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It's Murder on the Orient Express – with witches! A thrilling blend of fantasy and classic murder mystery, this rollicking adventure with a wide cast of suspects is ideal for those who love both Agatha Christie and V. E. Schwab, and are drawn to stories that take place in a vivid fantasy world. The Linde siblings—Kellen, Davina, and Morel—are anxious to return to the kingdom of Halgyr before their father dies, leaving Kellen to assume the throne as king. They book tickets on a luxury express train, expecting a swift journey home—but disaster strikes when the train engine explodes, stranding the siblings atop a caldera bubbling with volcanic magic. The crash triggers Davina's latent witch powers, but her magic disrupts her ability to remember what she was doing when the explosion took place. While a witch would be the prime suspect for the explosion, the only ones who knew Davina might become one are her brothers—who never warned her, driving her away from them. And, to add insult to injury, somebody is bumping off the surviving train crew and passengers. But it can't be Davina, can it? While the surviving passengers try to determine who sabotaged the engine and catch the killer, the fractured siblings attempt to stay one step ahead, concealing not only Davina's powers but their own secrets. Luckily, they aren't the only shifty characters on the train. But that small degree of good fortune quickly sours when powerful men turn up dead, suggesting the saboteur is still at work. And who better a mark for the murderer than the heirs to a foreign throne?
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Cover
Praise for DEATH ON THE CALDERA
Title Page
Leave us a Review
Copyright
Dedication
Part One: The Passengers
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part Two: The Survivors
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Part Three: The Suspects
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part Four: The Condemned
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Part Five: The Arbiters
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
“An intriguingly fresh magic system complements this whodunit in the best way.”
CAITLIN ROZAKIS, bestselling author of Dreadful
“A cunning mystery set upon a surprisingly alien world.”
BEN AARONOVITCH, bestselling author of Rivers of London
“A stunning debut. Paxman offers up high stakes adventure and a mystery full of satisfying twists and turns, all wrapped in a gorgeous layer of magic. Masterfully done!”
A. C. WISE, author of Wendy, Darling and Hooked
“Bursting with rich characters and explosive intrigue (literally), Death on the Caldera produces a rare alchemy in its blend of magic, murder, and mystery. A smart, thrilling debut!”
JULIE LEONG, Sunday Times bestselling author of The Teller of Small Fortunes
“Eminently memorable, Death on the Caldera is a classic murder-mystery romp, with realistic characters and an enthralling magic system steeped in intriguing mythos. This unmissable debut is a heck of a pageturner.”
KRITIKA H. RAO, author of The Surviving Sky and The Legend of Meneka
“A captivating blend of classic murder mystery and adventurous fantasy, Deathon the Caldera brings a fresh, captivating voice to both genres. Filled with powerful witches, unpredictable magic, and a suspicious yet endearing cast of characters fighting for survival, this book is nearly impossible to put down.”
CAMILLA RAINES, author of The Hollow and the Haunted
“A gripping murder mystery, combining political intrigue, volcanic magic and witches that are truly creepy, Death on the Caldera is a thrilling adventure that keeps you guessing until the very last page.”
GENOVEVA DIMOVA, author of Foul Days
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Death on the Caldera
Print edition ISBN: 9781835411582
E-book edition ISBN: 9781835411599
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
www.titanbooks.com
First edition: May 2025
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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2025 Emily Paxman.
Emily Paxman asserts the moral right to be identified as the authors of this work.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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Typeset in Italian Old Style MT.
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toKatie, Erika, Matthew, MarvinSoprano, Alto, Tenor, BassThank you for letting me join your choir.I will always sing your praises.
AS DAVINA LINDE disembarked the train, a misty bank of fog rolled over her. Out of habit, she held her breath, then felt silly and provincial a second later. There was no need for such precautions here. Purposefully now, she let the gritty taste of the trainyard fill her lungs. After years of dreaming, she was finally visiting Pesca —the most fashionable, forward-thinking city in the world. And she’d be damned if she didn’t make the most of it.
Her older brother Morel followed her off the train, stuck more firmly to her heel than a shadow. She didn’t bother waiting for him and strode towards the baggage pickup as if she’d done it a hundred times before.
“Would you slow down? Gods, there are so many people here.” Morel wormed his way through the press of passengers, earning puzzled stares from those around them. He looked like a bloody peasant, dressed in a loose tunic with his soldier kit slung over his shoulder. Davina had tried—and failed—to convince him they would blend in better if he donned the tailored suits and stiff-brimmed hats that were popular in Pesca. But he’d threatened to uninvite her from the trip if she didn’t shut up about his clothes. Given the stakes, it was an acceptable loss.
Still, as they hailed a coach outside the trainyard’s gilded gates, she couldn’t resist a small dig. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so crowded if people weren’t stopping to admire your fashion sense.”
He ground his teeth. “Davina.”
“Kellen is going to say something about it. I bet he orders me to take you shopping before I can even suggest it.”
“I already told you, there isn’t going to be time for that.”
Yes, Morel had promised this visit to the most exciting city on the continent was going to be tedious and joyless. Ha. Well, even if that was true, it was still more appealing than enduring another second at home.
They had been travelling for over a week—first by ship, then train—to reach the capital of the Balterian Empire. Fifty years ago, the trip would have taken them through half a dozen smaller countries, each a broken piece of the last empire to sprawl across the continent. Commuting from Halgyr all the way to Pesca in so short a time would have been unthinkable, what with traversing so many borders and customs. But long before Davina’s lifetime, Balter had pushed its way over the mountains, driving out the old inhabitants and unifying the southern caldera lands under their rule. Halgyr—mercifully—had been too far north to interest Balter, and so her nation escaped the onslaught. They were not within the same sphere of influence, as her uncle liked to say. It was the type of thing best forgotten when enjoying the efficiency of the rail line the Balterians had built through lands where the caldera villages used to lie.
Still, once they secured a coach, Morel promptly fell asleep, as if he’d been forced to cross the mountains on foot. In the precious quiet, Davina leaned out the window and drank in the briny night air.
