this far to give up now. I snatched them from the shelf and shoved them into my coat pocket, then added the golden thimble and a few other baubles. If I was going to dabble my toes in the water, I might as well jump into the sea.