When the Sea is Rising Red by Cat Hellisen Page A

the water out of my stockings.
    “Here,” says Nala. “I’ve made you up a bed in the corner.” She leads me to a curtained-off space near the stairs.
    It’s little more than a pile of burlap bags, loosely stuffed with sea grass. She hands over a neatly folded gray blanket. “It’s all there is,” she says. “Maybe tomorrow Lils can see what she can find. She’s good at finding things.”
    The blanket is thin, and I have to add my slightly rain-damp coat over it to keep warm. I curl up like an alley cat on the pile of bags. The storm beats about the crumbling house.
    I sleep in my shift, while my dress and stockings drip on a line that stretches across the remains of what was once a tiled washroom. This is the first time in my life that I have ever washed my own clothes or known that in the morning I would have to wear the same outfit again.
    If Esta comes back during the night, I don’t hear her over the screaming of the wind.

7
     
    T HREE DAYS LATER and I’m sick to the teeth of the smell of tea and cakes, the feel of soapy water, and the lamentations of crakes. I can hear them from the scullery. Every now and then one stands up and orates at length to the unfortunate crowd, after which he bows to their scattered applause. Personally, I think they’d be better served by plates broken over their heads than by hand-claps.
    And if I’m correct, more than a few of their recent verses make mockery at my House’s expense. Crakes—always biting the hand that feeds. Ilven used to tell me that my hatred of poetry and poets had more to do with being forced to study under our House crake than with the actual quality of the verse, and that one day I would see the beauty in what they did. Somehow I doubt that.
    “Firell?” A head pops around the doorway. It’s the day-shift waitress, a low-Lam girl everyone calls Perkins. She has a narrow nose in a moonish face, and her eyes are wide and dark as winter storms.
    “Yes?”
    “Can you pick up a table for me? Charl has all the outside tables so he’s too busy.”
    Of course he’s busy. It’s market day, and the place is packed from floor to wall. I dry my hands on my apron and squint at her. “I’ve never served a table in my life. Why can’t you do it?”
    “I—just can’t.” Perkins huffs and blows a loose strand of dirty blond hair from her flushed cheeks. “Please, all you have to do is take his order and bring it to him, I swear. And he tips well, so you’ll get a bit for your troubles.”
    It must be some regular that she can’t face. And a bit is nothing to sniff at. “Fine. I’ll do it.” I take off the stained scullery apron and hang it on a peg. “Just point me to him.”
    “Thanks, Firell. I’ll owe you one.”
    After checking my dress to make sure that it’s serviceable, I follow Perkins into the chaos of the Crake’s interior. Poets are clustered about high tables scribbling away or angrily gesticulating at each other as they argue some fine point of meter and rhyme. Perkins points to one of the low tables near the door and its single occupant. Unusual enough in this crowded place that he would have a table to himself.
    His back is to us, and all I can see of him is that he’s wearing a fine black coat and that his long dark hair is loose, falling over his shoulders in a sleek wave. One of the better-groomed crakes then. A wide-brimmed hat is on the table next to his elbow—an odd fashion choice on this windy day.
    I squeeze my way between the tables and chairs, muttering excuse me s until I reach his table. He’s bowed over a notebook, his quill flying over the cream pages. This close to him the air feels stretched and tight. Uncomfortable.
    “Sir? Can I get you something to drink?”
    He answers while he writes. “Water, please, and a redbush tea, no honey.” He looks up then, and I recognize him.
    He’s the bat from the promenade. The one who held me to him so that Owen wouldn’t see me, who sparked with magic and smelled