Fray Read online

  Copyright

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2019 by Rowenna Miller

  Excerpt from Rule copyright © 2019 by Rowenna Miller

  Excerpt from Empire of Sand copyright © 2018 by Natasha Suri

  Author photograph by Heidi Hauck

  Cover design by Lisa Marie Pompilio

  Cover art by Peter Bollinger

  Cover copyright © 2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Map copyright © 2019 by Tim Paul

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Orbit

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10104

  orbitbooks.net

  First Edition: June 2019

  Orbit is an imprint of Hachette Book Group.

  The Orbit name and logo are trademarks of Little, Brown Book Group Limited.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to www.hachettespeakersbureau.com or call (866) 376-6591.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Miller, Rowenna, author.

  Title: Fray / Rowenna Miller.

  Description: First edition. | New York, NY : Orbit, Hachette Book Group, 2019. | Series: The Unraveled Kingdom ; book two

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018049172 | ISBN 9780316478632 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780316478649 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316478663 (library ebook)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Fantasy fiction.

  Classification: LCC PS3613.I55275 F73 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018049172

  ISBNs: 978-0-316-47863-2 (trade paperback), 978-0-316-47864-9 (ebook)

  E3-20190425-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  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

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Acknowledgments

  Discover More

  Extras

  Meet the Author

  A Preview of Rule

  A Preview of Empire of Sand

  By Rowenna Miller

  Praise for Torn

  For Randy, my partner, and always ready for our next dance

  Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.

  Tap here to learn more.

  1

  THE SILK FAIR HAD DESCENDED ON FOUNTAIN SQUARE IN THE middle of Galitha City, flooding the gray flagstones with color. I inhaled, catching the scent of silk fibers, block-print dyes, and some pungent damp wool on the faint summer breeze.

  “All right, Alice.” My assistant caught up to me, already red-faced in the summer sun. She carried a list of necessary purchases and a ledger to keep track of our expenses, just as I usually did at the fair. This time, Alice was tabulating our purchases and watching our budget, practice for managing a shop herself someday. “Where should we start? Brocades? Wools?”

  “We need more cotton,” Alice answered. “Those chemise gowns have been our most frequent commission in the past two months. I’ve already cut into our last bolt of voile.”

  Though painfully pragmatic even when faced with row upon row of brilliantly hued silk, Alice was right—ever since I had designed and created a frothy, floating gown for Lady Viola Snowmont, crafted of finest voile and deftly gathered into a full bust and sleeves, our shop had been swamped with orders for similar pieces. The daring design had turned the tide for our shop; for one, only about a third of these fashion-forward women even requested my signature charms stitched into the hems and tucks of their chemise gowns.

  “Fair enough—cottons first. Then silks.” My conspiratorial grin coaxed a smile from practical Alice. The promise of silk was hard to resist, even for Alice.

  “Poor Emmi,” Alice said. Our newest hire was relegated to minding the shop and finishing some hems.

  “Should I have brought Emmi instead?” I teased.

  “No, of course not,” Alice replied. “After all, I’ll be managing the inventory, so I should learn the purchasing process. And, well, silk.” She finally cracked a grin, and I laughed. “Have you considered hiring another assistant?”

  I sighed, sobered even as we passed a stall crammed with beautiful brocades. “I have. I’m just not sure—this could be a temporary uptick, and I would hate to fire someone a couple months after hiring her.”

  “If I may, most out-of-work seamstresses would prefer a couple of months to nothing,” Alice said. “And there are plenty of out-of-work seamstresses.”

  Alice wasn’t wrong—caution had followed the failed revolt at Midwinter, with some nobles leaving the city early for their summer estates, stalling building projects and limiting spending even from the city’s most confident consumers. Another side effect, I thought ruefully, that my brother and his coconspirators would never have guessed. My shop was unusually busy compared to my neighbors, and I had only the connections with Lady Snowmont’s set to thank for that.

  “Wise counsel. And this is why you’ll make an excellent shop owner someday.” Once the Reform Bill that Theodor had been drafting since the Midwinter Revolt passed, starting a business would be simpler, unimpeded by the archaic legal thorns that currently snagged every step of the process. I was sure Alice would leave me someday for an atelier of her own.

  “Cottons—here we are.” I passed several booths of less finely woven good
s before finding the one I was looking for. I fingered the crisp edges of muslins and the soft drape of voiles. The merchant, a slight man from the Allied Equatorial States, hovered just inside a comfortable radius. Alice followed me like a puppy, waiting to note which selections I made.

