Sorrow and Ghosts

By Charlotte Kersten

A year has passed since Iraluri and her husband stole the hidden offerings that raised them from obscurity to a life of incredible luxury. Wealth has brought no peace, however, and Iraluri begins to find her marriage more untenable than ever, slowly regaining the determination that she once thought she had lost forever. Her own courage is not the only thing beginning to stir - magic that once seemed to be utterly lost may not be so lost, after all. As impossible and wonderful things start to happen, Iraluri must finally decide: is it more dangerous to hope or to despair?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Charlotte Kersten
• Release date: Jan 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005725358

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SORROW AND GHOSTS

The Economy of Blessings Trilogy: Book Two

Charlotte Kersten

copyright

Sorrow and Ghosts

Copyright © 2021 Charlotte Kersten

All rights reserved.

https://charlottekersten.com

Cover design and illustrations by Indiana Acosta Hernandez (Indicreates)

https://indicreates.com

ISBN-13 979-8-9850826-3-0

DEDICATION

To every survivor who has let me be a part of their journey

CONTENTS

Copyright

Dedication

Content Warnings

The Story So Far

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Acknowledgments

Donation Information

Safety Planning and Resources

Pronunciation Guide

Safety Planning and Resources

Sneak Peek

About the Author

CONTENT WARNINGS

This book depicts intimate partner violence. This includes physical, emotional, and (non-graphic) sexual abuse. It also features depictions of racism and colonialist violence.

Please use the safety planning and resources guide at the end of this book if you need support over the course of reading Sorrow and Ghosts.

THE STORY SO FAR

The country of Dreonia has conquered many peoples and lands in the Elven Plane and the planes beyond, somehow sundering them from the planar magic that once made them strong. One of these conquered lands is Miz’rifaezar, an underground country that birthed a religion known as the Economy of Blessings. In the Economy of Blessings, ghosts held by the god Lirdnolu in the plane of Leseolas passed Lirdnolu’s magic to living elves while those living elves passed worship and offerings back to Lirdnolu through the ghosts. Lirdnolu vanished hundreds of years ago, all except one of its ghosts vanished too, and Miz’rifaezar was conquered by Dreonia.

When a dissolute young gentleman named Harlan Reynfried was cast out by his family for a scandal, he stole the means of returning to wealth and hatched a plan: use ancient magic to summon the only remaining Miz’ri ghost, Solaufein Khairzorul, and force him to reveal the location of his selakiir, a kind of pocket plane that exists between Leseolas and the Elven Plane. In that selakiir, Solaufein remained trapped along with all of the treasure that was offered him in Lirdnolu’s name. Harlan planned to enter the selakiir and take the treasure, forcing his Miz’ri wife Iraluri to learn how to summon the ghost because he mistakenly believed that only a person with Miz’ri blood could use the magic.

Harlan and Iraluri met when Harlan saved her from beggarhood and starvation. Prior to that, Iraluri left the city of Crowham, having participated in a robbery to pay for her little sister Immy’s tuition at a fine boarding school. The robbery went wrong and one of Irlauri’s friends killed a servant; after seeing her sister placed in the school, Iraluri fled. Harlan and Iraluri fell in love and married, but Harlan grew crueler and more controlling as time passed.

Iraluri met a woman named Ser Morvu-Ra when Ser interrupted Harlan as he shouted at Iraluri in the street. Ser and Iraluri became friends as Iraluri snuck out for occasional visits. Ser was insistent that Harlan’s treatment was wrong, they learned about each other’s lives, and Ser spoke often about the injustice of Dreonia’s empire and its treatment of the people categorized as dark elves, including Efrusi people like her. In their last encounter, Iraluri kissed Ser before determining to never see her again when Harlan threatened to kill anyone she betrayed him with.

At the same time, she grew more proficient in summoning Solaufein and grew closer to him as well, learning more about ancient Miz’rifaezar from him while he continually refused to divulge the location of his selakiir for Harlan’s looting. Iraluri secretly sabotaged a piece of magic meant to enslave Solaufein and otherwise protected him from Harlan, but Solaufein eventually revealed the location of his selakiir after Harlan strangled Iraluri and threatened her life if she did not succeed with the ghost. They entered the selakiir and took the treasure there as their own, and Iraluri agreed to keep secretly summoning Solaufein once they left.