The city of Pesca clung to the harbour like a jewelled necklace around a rich woman’s throat. Rhyolite lanterns glittered on every street corner, casting a rosy haze over what looked like a dozen different parties. Late-night fish-and-chip shops hosted long lines of people eager for the cheapest catch of the day and street hawkers cried over the music pouring from their clubs, drawing in everyone from the seedy to the sophisticated.
The swill was so intoxicating, Davina wondered if someone was casting an enchantment over the night. If it weren’t for Morel—who would surely ban her from every delightsome thing in existence if she misbehaved—she would have jumped from the carriage and gone dancing that second. Instead, she contented herself by rehearsing her plan, drawing a novel out of the pocket of her travel dress.
It was one of her favourite books—a sweeping romance by famed Balterian novelist Kira Westwick. More importantly, the cover image of a man with his shirt being ripped open by the wind had been enough to stop Morel from opening it and discovering her hiding place. Stashed inside the pages was an envelope addressed to the Pescan Ladies’ Academy. It was the dullest college in Pesca, with wretched uniforms and mandatory classes in etiquette, but that was exactly the reason she might be allowed to attend. Davina had filled out all the papers, selected a major, even begged a note of recommendation from her old tutor. All she needed was the registration fee. And permission. But really, they were the same thing.
It didn’t matter if Morel was right. Let this be the most boring trip ever travelled. What did she care if she waited a little longer? All she had to do was secure a return ticket to Pesca for the coming fall.
She was so absorbed, daydreaming about her future escape, that she didn’t notice when the carriage pulled to a stop outside the Halgyric Embassy. Or that Morel had woken up from his nap.
“What are you looking at?” he asked as the driver came around to let them out.
Davina snapped the book shut over her papers. “Nothing.”
“You aren’t hiding something from me, are you?”
“Not hiding. Just keeping something private that doesn’t concern you.”
But Davina couldn’t meet his eye as she stepped out of the carriage. And, as dense as Morel could be about some things, he wasn’t an outright idiot.
She could feel him breathing down the back of her neck as they walked from the carriage into the embassy, but she kept her gaze fixed forward. If she showed a lack of confidence, it could undermine everything. The last thing she needed was for him to advocate against her now.
Morel handed their travel papers to the front desk. Once their Halgyric nationality was established, they were ushered into a waiting room in which Morel’s attire no longer stood out. An aide took their names and confirmed what they’d expected: Kellen was working late and would be informed of their arrival.
As they waited, Davina stared at a doorknob across the room, determined to ignore her brother. Next to her, Morel twisted in his seat, clearly annoyed. He had far less authority over her life than he had opinions about it, and so long as Davina stood her ground, she could usually make him shut up. From the corner of her eye, she watched him shake his head and sigh, then shift from supporting his weight on one leg to another. His breathing grew more agitated until he harrumphed so loudly it broke her focus.
“Morel, honestly—” she started, but it was the acknowledgement he’d clearly been waiting for.
“Is this about university again? Is that what you’re hiding?” He had to keep his tone civil, given the public setting, but one of the veins in his forehead still pulsed.
Davina’s cheeks warmed. Her fingers curled tight around the novel. “So what if it is?”
“Davina… Father already said no.” There was a shade of pity in Morel’s voice, which was so much worse than anger.
Davina liked anger. Its burning dared a person to be brave. Pity was a candlesnuffer.
“Well, I’m not planning on asking Father this time.”
“And do you really expect Kellen to overturn his decision? In the middle of… of this?” He gestured vaguely around them.
Davina guessed they could have spoken frankly about the personal aspects of their tragedy without tipping off the other people in the waiting room, but their family was trained to keep secrets. Even if Morel was terrible at it. As his voice heightened, a few quizzical faces turned their way.
“Is that why you wanted to come so badly? Some ridiculous scheme to get Kellen to send you to college?”
“No, that wasn’t the only reason I came.” Not that Davina could pretend her rationale had been totally altruistic. When the Halgyric court selected Morel to deliver news to Kellen, she leapt at the opportunity to escape with him. Sometimes she regretted leaving Uncle Sergei to attend affairs at home alone. But, by the gods, Davina had no interest in working with him.
“And it never occurred to you that using this trip for a personal errand might be a little selfish? Given our family’s circumstances?”
Selfish? The nerve of him! Davina realised a long time ago that if she didn’t secure her future, no one else would. She spun around, intent on giving Morel a piece of her mind, but before she could speak a calm, curious voice interrupted their argument.
“What sort of circumstances would those be?”
Morel’s back straightened as if he were meeting a great general and he shot to his feet. Davina half-expected him to salute, which was laughable. There were only two years in age between him and Kellen. Perfect bloody Kellen.
Much as Davina hated to admit it, there was something about their eldest brother that demanded respect the moment he entered the room. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit that drew attention to his height and the elegant ease with which he carried his shoulders. Everything about him was sharp and modern, designed to match the niceties of Balterian society, with the notable exception of his hair. In all his time working at the embassy, Kellen never bowed to fashion by cropping it short. It hung to his shoulders in a cascading blond wave, the lucky bastard. Davina would never forgive him for inheriting the best hair in the family.
Morel lurched forward, as if he might hug Kellen, then clearly thought better of it and took a step backward. “We should talk in private.”
“Yes, I imagine so. I wasn’t expecting you.” A small crease in Kellen’s brow betrayed that he was more worried than his tone let on. If this were a normal visit, Morel would have sent word weeks ahead of his arrival with a serving man. But there had been no time to forewarn him. Davina and Morel were the harbingers of news.
Kellen surveyed the crowd around them, his gaze lingering on a few curious faces who had turned their way. “You have excellent timing. There’s an art exhibition down the pier starting tomorrow,” said Kellen inconsequentially, his hand sliding into the inner breast pocket of his jacket.
“What?” said Morel, who never picked up on these cues as fast as he should.