  “Do you like the voiles?” The merchant edged closer. “I have another five bolts just like that one—and this one is particularly fine,” he said, producing a lighter weight cotton.

  “No, this weight is better—don’t you think, Alice?”

  She nodded. “Too light and you’d see their underthings,” she said. The merchant cocked his head, confused.

  “Alice, that’s brilliant! Imagine one of those gowns—with a bright pink sash—or deep blue—and an underpetticoat, matching. It would show through, just faintly.”

  “But—you’d see their underthings,” she protested even as she yielded and handed me the lightest weight bolt to test the drape.

  I bought two bolts of the lightest weight and three of the more substantial voile. Alice was right—the concept was daring. But I was sure some of Lady Snowmont’s set would be delighted with the idea. The merchant promised delivery within the hour. I knew it was more likely to be three, as his helper—probably one of his sons—attempted to navigate the side streets and alleys of sprawling Galitha City.

  We stopped at one of my favorite silk merchants next. Over the years, I had made the West Serafan woman several health charms and she had always saved the best of her wares for me. As usual, Aioma was effluent in her enthusiasm when I entered her stall.

  “Miss Sophie!” She bowed, which made me blush, even though I knew that deference to a guest was proper courtesy to Serafans. “I feel more alive, more full of health than when I made your acquaintance three years ago. I will dance at my daughter’s sheen-ata night this year!”

  “Oh—I—very good,” I said, unsure what she meant.

  “It is a tradition for wedding celebrations.” She laughed. “The women dance all night long before the bride and groom are joined. I will dance, thanks to your charms!”

  I smiled awkwardly, and her gangly teenage son brought several bolts of fabric from under a table.

  They were exquisite. I traced the lines of an intricate brocade, gold and pink and yellow on pale ivory, imagining the court gown it could make. A brilliant green was almost too bright to look at, but I thought of the silk-covered hat or pert caraco jacket it would make and grinned. And a pale, almost foamy blue organza seemed to float off its bolt.

  “All of it,” I whispered.

  Aioma insisted that we join her family for the midday meal. Alice gratefully accepted a mug of cold tea, and though I wasn’t familiar with the lettuce-wrapped meatballs and milky sauce Aioma served me, I enjoyed my lunch thoroughly.

  We were halfway to the wool merchants before I remembered that I had wanted some fine book muslin for kerchiefs. The sun was hot, stronger than usual for early summer, and Alice was already wilting a bit, perspiration glistening at her hairline. “Why don’t you take a rest in the shade, and I’ll go find the muslin.” She agreed happily.

  The square was growing more crowded. A pair of jugglers tossed slim orange rings to one another near the fountain, and strawberry sellers jockeyed for the best corners to hawk their wares. The Silk Fair pulled plenty of people, not only shop owners and seamstresses, from their everyday work into the center of Galitha City. The rich excess of fabrics, the brightly colored Serafan tents, the Kvys wool merchants who traveled with painted sheep—all a spectacle that any Galatine could enjoy.

  I stopped between stalls of near-gaudy printed cottons and sturdy woven checked linen. One bolt caught my eye, a blue-and-white windowpane check that looked just like one of my brother’s shirts. I took an edge between thumb and forefinger; it was good-quality linen, but nothing special, nothing I couldn’t buy anytime. The indigo-blue crosshatches were common on working men’s shirts and women’s kitchen aprons, garments I didn’t make. Still, I smoothed the folded edge of the linen back onto the bolt with a gentle hand.

  “Not really your specialty, is it?” The voice, too close to me and unsettling in its familiarity, made me jump.

  Niko Otni leaned against a crate of osnaburg, flipping the frayed edge of the undyed, coarse linen between two fingers. My eyes widened, but I recovered my composure quickly. Despite his vocal disdain for me and his willingness to torch Galitha City to further the Red Cap goals, Niko couldn’t hurt me here. Especially given that he was, technically, still wanted for his participation in the violent insurrection and regicide.

  “No, it isn’t,” I replied, forcing a level tone and sounding more prim than I intended. “Though fabric, on the whole, isn’t really your specialty, either.”

  He cracked a smile. “I’m not exactly sharp with a needle,” he conceded. I could see why my brother had liked Niko; they shared a quick wit and I could sense bright good humor buried underneath Niko’s sharp tongue. Yet there was something unsafe about him, even now, under a blanching summer sun, a lack of compassion and an unrestrained motivation. If my brother was the pen of the revolution, Niko had been the blade. “But I’m not here for silk.”

