Read When the Sea is Rising Red for Free Online

at university, nothing like my brother’s seven. Not unless there’s another war with the Mekekana and we need every Lammer to fight them off. Not that there’s any chance of that happening after their thorough trouncing.
    I rub the scriv between my fingers and let it fall back. Of what use to me are illusions?
    The scriv-box closes with a clean snap. The leaping silver dolphins on the lid, picked out against the blue enamel sea, grin up at me in gentle mockery. No one will believe my little fabrication if I take my scriven with me.
    I ache to take it, to not leave it here to waste.
    Instead, I force myself to turn away.
    The shawl I’ve chosen for tonight is my favorite—golden-brown sea silk in a delicate scallop pattern, beaded with the smallest of amber glass seeds. I wrap it around a pair of embroidered shoes and tuck the bundle under my arm. I’m wearing my oldest, shabbiest dress, thick woolen stockings against the chill, a rough coat, and a pair of sturdy boots. They were meant for walking, but I’ve never had much chance to use them and the leather is stiff and uncomfortable.
    They also squeak. I curse the Gris-damned boots under my breath. I’ll never get out of the house without using magic.
    I turn back to the little box sitting expectantly on the mantelpiece and exhale a long breath I didn’t even know I was holding. Just one pinch, that’s all it’ll take. And this will be the last I have.
    No one will notice if a few grains are missing. I step forward to press the catch.
    The last time. You should make the most of it, I tell myself, as I take the smallest pinch of scriv possible. The dust fills my nose with the sharp smell of magic, and then, all around me, the air is real, solid. Carefully, I use my scriv-enhanced abilities to hold sound in place as I step over the collection of cold tea things outside my doorway and creep down the winding turret stairs, past the second-floor wing where my mother sleeps, past the ranks of servants’ rooms, farther and farther down, till I am in the long open tearoom.
    The house is held still and silent with my magic, but already I can feel the edges of sound filtering back in. I barely took enough to last five minutes. There’s no going back.
    The last of the scriv-high fades just as I turn the bone key in the front door. Outside, the night waits, clammy-handed.
    The door shuts softly.
    In the kennels, one of my brother’s dragon-dogs whines, perhaps hearing the faint click of the lock. My breath held, I wait, the seconds slipping past. The dog shuffles. The steady thump thump thump of its heavy tail against the wood is like a fist beating on a door. It makes me pant faster, just trying to suck some air down a too-tight throat. The throbbing bruises on my neck feel like they go all the way to the inside. The sound fades, and the air tastes like burning copper when I am finally able to breathe normally again. Damning myself for not taking more scriv, I inch along the path.
    The darkness is a blanket. I stumble over the shadows of things that are not there, falling and scraping my knees and palms on the seashell grit that edges each paving stone. This time the dog must hear me, for it yaps once into the starless night. Another dog joins it, and soon all my brother’s damned dragon-dogs are baying and barking in a frenzy. Their howls echo against the distant forested hills.
    Not bothering to be silent now, I run for the long shadows of the box firs that grow alongside our house. Protected from the worst of the sea-winds, they grow tall. I huddle in between them, the fresh piney scent filling my nostrils. Under it is the heady loam of the soil, grounding me.
    “There anyone out?” calls a woman’s voice. Firell.
    I shut my eyes and press myself against the wall, dampening the back of my coat. Go away.
    Instead of magically hearing my thoughts and disappearing back into the house, Firell walks down the pathway. Her boots thud on the stone. She pauses, and I want to