Davina sighed and stepped around so her head better obscured the motions of Kellen’s hands. “Is it recent work or classical?” She propped up her eldest brother’s falsehoods easily. Even if the exhibition was real, there would be no hope of seeing it. This conversation was all sleight of hand—the subterfuge of a magician with a much more important secret to hide.
“Classical, I believe. My clerk says the theme is… ah…” He paused as if seriously considering his words. In the meantime, he drew a thin vial from his pocket.
Davina had to credit him for his preparation. He must have suspected something the moment he learned his siblings were at the embassy.
“Realist portrayals of the Great Eruption,” he said. “Venri ai Soloz.”
Fear only Soloz.
With the incantation spoken, he uncorked the vial and blew into it, disturbing the swirling mist inside. A foggy plume shot out and dispersed across the room, snaking into the eyes and mouths of everyone sitting there. Morel and Davina were no exception. The enchanted mist bore the sulphuric taste of the hot springs back home in Halgyr, and within seconds Davina felt it working its way through her mind, soothing her into a false sense of security. Muddling haze. Her family had used it for generations to protect their identities.
“Do you need something, Kellen?” she asked without thinking. Why in Soloz’s name had she said that? Kellen must have brewed this concoction to make people particularly helpful. After years of exposure to muddling haze, she could withstand its impact better than most, but she still found herself acting like a damn simpleton.
“Here.” Kellen pressed a clump of ruemoss into her hand, then did the same to Morel.
Davina popped the stringy lichen into her mouth. Ruemoss grew on the edges of thermal pools, making it resistant to the impact of mist blends. No sooner had she swallowed it than her mind cleared and all the depressing realities of their situation came flooding back. In the meantime, Kellen crossed to the desk where the embassy officers were blinking at him in stupefied compliance.
“If I may have the register?” he asked the man who had taken Davina and Morel’s papers.
“Of course, sir.” The clerk passed over a folder.
“Very good.” Kellen leafed through it and pulled out what Davina could only assume were the records of their arrival, then handed the rest of it back. He locked eyes with Morel and Davina as he crossed the room back to them. “You’ll stay at my apartment tonight. Neither of you were ever here.”
Davina only nodded, but a furrow creased Morel’s brow. “You aren’t going to get that clerk in trouble, are you?”
“Of course not,” said Kellen, even as he dropped the offending papers into the fireplace at the back of the room. “Now hurry up. The spell will lift in a few minutes.”
Davina fell into line behind him. Even without muddling haze, she was expected to follow his orders. They left the rest of the room’s occupants still slack-jawed. They would have no memory of the encounter once the mist wore off.
Kellen led them deeper into the embassy—up a flight of stairs, down more halls than Davina cared to remember, then finally to his private office. It was a small space for someone of his rank, but of course that was the entire point. Even at the embassy, no one knew precisely who Kellen was, and he couldn’t go around muddling everyone he worked with. To them, he was just another diplomat, and a young one at that.
As they closed the door, he went to his desk and drew out a different vial. He went through the same ritual of activating its incantation; only this time, instead of targeting the people in the room, it seeped into the walls and windows. Until someone opened the door and broke the spell, no one beyond its four walls would hear a word they said.
Kellen dropped the empty vial back into his desk then turned to his younger siblings with a smile. “Well! It’s good to see you both.”
“And you.” Now, without others watching, Morel didn’t bother restraining himself. He threw his arms around Kellen in what must have been a bone-crushing hug.
Davina was slower to involve herself. She drew up to them, bracing for when Morel inevitably grabbed her shoulders and smooshed her into the embrace.
It was ridiculous to include her in these sentimental moments. Davina and Kellen hardly knew each other. She’d been nine when the court had sent him to Balter to attend university. He only returned home when business necessitated it and never bothered to get to know her. Too busy for younger sisters. And yet, in a matter of days away, he would have more power over her life than any other man.
“Now, what was it you were arguing about downstairs?” Kellen asked as they broke apart.
Morel grunted in disapproval, but Davina diverted the conversation before he could ruin her chance to pitch the idea of university to Kellen privately. “It’s something we can talk about another night. In fact, we were only arguing because Morel was reminding me we had more important business at hand.”
“Yes. Those circumstances.” Kellen ran a hand backward through his long hair. “Did something happen back at home?”
Davina looked down at her shoes, waiting for Morel to explain. But as the silence dragged on, she looked up to see he was blinking furiously. Gods, he could get weepy about anything. Perhaps it was a good thing he’d brought her, after all.
Whatever sadness Davina was tempted to feel, she punched it down. Someone had to be strong enough to speak. She stared Kellen dead in the eye. “Father is dying,” she said. “Congratulations. You’re going to be king.”
* * *
Since leaving Halgyr, Davina had spent long hours dreaming about the glamorous capital of the Balterian Empire. Would she get a chance to walk Pesca’s famous theatre-lined waterfront? Tour the National Volchemistry Institute? Go for a drink on Lesly Pier? There were a thousand things she wanted to do, and she chafed at the knowledge that Morel was probably right. They wouldn’t have time for any of it. But still she clung to those fantasies. They stopped her mind from drifting into darker corners.
Would she miss her father, once he was dead? Would she wish she’d done something about their relationship while he was alive, or would she always be angry at him for shutting her out? What responsibilities did the court expect her to take on, now power was shifting to the next generation? Was she going to have to marry soon? And what did Kellen—the man at the centre of this upheaval—think of all this?
Davina had hoped that coming to Balter would give her some hint about the future. A nation’s regime change stood in front of her in the form of a sharply dressed, floppy-haired man. She watched him process the news and tried to get a sense of how her life was about to upend.
Father is dying. You’re going to be king.
Kellen blinked. He placed a hand on his desk. “Ah… I see. He finally saw a doctor, then?”
There it was. The sum total of Kellen’s emotional response. Davina couldn’t fathom why she’d expected anything more. And yet she had. If anyone remembered the good days with Father— back when their mother was alive too—it should have been Kellen. But if even he didn’t care, maybe it was useless trying to summon any grief of her own.