CHAPTER 1

Laele’s hands are gentle and deft as she pins a hairpiece in place and reaches for a dab of pomatum for an errant wisp. Iraluri never knew it before, but now she knows that a lady’s hair arrangement is a delicate art, requiring all manner of heated tongs and wrapping papers, herbed egg washes, bandolines, and enough pins to give her a daily headache. She closes her eyes to breathe the scent of lemon, almond, and rosewater, her hands and face freshly scrubbed.

She opens her eyes and watches the woman reflected in the mirror, her ears and neck adorned with shining strands of diamonds, her dark hair in its artful arrangement of curls and braids and sweeping loops, the neckline of her ballgown cut low enough to be fashionable but not low enough to make her husband angry. They have spent over a year in splendor, and she still barely recognizes herself; if she were less fortunate in her choice of husbands and a few years younger than her twenty-five years, she might just as easily be Laele in a place of servitude, and the both of them know it.

The maid smiles brightly and places a hand upon Iraluri’s shoulder. Now, aren’t you just a vision, ma’am?

She makes her lips stretch in an answering smile just as the door opens and Harlan strides into the room. I daresay you have done what you can, girl. Let her be.

Laele traces a quick rune against Iraluri’s shoulder, but she cannot tell just from touch which one it is. The maid bobs a curtsy and scurries from the room, not daring to glance at the master of the house as she slips through the door. The servants all either hate or fear her husband, she knows, for he has proven a changeful and challenging master, possessing little regard for their work and even less patience for their mistakes.

Stand up, and let me see you.

She rises, and her husband surveys her from head to foot, the strands of silver that have been woven into her hair, the crisp white gloves against her skin, the sweep of her deep purple gown, the fabric shining in the light, lavishly adorned with layers and tulle and flowers, hiding the perfect slippers beneath. When he saw her in her first unimaginably expensive gown after the fulfillment of their great expectations, he crushed the fabric as he embraced her and breathed in her ear that she was beautiful, so beautiful.

Now he stares impassively and says nothing about her appearance. Come along, sweetness. I don’t want to be too terribly late tonight.

As has become their custom on a night out, he reminds her of every piece of decorum she has previously shirked in a litany as the carriage rattles through the streets. "Wendell Phillins will want to dance with you again, the damn oaf, and you must refuse him graciously. I will not have that man pawing at my wife, especially after the way you made such great eyes at him at the opera last week. You must not stumble your way through the quadrilles this time because I distinctly heard Arabella Kildare laugh at you when you tripped over Lyness’s feet a fortnight ago. You will not slink away to hide in the ladies’ dressing room for hours at a time, you will not slurp the punch, and I will hear none of your ain’ts and rights and propers." He pauses, considering, and she presses her brow against the cool glass of the window, her head already beginning to ache.

If you must go off into one of your silly crying fits, then I beg you will not do it before company this time. Find an empty hallway or a path in the gardens.

Yes, she says.

That Malit whore will be present tonight, I have heard, and you will not so much as look in her direction. They truly will admit any variety of filth to a ball these days.

Miss Malit? Truly? A lurch of dread fills her to hear that name, cutting through the weariness, and she balls her gloved hands together in her lap. Unaware of this small crisis as he is of all the others, he gives a great sigh. You know I can barely even enjoy myself when we go out together because I must continually think of you and whether you embarrass me. A man’s wife should not shame him and burden him so. You know you make me the laughingstock of Keld society - Reynfried and his ignorant little Miz’ri wife, plucked from the gutter. If I could leave you behind without anyone talking of it, you know I would in a heartbeat.

Yes. Yes, she knows because she hears it nigh every day. He pulls her back from the window. Don’t press your head against the glass so. It will leave a mark.

***

Sir Delbert Blackmore is one of the richest men in Keld. He first made his wealth in balse and currently serves as head of the Loyal Shuayijan Trading Company. The Blackmore manor is outfitted as befits a man of his position. Overlooking the river Hantane, it stands festooned in glittering orbs of colored light imported from the Fifth Plane. They are not just lights, Mrs. Blackmore tells them as she greets them - they are actually living wisps that were ordered expressly for this night, and soon they will die outside of their plane, flickering out as the sun rises.

They perish for a just cause, in service of the best ball of the season. And if I were a wisp, I should surely be glad my light was used to illuminate a woman as lovely as you, Mrs. Blackmore.