  I considered him as he fell into step beside me, his unbleached linen trousers and a short linen jacket left open over what had to have been his best shirt, with a finer-than-average ruffle at the opening. “If you wanted to have a chat, Mr. Otni, you could have dropped by my atelier.”

  His smile faltered, slightly. “You know I couldn’t. I can’t exactly run around the commercial district making social calls. Still a wanted man, aren’t I?”

  “I suppose the pardon did exclude the leadership of the revolt, yes.”

  “It certainly did. They’ve been rather half-hearted about actually hunting us down, but the likes of me, trotting into your pretty shop?” He shook his head with a scolding cluck. “Noticeable. Reportable. Here? Half of Galitha City is here.” He shrugged as we passed a clutch of dockworkers buying strawberries from a round-cheeked country girl with bare feet. “And here I blend in. These blokes aren’t likely to turn me in even if they do recognize me,” he added, nodding toward a trio of men in patched trousers who laughed at a trained monkey fleecing the pockets of a fourth unfortunate man. The monkey’s keeper, in bright harlequin costume, met Niko’s eyes and bowed subtly.

  “Fine.” I was losing my patience. The last person I wanted to see was Niko Otni, and the last thing I wanted to do was engage in a prolonged conversation with him. “You wanted something?”

  “I think we both want something,” he answered. The smile faded, replaced with urgent gravity. “We want those reforms passed.”

  “Of course we do.” I sighed, annoyed. “We all do. If you hunted me down just for that, you’ve wasted your time.”

  “I wouldn’t say we all do.” Niko caught my arm and drew me into the shade of a sprawling flaxwood poplar, its seeds in their tow-colored tufts drifting past us on the faint breeze. “Plenty of voting members of the Council of Nobles don’t want reform, do they? Things are too nice for them just the way they are. And sure as shit they’ll vote against the reforms your prince is pushing.”

  “Yes,” I replied carefully. I didn’t know every vote on the council, but many were vocally opposed to the reforms that had already been months in the drafting. “But I don’t vote, remember?”

  “You talk to plenty of people who do,” Niko said. I assessed him, his best shirt starched at the collar, his hair clubbed carefully under a weather-beaten cocked hat that he pulled off in an awkward, earnest gesture. “This vote has to pass, or there will be another uprising.”

  “You don’t have to threaten—”

  “I’m not making threats.” He slapped the hat against his leg. “I’m just—I’m telling you. Drop the prissy act, will you?” He sighed. “At this point, you’re the closest thing to an ally in high places those of us still slogging through day wages have.”

  “Believe me, Theo—Prince Theodor is taking all of this into cons
ideration, and his small council will bring the Reform Bill to the Council of Nobles within the fortnight.”

  “And if it doesn’t pass, what happens?”

  I hesitated. The revolt had failed at Midwinter, but another uprising would be better thought out, less incumbent upon a single man’s plan, and fueled by what could only be seen as an utter failure by their own government. The people had risen up once, and their anger still simmered, ready and willing to boil over again. “I know,” I replied softly. “More blood.”

  “Not just another revolt. A real revolution, fully organized and unwilling to yield. If they allow you to try this your way, with politics, and you fail them?” He shook his head with a low whistle.

  “The price of failing will be unimaginable.”

  “But the future doesn’t have to cost blood,” Niko said, earnest belief in the words.

  A lump formed in my throat, awkward to talk around as I tried to ignore it. “That sounds like one of Kristos’s catchphrases.”

  “It is. It’s new,” Niko said.

  “You—is he here?” Panic pressed against the lump and made my voice catch. “He can’t—they might not catch you, Niko, but he’s not—”

  “Calm down, and maybe don’t use my name.” Niko’s dark eyes narrowed.

  I met them, stony and unflinching. “You don’t get to tell me to be calm, not about this. Tell me. My brother.”

  “I’ve been keeping him informed of the situation here, and he’s been writing. I found a new printer and of course we still have our old distribution channels. No, I won’t tell you how or where or what his address is.”

  “I wouldn’t ask,” I retorted.

  “But it brings me to the point, Sophie. We’re working, on our end, to make promises that we can’t keep alone. Your brother’s writing is encouraging the people to hold fast and wait for the Reform Bill. That it’s enough. That they don’t need to riot or burn anything down.” He smirked. “I’m guessing you have no idea how many times I’ve told Red Caps down at the Rose and Fir to put the pitchforks away and wait. But they need to get something worth waiting for.”

  “I agree completely,” I said. A tuft of flaxwood seeds settled on Niko’s shoulder. I resisted the impulse to pluck it off.