Davina glanced at Morel to see if he was ready to take over from her, but he was furiously rubbing away tears, so she did instead. The last letters Kellen had received from the family detailed how the king had experienced trouble swallowing of late. Since then, a host of physicians had been brought in, but what they found was too advanced to offer a hopeful prognosis. Cancerous growths coated the king’s throat. Emergency surgery left him unable to speak, and worse still, hadn’t slowed the disease. The court even hired a Balterian volchemist to examine him, who brought a wide array of sulphuric treatments. But when he suggested the king stop smoking, he’d been thrown from the estate.
Every day it grew harder for Father to eat on his own. Every day his skin withered a shade paler. He might be gone by the time they arrived back in Halgyr, or he might gasp out a few more months. No one was sure. But everyone agreed it was time for the crown prince to come home.
Wouldn’t that be jolly? The whole family, all trying to avoid each other under the same roof again.
* * *
They only stayed in Pesca long enough for Kellen to wrap up appointments, organise his affairs and book train tickets back to Balter’s eastern port city, Ealidor, from which they could sail north to Halgyr. Mercifully, Kellen’s appointments bought Davina one day of leisure. He issued just one command to his younger siblings—Morel needed a shirt that tucked into his damn pants.
They tried to buy off the rack, but Morel’s shoulders were so broad that every haberdasher in the city made it clear all items would need to be altered to the right length. That suited Davina fine. Kellen had entrusted her with more than enough money to pay for rushed tailoring, and she got the pleasure of wandering the city’s famous High Street, poking into shops as she waited for the clothes to be finished.
She returned to Kellen’s apartment laden down not only with Morel’s new wardrobe, but also with a selection of outfits and accessories for herself. She and Morel were a study in contrasts. Stuck in a starched shirt and collar, he had never looked so miserable in his life, whereas Davina couldn’t stop admiring her new cloche hat in every window they passed.
She threw open the front door with the hand that wasn’t buried under packages, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. For a prince, Kellen’s home wasn’t a large residence—it had only four bedrooms and a maid who visited just once a week—but it was in a marvellously fashionable part of town. Exactly the type of place a young diplomat was supposed to be able to afford. If Davina got her way and came to Pesca for university, maybe she would live in a place like this. Though with her luck, she would probably be stuck in the dormitories.
Even Kellen had been expected to do a stint in his university dorm when he’d first come to Pesca as a student. The way they played this charade of being the same as their subjects felt ridiculous to Davina. For hundreds of years, the royal family of Halgyr had lived anonymously among their people. They only made their presence known under the cover of masks and long robes, looking like relics from a barbaric, bygone age.
The official names they used publicly were equally ancient. Kellen was the thirty-eighth Prince Matthias, son of Matthias the thirty-seventh. The title was always affixed to the crown’s first-born son. Every subsequent child followed a similarly predictable pattern. Morel was the twenty-fifth Prince Lawrence, a name he shared with Father’s stillborn twin brother. Davina, as the only daughter, got the privilege of being the thirty-first Princess Rochelle. Uncle Sergei carried the relatively obscure moniker of Prince Byron. There had been only seventeen of him.
The reasons for their secrecy were steeped in Halgyr’s religious beliefs. Legend had it that Soloz—the ancient volcano god buried beneath the mountains and after whom the entire continent of Solozya was named—would rear up and rain fire down on the world if he ever learned the true identities of the kings of Halgyr. Discovery would mean destruction greater than the days of the Great Eruption.
Davina had a hard time believing any of it. It was difficult to quake in terror at the wrath of old gods when the nation of Balter was building trainyards and skyscrapers without bending the knee to any deities. But still Halgyr clung to its backward traditions. Her Uncle Sergei always told her it was less about Soloz now, and more a form of empathy. If the royal family blended in among the people, then they could know their needs properly and respond with the kind of compassion befitting just rulers. And now that international relations carried such sway, what could be more useful than sending the crown prince to Pesca, where he could infiltrate the Balterian Lords’ Council as a low-ranking diplomat?
Davina hung her coat on a silver-gilded peg next to Kellen’s front door. The political games of the modern age clearly called for hobnobbing with the rich and powerful. So much for living among the common man.
Waiting for Morel’s tailoring meant that darkness had fallen, and Kellen was already home from work at the embassy. He sat with a book on volchemistry open, though he quickly snapped it shut when they entered. “How did you get on?” he asked.
“Fine.” Morel headed to the guestroom, no doubt intent on ditching his new outfit.
“It was wonderful!” Davina knew Kellen only asked to be polite, but she couldn’t restrain herself.
“Is the hat new?” Kellen asked.
“Yes! Do you think it suits me?”
“It’s perfect. You could be a gangster’s wife in that.”
“Oh, you better not be making fun of me. I’m planning on wearing it every day.” Davina checked herself again in a mirror that hung by Kellen’s door.
“Every day until you can buy another one?”
She spun around, ready to be cross with him, but his smile was relaxed in a way she hadn’t seen these past few days. Even if Kellen wasn’t sick with grief over Father’s impending death, something clearly weighed on him. Yet for once he was listening to her. Teasing, even.
They weren’t close. But that didn’t mean they were opposite creatures, did it? She looked at his mother-of-pearl cufflinks and carefully kept hair. He clearly appreciated the finer things in life. Maybe this was the in with him she needed—a chance to plead her case by using the shared language of style.
“Can I show you what I bought?” she asked, testing the waters.
“Of course.” He slid his book to the side and leaned forward.
Davina knew he had so many more important things to do than listen to her prattle, but for a few minutes he let her do just that. “I got a dozen new record stones.” She emptied her bag to reveal a pile of quartz crystals, each one infused with a memory of a song. “They have so many here! I almost got a new crystophone too, but I guess I should wait until we get home.”
“If you want to play one now, you can borrow mine,” said Kellen, turning them over.
“Can I?” Davina felt her cheeks warm with excitement. She felt childish for enjoying the attention so much. But when had anyone other than Morel paid this much heed to her? And not a single lecture in sight!