She smiles broadly at Harlan, a hand to the black jewels at her breast, which, according to rumor, were found in the deepest mines in the underground colony. Mr. Reynfried, to think of how the ladies of Keld survived without such pretty language when you had not yet returned to grace! Bleak days, indeed.

I am only glad they are over, then, for all our sakes.

You must see the fire sylph, too, imported from the Third Plane. The cage is by the door to the gardens, and its tamer will draw it forth later in the night to dance. It is the most beautiful thing when the lights are darkened! Only I should not stand too close if you favor your hair and your clothes.

He escorts her to the dressing room. Arabella Kildare simpers to see her and leans to whisper something to a companion whom Iraluri does not recognize. She sits watching the ladies attend to their hair and dresses, counting the moments until it seems like it is time to find her husband again.

She trails him like a shadow as he winds through the glimmering throng, laughing and drinking and saying clever, dashing things to all of his many friends. Dully, she wonders what they say about him when he is not present - disgraced and outcast, scraped by in poverty, saw fit to marry such a woman. Some have refused to accept him back into the fold, she knows, and he has been sure to communicate her blame in that regard. But he never lacks for parties and outings and invitations, so perhaps the good name and fine looks and clever manners paired with obscene riches are enough for most. As always, no one says a word to her, and so she says not a word to anyone else, slipping in and out of awareness and twisting the diamonds at her breast. Finally, he turns to her, speaking in a hushed tone with a smile on his face as though his words are a pleasantry of some kind in case anyone watches them.

"No other man's wife clings to his coattails so, hovering next to him in silence like some terrible omen. Go do something, and at least pretend you are a normal woman."

A lady must never cross a ballroom unaccompanied, so he deposits her near the fire sylph’s cage and leaves her for someone else to deal with. Heat shimmers around the cage, and she thinks it must be made of some special material because it does not warp or melt away. The sylph’s body is slender and rutilant, the shifting whites and deepening oranges of its skin burning and flickering. Its eyes are black, fresh coals in the flame, and it curls its fingers around a bar and stares at her, emitting a snapping and hissing sound.

The first time she saw a creature of the planes at a party, she could not stop herself from blubbering. The sea being’s skin was sallow and bruised, her scales dull and her limbs stunted because the glass tank was so small. Harlan made her leave the room, and later, she thought of Ser’s words over a year ago: there is a rotten sickness at the heart of Dreonia. She told Solaufein about it that night and felt his rage give an agonizing twist within him. There have been so many instances like this since then, performers of all kinds from Elven lands in the empire, wondrous luxuries on display, strange planar creatures leashed and caged. The only ones that are brought back are the ones that never had any magic to be sundered or whose magic is minimal enough to pose no threat. She does not know why sundered creatures only remain in the planes. Tonight, there is a table nearby with little wedges of cheese on forks, and she looks away, unable to watch, as two gentlemen approach the cage to toast their wedges.

She ends up settling in a corner with a plate of millefruit biscuits and a glass of punch, provided by Mr. Lyness since a lady must also never seek refreshments on her own. The amount of food to choose from left her dizzy, with iced fruits, jellies, and enough sweets to make her stomach turn. She nibbles at first, but the food tastes of nothing; she stops trying to eat as the twisting in her stomach grows worse. She debates whether leaning her head against the wall will upset the precarious coils of her hair and ultimately decides that it is worth the risk. The garish lights and colors of the room and the incessant music and chatter all cause the pressure in her head to build, and she squeezes her eyes closed to assuage the effect. It is not what a normal woman would do, most likely, but it is all that she can manage.

She is so weary these days, weary to her bones. It may be because her sleep is poorer than ever. She is lucky to slumber for more than three or four hours at a stretch. But her sleep has been bad enough for years, and she once cared for other parts of life as much and as often as she could. Now, she swallows food whenever meals come around though she does not hunger; sits in the water when Laele heats her bath; sits with her eyes closed as the maid works through the knots and tangles of her hair. Laele chooses her dresses, and Harlan chooses the rest, and thus one day morphs into another, slipping by in a blur.

I hope you are resting in order to be at your best for the next dance, Mrs. Reynfried.

Mr. Lyness takes a biscuit from her plate. I also hope you might favor me with dance, he continues, chewing and brushing crumbs from his gloves. I hardly recognize my own feet these days lest they are spotted with a bruise or two that you have gifted me. He kicks up a foot in its glossy black dress boot and wiggles it for emphasis.

