The Cerulean (The Cerulean Duology #1) - Amy Ewing Page 0,126

retire to my lab. I must store these samples properly.”

Leo half turned in Sera’s direction as if to say goodbye; then the two men left the theater. The lights switched off and the flowers around the pond began to glow. Sera stared up at the glass circle.

I hear you now, Mother Sun, she thought. I see you. Thank you for Agnes and Leo, for Errol and Boris, for Francis, and for the hope you have given me. But how am I to get through that glass?

A light on the ground caught Sera’s eye as a tiny crowned sprite scampered up from the earth around Boris’s roots and into her crate. She held out her hand and it climbed up into her palm. This one was slightly thicker and taller than the last one—Sera waited for her to dance, but instead she twirled around and lifted herself right off Sera’s palm, floating and twisting in the air, little sparks shooting out from her tiny hands and feet like embers that were hot where they touched Sera’s skin. Another sprite darted out from beneath a silvery white root and propelled itself, floating and sparking, toward her sister. They whirled around each other joyfully before floating back to the ground and disappearing underneath Boris.

She didn’t realize Errol had been watching until his filaments flashed. “Tree sprites,” he said in awe. “I have not seen tree sprites in many years. Sparkle and swim, they do. Fly and dance. Tricksy, like minnows. Tasty like minnows too. But must be careful. They burn and bite.”

He crawled over and began rooting around in the earth.

“Errol, stop, don’t eat them,” she cried.

“Why not, Sera Lighthaven?” he asked, looking up, his face crusted with dirt. But Sera had a sudden inspiration.

“A distraction,” she murmured. “Boris, are you awake?”

The Arboreal roused herself with a rustle of branches. “Who speaks to me?”

“It’s Sera.” Boris was always forgetting her name. “Tell me, how many sprites do you have beneath your roots?”

“Many hundreds, and more, ever since you sent me seeds of love and light,” Boris said. “In times past so few, so few, without a Mother to guide them. Their home was lost, across the sea, across the years. But now they keep me warm. They sing in their sleep.”

Many hundreds. That should be enough, shouldn’t it? “And just what exactly can they do?”

“Why,” Boris crooned, “they can do anything the Mother asks them to.”

“All right. Good.” Sera collected her thoughts, deciding where she should start. “I need your help with something, if you are willing. You too, Errol.”

Errol cocked his head, a daisy dangling from the corner of his mouth. He swallowed it and looked at her with a plaintive expression.

“Whatever you need, Sera Lighthaven.”

Sera raised her eyes to the sky once more.

“I need to find a way to break that glass.”

35

Agnes

“ABSOLUTELY NOT,” AGNES DECLARED WHEN LEO HAD finished detailing his conversation with Sera from the night before. They were combing through the racks of dresses at Elvira Chester’s Fine Gowns and Ladies’ Wear. “That’s insane.”

“This whole thing is insane,” Leo pointed out.

“And you trust this boy, this Francis?”

“Sera does,” he said. “He’s been taking care of all of them while they’re stuck in the theater. He seemed sincere in his desire to help, I’ll say that. Didn’t think much of Father. And let’s face it, we need him.”

“But how is Sera supposed to break a glass ceiling?”

“She seemed to think she could figure something out,” he said.

Agnes let out an exasperated growl, and one of the salesgirls shot her disdainful look.

Xavier had insisted that Leo choose something for her to wear to The Fabled Fate of Olverin Waters and His Triumph Over the Mistress of the Islands. That was the title for this final production, and Agnes thought it quite the mouthful. But she supposed it got the point across. Xavier had never been one for subtlety when it came to his plays.

When Leo had told their father there was nothing suitable in Agnes’s wardrobe, he sent the two of them out with Eneas to Elvira Chester’s, a store Agnes had spent her entire life avoiding. Everything was lace and frills and chiffon, pink was the favored color, but the worst part was the clientele. Snobby old women with upturned noses complained loudly about how they didn’t make dresses like they used to, and giggling girls chattered about the latest fashion or who had just gotten engaged or which Old Port boy was the most eligible bachelor (it was always,