“I also picked this up for Sergei. Won’t it be dashing on him?” She pulled out a silk necktie that was destined for their crotchety uncle. Davina doubted he would touch it, let alone wear it, but spending Balterian finos had come naturally to her. “And, of course, there’s the hat. Oh! I meant to mention—the milliner had so many wigs! She explained it all to me. Short hair is all the rage, but most of her customers are nervous about committing to a trend like that, so they wear their hair long in the morning, then pop on a short wig to go dancing at night. I almost bought one. She had one in the most delicious shade of red. But you’ll never guess what it was made from!”
“Witch’s hair?” Kellen asked.
“Yes! I was so shocked, I dropped the thing on the floor.”
Davina had seen wigs made of real hair before, but in Halgyr there had always been an understanding. The woman who sold her hair for the wig was probably still alive.
“You’ve seen them, then?” asked Davina.
Kellen reached for his book, a gesture that seemed to say it was time for the conversation to end. “Yes, they’re quite popular. Like you said, the colours are stronger.”
“I didn’t know what to say to the milliner. This place is so wonderful and modern, and then someone comes out and casually offers to sell you a dead woman’s hair,” Davina went on, trying to recapture her brother’s attention. He was drifting away, and yet she hadn’t worked up to saying what she really wanted. The one thing that mattered.
Her eyes darted to the guestroom door. Morel still hadn’t bothered them. What if this was her only chance? She had to speak now. “I really enjoyed myself.”
“I’m glad.” But Kellen didn’t look up from the book.
“There’s so much I could learn here. I’ve read about Balter, but it’s different seeing the place. I… I don’t suppose you’ll be coming back to the embassy after your coronation?”
“Already plotting a return visit?” Kellen turned a page.
“Not a visit. I was thinking I could do what you did.” She chose her words carefully, hoping it would flatter his ego enough for her plan to work. “Attend university, help out at the embassy. We’ll need someone out here, won’t we? I’m clever, like you. I could do it.”
Kellen didn’t lower his book, but in the drawn-out pause his eyes didn’t move either. She waited as long as she could stomach for a response, but he gave her nothing.
“I’ve picked out a college.” Her hands shook as she opened her purse and showed him the envelope she had stashed away in her romance novel. “The Pescan Ladies’ Academy offers a very respectable education. I could study volchemistry. It could be good, couldn’t it? Having someone in the family who knows how to use Balterian magic?”
“The court would never support you training to be a volchemist. Too many of them are afraid of it.” Kellen’s frown deepened but he still wouldn’t lower that damn book. He held onto it like a shield.
Davina would have loved to grab the thing and toss it across the room. He couldn’t say no. She’d worked too hard to get another no. “Literature then.”
“You could study literature in Halgyr.”
“Then governance!” Why did he have to make everything so difficult? “I’ll study whatever you want. It doesn’t matter.”
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about. I don’t get the impression the educational aspect of this interests you.” He arched an eyebrow, and for a few seconds she was cowed into silence. It wasn’t fair that she knew so little about him, yet he could see straight through her. “I understand your admiration for Balter, but it isn’t the escape it appears. Believe me, I would know.”
“No! No, you wouldn’t.” Davina felt her temper rise to her cheeks. She’d meant to keep her head during this argument, but Kellen’s casual disregard made each refusal burn more than the times her father had shouted her down. It was so easy for him to ruin her life, and yet he had the gall to think he could relate to her. “You’re the bloody crown prince! You have a million opportunities back home. All the court thinks I’m good for is marrying off to some country noble, just so there are some backup heirs in case you and Morel mess things up. Is that all I’m good for to you?”
“No, of course not.” Kellen let out a laboured sigh. “I completely agree. The court needs to modernise, but we can’t expect every change to happen in an instant.”
“I’m not talking about every change. Just me! No one needs me in Halgyr and I’m too young to get married.” Gods, she hoped he agreed with that. “But I could do so much for the court here. Science, women’s emancipation, it’s all happening.”
“Happening for whom, Davina?” She must have struck a nerve because he finally lowered his damn book. “What about that wig you saw? What we call freedom always comes at someone else’s expense.”
“Yes, it’s terribly sad for witches here. What a pity!” She tossed her arms in the air. Here he was, sympathising with the most destructive beings on Solozya, but not his own sister. So typical. Hypothetical victims always mattered more to Kellen than those in front of him.
Both Halgyr and Balter had to deal with the witches somehow. Most power—the mist of Halgyr and the volchemistry of Balter— was accessible to all. Anyone could brew a sealing spell from spring water or hook up a quartz crystal to a crystophone. Their magic came from the continent’s volcanic heartbeat, and whether a person could harness it was a matter of obtaining the right materials.
But the witches were unhampered by the limitations of volchemical science. It was said that a witch could do no small magic. When she lit a fire, she burned down a city. Never less. Worse still, any time a witch used her magic, she shifted into a dark shadow-self that lived unconnected from her human consciousness. In Halgyr, centuries of laws prohibited women from owning land or most positions of influence, on the off chance they were hiding their witch self. Balter saw the problem as more specific. It wasn’t all women they punished. Just the witches themselves. Once discovered, these untamed creatures were executed without delay.
It was easy to think both nations barbaric. All that mattered to Davina was which one gave her the most choices. Maybe Morel had been right to call her selfish before, but what was she supposed to do? Liberate the wicked women of a country she didn’t belong to? She couldn’t even free herself.
“I don’t doubt you would excel at university. You’re extremely bright and capable,” Kellen went on haltingly. “But if we can wait until after Father passes—”
“Autumn registration is coming up. I need to send in the application now.”
“I’m sorry, but this fall is definitely not feasible.”
Her fingers tensed around her letter. “Why not?”
“It’s too soon. But, once we get home, we can revisit the question for next year.”
“Oh, don’t lie to me! I’m not a simpleton.” Davina stuffed the purchases she had so lovingly showed him back into her bag. Why had she ever thought she could connect with him? Hope really did make people foolish. “You’re just like Father.”