Certainly, sir.

He frowns at her apathetic response to the jest; in the past, he could at least rely on her for a smile or a halfhearted rejoinder. Are you well, Mrs. Reynfried? I have watched you, and by Ydur, I do not think you have smiled once tonight. This is supposed to be the finest ball of the season - ending things on a high note, you know! I should hate to think that you have got the morbs.

"You have watched me?" That is enough to stir her from her weariness, and she eyes him askance, that sickness lurching in her belly again.

He leans forward, voice hushed and brow furrowed. Harmlessly so, indeed. You are so terribly quick to find offense in the actions of men who are not your husband, even when they think of you as nothing but a friend and have told you so repeatedly. I meant only that you seem ill at ease these days. And I confess, - his hand moves restively as though he might reach out, but he merely ends up giving his mustache a tug - that I often remember that night last winter…

Her hands begin to tremble, and so then something terrible happens. Her glass of punch slips from her fingers, spreading a dark stain across the front of her gown before shattering against the floor.

She stares down at the glinting shards of glass, at the rich ugly splatters that pool and dot the floor, in a moment that might last for a century. There are little murmurs of surprise and dismay around her, yes, but she only hears them distantly because there is a great yawning, roaring void in her head now, echoing and resounding, and all she can think is… well, precisely what she has thought in countless such moments of terror and panic in the past five years of her life. This time, the breath tangles in her throat, and soon she is wheezing for air, heartbeat thrumming at a breakneck speed and gut churning and roiling. She does not remember the act of sinking to the ground, but the dread pushes her down as low as her crinoline will allow, her face buried in her hands as she struggles to take breath after breath and tries to brace herself against the shaking that has overtaken her body. If only her corset were not so tight, then she might catch her breath, but that would do nothing for her utter uselessness, hopelessness, stupidity. It will never end, she thinks as she curls in upon herself on the ballroom floor - it will go on and on and on like this until she dies. She will never stop doing such stupid things, and he will never stop hating her for it -

And here he is, forced cheer in his voice as he pulls her to her feet and hurries her past the staring clusters of folk in their finery. The poor thing, a nervous constitution, you must understand. No, no need for that. Quiet and rest, that’s just the thing.

He pulls her through hallways and flings open a random bedroom door, hurling her inside. This, he snarls, "is the last party you'll ever go to. You cannot keep embarrassing me like this. Stay here for the duration of the night, and I will collect you later. You stay put, or you will regret it."

Her last glimpse of him is the red of his furious face, the flash of coat links as he turns away from her and slams the door. It feels as though her heart or her head may burst, and she braces herself against the table, struggling to take breath after breath as her pulse pounds away. There is no telling how long it takes for the panic to fade at last; by the time that it does, she is covered in a fine sheen of sweat and two of Laele’s braided hairpieces have come uncoiled from their nest upon her head. She is futilely trying to pin them back where they belong with shaking fingers when there is a quiet knock at the door.

It must be Harlan; who else could it be? She crosses to the door and opens it, bracing herself for another round of contempt and castigation. But the person at the door is not her husband. She is a woman, and she may be the most beautiful woman Iraluri has ever seen besides Ser. Her face is an exquisite mask, her delicate features composed and deliberately still and blank. Red jewels glint at her breast, and her gloved hands are folded against the shimmering white silk of her gown. She smooths out her skirts in a fluid gesture. She inclines her head, the intricate loops and swirls of her auburn hair dipping, and blinks her clear, unfathomable green eyes at Iraluri.

I have been prowling the hallways, knocking at every door, she says, her voice the sweet lilting of a flute. Iraluri simply stares at her. The woman tosses her head after a moment of silence between them.

But you do not know me, of course, Mrs. Reynfried. I am Aurore Malit.

Iraluri steps back with a horrified gasp, and Aurore seems to take this as an invitation to enter the room because she sweeps past Iraluri to stand in front of the window. Silence reigns for a few more moments, Aurore imperturbable and Iraluri in full catastrophe, and then the other woman glances over her shoulder. I have wondered about you for a very long time, Mrs. Reynfried.

Please, please, if he knew that we were speaking…

She cannot finish the sentence, and the silence holds heavy again while Aurore waits as though curious if Iraluri will finish the thought. When she does not, she turns back to the window with another toss of the head and a strange little laugh. Your husband presently walks the grounds with Lyla Purcell. I can assure you that he does not think of you at all.