“Davina.” Kellen’s jaw twitched.
She’d found another nerve. Good.
“I’m going for a walk. Am I still allowed to do that, your grace?”
“Of course you can go for a walk.” He sounded so sorry for her, the hypocrite.
He was worse than Morel. Didn’t he understand he had the power to change her circumstances? It wasn’t some tragic accident that she was stifled back home, it was by design of the crown he was set to inherit. And to think there were people at court who were worried Kellen would come home filled with Balterian ideals and upend the old system.
* * *
Biting wind rolled in from the ocean, making Davina regret storming off without her coat. She rubbed her arms, wishing, as she had so many times, that her mother was alive. On nights like this, she liked to imagine the queen scolding her sons or husband for failing to listen. But in reality, her mother had been a timid, gentle woman. Maybe her tender hand would have been enough. Everyone said the king had been kinder while his wife lived. Perhaps her sons would have grown up with more sympathy, too.
Davina fished the letter from her pocket one last time. Her mother had done everything other people wanted and what did she get for it? An early grave was all. So, what was the point in listening to Kellen, anyway?
She opened it. It wasn’t hard to add her signature and a forgery of Kellen’s, too. It was even easier to take some of the leftover bills from her shopping trip with Morel, the Balterian finos sliding neatly into the envelope. Kellen had no idea how much she’d spent on the hat and trinkets. He’d never miss the money.
And wasn’t money the same thing as permission?
Davina hailed a coach to the post office, where she handed over the envelope. Now she could wait on Kellen’s timetable. They would talk at home.
When her acceptance letter arrived.
RAE FREATHWONDERED if a witch had placed a curse on Ma.
She flipped to another page of her book, hoping to find something that described curses, but it was hard to say if the folk tales in Lives of the Witches, Real and Imagined were even true. Each entry had a box beneath it with either the word “verified” or “unverified” inside, which Rae had asked Ma about ages ago and learned it was a fancy way of saying “true” or “not sure”. Most had the word “unverified”, but Rae kept reading anyway.
The contents of their entire apartment were strewn across the floor and Ma was sorting spoons and socks with a fury that rivaled the caldera volcano. Usually, everything in their apartment was kept in exactly the right place, or else they might be overwhelmed by her mother’s volchemistry ingredients: vials of mist, satchels of mountain plants, boxes of basalt, quartz and rhyolite—all of which Rae was forbidden from touching. Seeing the place a mess for once was fascinating. What had got Ma into such a state? There was probably a simpler explanation than a witch. But it wouldn’t be half so thrilling.
“That will have to do,” Ma announced suddenly.
Rae looked up, expecting to see piles that made sense— kitchenware on one side, clothes on the other, like Ma had created before they moved flats last year. But instead there were two jumbled mounds. Only when Ma pulled out her carpet bag and began to fill it with the contents of the smaller pile did anything become clear. “Rae, sweetheart, give me a hand,” she said.
“Oh.” Rae snapped her book shut over the entry on Ramona, goddess of witches. She’d read that one so often she had it memorised. A being so vile and mysterious, not even the witchesprofess to know her will. Didn’t that sound marvellous?
But Ma was preoccupied with her piles and called out again. “Please, sweetheart. We need to get going.”
Rae slid off her perch on the bed they shared and began to fold blouses and pinafores so Ma could slip them inside the bag. Were they moving again? Rae bit her lip. Ma was always on the hunt for somewhere better. Though what that usually meant was cheaper. The last flat had mildew down the walls. Rae shivered at the idea of returning there. Maybe they needed to, now that Uncle Larry was dead. They probably couldn’t afford this apartment if he wasn’t around to help with the rent.
“Going where?” Rae braced for the answer.
“It’s wonderful news, actually. We’re going on holiday.”
“Holiday?”
“No need to sound surprised. Families like ours take holidays all the time.” Ma took her volchemistry diploma out of its frame and shoved it in the bag.
Was that the sort of thing people brought on holiday?
“So why don’t you gather up your favourite things and I’ll add them?”
Rae stared at Ma, confused. She didn’t own a bathing outfit or anything else that belonged on a holiday. “Like a shovel? For building sandcastles?”
“No, we’re not going to the beach. We’re taking a train.”
“Where?”
“Into the mountains, I hope.” Ma frowned for a second, then tucked a small set of her volchemistry ingredients into a protective nest of stockings. “Get whatever you can’t live without, Rae. Favourite things. There’s room for a few.”
Ma had already grabbed a collection of Rae’s clothes— including some scratchy sweaters she would have much rather left—so Rae tried to think of what else she might want. She didn’t own many toys. A few little wooden animals that an old beau of Ma’s had whittled for her. A ragdoll. Rae gathered them up, along with Lives of the Witches, Real and Imagined.
Ma huffed when she saw the book in the pile. “Rae, that’s too heavy. We can’t take it.”
“Then I’ll leave the rest.” Rae shoved aside her doll, clutching the book to her chest. “Or I’ll carry it. I don’t mind.”
“You can’t carry—oh, give it here.” Ma relented and made room for the book. “I’ve told you a thousand times, it’s just a textbook. I don’t know why your father had it.”
A textbook filled with old myths, illustrations, and stories. Rae’s father had been a fisherman and there was no reason for a fisherman to own a collection of folk tales. He’d clearly bought it to read the stories to Rae.
That was the tragic thing about having a fisherman for a father. He could die at sea before he ever got the chance to read you anything.
They finished packing and Ma hefted the carpet bag to the door. “You ready to go?”
“But aren’t we going to clean up?” Rae didn’t particularly want to, but when had they ever left their apartment such a mess? There were still clothes and dishes piled on the floor.
“Ah…” Ma surveyed the chaos. “Actually! I have a little game we can play before we go. Let’s throw everything around the room! Doesn’t that sound fun?”
It sounded divine. “But…” Rae couldn’t believe these words were coming out of her mouth. “Won’t we have to clean it up when we come back?”
“Don’t think too hard about it, sweetheart. See?” Ma grabbed one of the plates and tossed it at the sink. It smashed and fell to the floor in pieces.
Rae gasped. Witch’s hair! What had happened to Ma? Maybe the clatter of broken pottery would be enough for her to recover her senses.
Then she turned to Rae with a forced smile and said, “Your turn!”
For ten minutes, they made a mess. Somehow, Ma managed to still give instructions while they did this. She didn’t want chaos. She needed it to appear a particular way, though she wouldn’t explain why when Rae asked.
Yes, make the clothes look like they’re spilling out of the wardrobe,Rae.
Help me flip over the mattress.
Why am I cutting it? Well, have you ever seen inside a mattress? Sounds interesting to me! Let’s see what’s in there.
Ma really had lost her mind. Who cared what was inside a mattress? Actually, come to think of it, maybe it made a decent hiding place, precisely because it was so boring. But Rae and Ma didn’t own anything worth hiding. Did they?
When they’d finished, the place looked as though it had been ransacked by a wolverine. As Rae stared at their handiwork, a realisation hit her. Whatever holiday they were leaving on was permanent. Ma hadn’t used the word, but they were moving. Moving somewhere without half their things.
What could be so important that it was worth abandoning the little they owned?
Ma ran her hands down a silk dress, the only thing she’d left pristine in the closet. It was far prettier than anything else she owned, precisely because—as Ma frequently reminded Rae—it wasn’t hers. The evening gown only came out when she dressed up for work at the hotel. Rae was under strict orders to keep her fingers off it, or else Ma could get in trouble with her boss.
Ma smiled. “You know, if I were a thief, I think I’d take it.”
“But… but you aren’t a thief.” Rae tried to phrase that as a statement, not a question, but her mother still picked up on her need for a response.
“Of course not,” said Ma. Then she unlatched the carpet bag and shoved the dress inside.
Rae didn’t dare speak now. When they left, Ma pulled a vial of basalt dust from her travel dress and applied it to the pins in the door hinges. From there, she trailed the fine black powder down the hall of their building, until they were a few feet away.
“Stand back, Rae.” Ma always kept a small obsidian knife at her side—the mark of a trained volchemist and the key to activating the volchemical bases. She unsheathed the knife and pointed the tip into the line of dust, twisting it back and forth in a quick rhythm. The entire line shivered.
“And what does basalt give us?” Ma asked. She tested Rae’s volchemistry knowledge more often than the teachers at school.
Rae swallowed. “Motion.”
“Exactly.”
Ma gave the knife a final sharp twist and the whole line of dust reared up and flew forward, snaking up the hinges. The pins popped out as it slammed against the door, knocking it inward, as if it had been kicked open by a large man. Rae covered her mouth so she wouldn’t scream. Ma had made it look like they’d been attacked in their own home. Why would she do that? Had something happened at work?
“Perfect.” Ma grabbed Rae’s hand and dragged her away. “Please keep up. We don’t want to miss our train.”
They hurried outside. Most of their neighbours were away working at this hour, but Ma clearly didn’t want to be caught damaging the building. Once they reached the street, they hailed a carriage—the first carriage ride of Rae’s seven-year-long life. She studied the thick upholstered seating, treasured the sight of the street from the vantage of the carriage window. The box made her taller than the top-hatted men who walked by. It would have been exciting if not for the lingering image of the door blowing off their apartment.
Rae sat in silent thought, too absorbed to bother swinging her legs along with the carriage bumps. Sometimes Rae wondered if all grown-ups hid the truth this often. There was no way of knowing, after all. She couldn’t walk up to the other children in her class and ask, “What do your parents lie about?” No one would answer that.
Like, for example, if anyone asked Rae what her mother’s job was, she had strict orders to say Ma worked at the hotel as a maid. Rae had no idea what she actually did, but she knew it wasn’t that. And it wouldn’t matter how the other children pried, Rae would never tell people what was “verified” or “unverified” about her mother’s life. They were a team. The only family each other had.
She wished she had a similar shard of truth to hold onto now. Enough to know Ma trusted her, even if she was too little to understand why they’d left their apartment looking like thieves had blown through.
The closest thing to reassurance she got was when the carriage pulled up to the trainyard and Ma paused before opening the door. “Remember, Rae. If anyone asks, say we’re taking a holiday together. That’s why we’re on the train.”
Rae stared down at her shoes. She wanted to ask about the apartment. She couldn’t. Instead, she settled for something safer. “Are we going on holiday at all?”
“Oh, of course! We’re going to do lots of fun things together. More than ever before. We’re going somewhere better. Truly better.” Ma ran a hand gently over Rae’s hair, which had been carefully braided for their journey. “We just… might not come back to Pesca anytime soon. It’s a long holiday.”
A long holiday. Not coming back. Listening to Ma was like trying to see through a window by clinging to pieces of broken glass. “A long holiday would be nice,” said Rae.
“Exactly.” Ma threw open the carriage door and together they stepped into the Pescan sun for the last time.
A busy throng pressed around them as they approached the towering gates of the city trainyard. It looked like another protest was going on. Ma had explained the whole thing to Rae ages ago. There were people in the city much worse off than them; people who’d been driven off their land when the Lords’ Council decided to build a railroad between Pesca on the west coast, to Ealidor out east. Caldera Peoples, Ma had called them.
Rae had never walked so close to the protestors before. She squeezed tight to her mother’s hand, instinctively nervous about what could happen if they became separated in the crowd. Most of the signs used words simple enough for Rae to read, painted in large block letters. Her gaze was drawn to them, as she tried to avoid looking anyone in the eye.
RENCHA REBORN!
NO SALE? NO RAIL!
GIVE BACK THE STOLEN LAND! THE OLD EMPIRE WILL RISE
THE WITCHES ARE COMING
Rae sucked in a sharp breath. The woman holding that sign wore a violet wig that made her look like a storybook character. She’d never seen someone try to look like a witch before. The police killed witches, after all. But this woman stared out at the crowd, as if daring people to accuse her. Rae yearned to say something to her—at least compliment the wig—but a tug of Ma’s hand swept her past the crowd and through the gilded gates of the trainyard.