The words hit her like a blow, and she sinks to the bed. W-what?

Aurore continues to stare into the darkness that lies beyond the window. I apologize if I seem cold in the conveyance of such news, Mrs. Reynfried. It has been a long time since I have spoken of your husband in delicate terms, and I find that the knack of it does not come easily. You did not suspect? They have been most companionable these past four months, at least.

Frantically, she wracks her brain, trying to remember which one Lyla Purcell might be amongst the endless procession of beautiful, sophisticated women who are wont to glance at her sideways with that twist of the lip before turning away. Four months - truly, could she have missed it for that long? The answer is yes, she realizes, because hasn’t she stumbled from gathering to gathering, cowed and trembling, an endless list of rules held in her mind, unable to think of anything but the infinite number of ways that she must not disgrace her husband? The pain in her head gives a splitting surge, and she presses a hand to her brow.

You lie. You lied about him before, you ruined his life, so why shouldn’t you do it again? Her words sound petty and feeble and cruel, and she hates herself for them as they cross her lips. It is the kind of thing Harlan would say - has said, in fact, any number of times.

Aurore turns to face her, her perfect brow arched slightly. I am many things, but you will find I am no liar.

She is no Ser, either, to provide warmth and succor in a moment of distress; she stands stiffly in front of the window, hands clasped, while Iraluri begins to weep. God of gods, she is so thoroughly tired of blubbering like a pathetic, idiotic little child, and it is not as though she should even be surprised. It was only a matter of time before he found a woman who made him happy, a better woman. And does she even have a right to grieve after the wrongs she has committed against him; after the kiss with Ser and the memory of it that grips her and sweetens her dreams every so often?

She presses a hand to her lips and tries to keep her voice from shaking. Is it my fault, do you think? What a stupid question, how can it n-not be?

Aurore’s eyes flash at that, and the perfect mask of her face is lifted away to show something fierce living underneath. She swiftly crosses the room to sit beside Iraluri in a sudden shushing and shifting of her white skirts and takes hold of her arm in a tight grip.

Do not believe it. Not for an instant. Not a bit of it, she hisses savagely, and in the midst of her sorrow, Iraluri is transfixed by her bright, relentless gaze and its unflinching fury; she wants to look away, but she is drawn to that sharp, incandescent anger like a moth to a candle flame.

It emboldens her in a way that she has not been emboldened for months, and before she knows what she is doing, she curls her arms around the other woman, resting her head upon her shoulder to cry in earnest. It has been so long since anyone has touched her with anything other than the formal officiousness of a servant, the impersonal press of a dance partner, or the implacable grasp of a husband in his anger or affections, so Aurore’s stiff surprise is as good as an embrace in return.

The guilt spills over, and she desperately chokes out the story of Ser. She thought it was a good thing once, but now only the guilt remains. Someone needs to know, someone needs to judge her for it and tell her whether this is all she deserves in turn for her unfaithfulness. It is a release like she could not have imagined to be able to speak of her secrets to another woman, and then she realizes the impropriety of her actions. She lifts her head from Aurore’s shoulder, shifting away slightly.

I’m sorry, Miss Malit. I should not have carried on s-so, and to a woman I do not know.

The other woman’s fury is shuttered again, her gaze opaque and distant, with a tiny line between her brows the only indication of thought or perturbation. She pulls her hands away from Iraluri’s and curls them in her lap.

I will speak frankly, Mrs. Reynfried. I think that there is a strange and unfortunate bond that ties the two of us, and it is because of that bond that I believe we may speak honestly to each other in a way that two women might not otherwise. Do you agree?

Iraluri takes a shuddering breath and nods her head.

We are of an accord. Good. I have delivered one shock tonight, and now I beg that you will hear me out again. It is only that I believe it would help you to hear my account of the events that led to our mutual fall from grace - your husband’s and mine. Would you hear it?

She hovers on the brink of deliberation for a moment. Far safer and wiser to know nothing but Harlan’s truth; yet she thinks of Ser and how she once hovered on the border between caution and bravery. Goodness came of it, at least for a time before it was shattered. So then, ghosts help her, Iraluri nods again. Hasn’t she secretly wondered about this every time he has cursed her - lying cunt, Malit whore, you know they always believe the woman, don’t you, sweetness? Aurore ducks her head in acknowledgment, stares fixedly ahead, and absently fidgets with a strand of