They were funnelled into a hall flanked by brick walls. A line of clerks waited to stamp passengers’ papers. Beyond that, platforms spilled off in every direction. For a moment, Rae expected there to be no tickets and that she and Ma would have to hop a train like outlaws. But Ma approached the counter like everyone else and soon they had directions to head to the platform at the very back of the yard.
They walked past several trains, until they reached the biggest of the lot. At the front, men shovelled massive chunks of basalt into the grinder. It took far more than the teaspoons of basalt dust Ma carried with her to move an entire train, and according to the porter waiting at the platform, this one was an express. It needed the largest grinder of them all to make top speeds through the mountains. Between the furrows of the tracks were piles of ashy grindings, waste left over from the basalt.
Behind the engine was a line of delicately decorated passenger carriages. Words were painted onto their oaken sidings with gold leaf.
“Contin… tin—no, contin… en…” Rae squinted at the letters.
“Continental Rail,” said Ma, giving Rae’s hand a gentle squeeze. “It’s the name of the rail line.”
“Oh.”
With the way the protestors had been shouting outside, some part of Rae had imagined the train to be a metal monster. But these carriages looked genteel and inviting. Rae expected them to keep walking past the elaborate passenger carriages, but a porter motioned for them to step into one. Even he looked fancy, with his braid-trimmed uniform and starched gloves.
It was even better inside. The porter led them through a long dining carriage, set with pristine white linen and vases with fresh flowers at the heart of each table. Rae dropped Ma’s hand and lunged forward, weaving around women in frilly dresses seated for tea. More than anything, she wanted to yank one of the tablecloths free and roll herself up in it, like a caterpillar in a cocoon. Tonight, she would grab a whole basket of linens and build herself a tent while everyone slept. Finally, the promised holiday had come.
“Rae! Stay close to me. This isn’t our carriage.” Ma’s fingers closed over the back of her coat, dragging her to a standstill beside a shocked-looking gentleman with a walking cane.
“Oh.” She should have expected that. This would be first class, and even if Ma pawned that fancy dress of hers, they wouldn’t have enough money to afford a posh train.
“No, Mrs Freath. Your carriage number is clearly on the ticket.” The porter showed Ma something and she squinted at the print.
“It’s Genna Freath. No need for the Mrs.” She snatched the ticket from the porter, who waited patiently with their luggage. “There has to be a mistake. I didn’t ask for first class.”
“The embassy’s instructions were clear,” the porter said mildly. “Besides which, this is the express. We have no second-class carriages.”
Ma’s knuckles whitened around the ticket. From her frown, the news didn’t excite her half as much as it did Rae.
The porter lifted their tattered carpet bag again. “If I may?”
Her mother blinked, recovering. “Of course! This—this is a pleasant surprise.”
“Very good, ma’am.” The porter led them deeper into the train, and Rae resolved to ask her mother if they could try one of the pastries a waiter was now carrying out.
The sleeping carriage wasn’t quite as sumptuously decorated, but there were two whole beds. Rae squealed and crawled into a bunk. “Can this one be mine?”
“Well…” Ma swivelled around their cabin like a rabbit trying to sniff out a trap. “I’m not sure if we’re staying. Are there any other trains headed east today?”
“There isn’t another until tomorrow night.” The porter stowed their bag in an overhead compartment. “I assure you, ma’am. You are in the right place.”
“I see.”
“If you need anything else—” he began.
“No, we’re quite well. Thank you.” Ma shut the door on the porter’s heels while Rae kicked off her shoes. Her own bed! And the sheets were butter-soft. She immediately untucked them and rolled herself into a sausage. Caterpillar time.
“No, sweetheart. We can’t…” Ma stammered. “I’m going to talk to someone. See if we can get our tickets traded for tomorrow’s train.”
“But why?” Rae murmured from the comfort of her cocoon.
“No reason why. But I don’t want to pay for overpriced drapes and—”
“Aren’t the tickets already paid for?”
“That’s the problem. I’m not sure—”
But before Ma could derail their adventure, there was a soft lurch as the train began to move out of the yard. Rae poked her head out of the bedsheets to see Ma gripping the overhead compartment for support. Like it or not, they were leaving.
Before Rae could waste time wondering what was wrong, Ma sat down on the bunk across from her. “Sit up, please. I need you to listen to me.”
Rae squirmed into an upright position. From the focused glint in Ma’s eyes, she knew what was coming. More instructions. More half-truths. “We’re going to have a lovely time.” Ma pulled one of Rae’s hands free from the sheets. “But I need you to do me a favour, all right?”
“What is it?”
“I need you to tell me if you see someone. A man.”
Oh. Was that how they’d got the tickets? Ma always had at least one gentleman hovering around her, desperate for attention. They were never good sorts. The last one—Uncle Larry, he’d made Rae call him—had even ended up dead. There had been a funeral and everything a month ago. Rae went and watched Ma cry, even though she’d never loved Larry. Ma had told her a thousand times. She loved no one but Rae.
And now there was another. When would the gentlemen of the world take the hint and stop bothering Ma?
“He’s not dangerous, but I need to know if you see him,” Ma continued.
Rae nodded, even though the first bit was the most obvious lie of them all.
“He’ll stand out if he’s here. He’s tall, with long, sandy blond hair—”
“Long hair?” Rae had never met a man with long hair.
“To his shoulders.” Ma made a sweeping motion lower than her own cropped bob. “And pale skin. Paler than most people. If you hear him talking, he’ll have a northern accent.”
How was Rae supposed to know what that sounded like? But she nodded, as Ma would expect her to. “And… if I do see him?”
“Tell me. I want to have a chat with him.” Ma squeezed Rae’s hand. “But he probably isn’t here. I can’t think why he’d want to travel at all. But just in case.”
Just in case.
Rae held onto a lot of Ma’s lies, just in case something happened.
Something always did.
YOUKNOW, WHEN