by Sara Wolf
Still the d’Malvane siblings stare at each other, like two street cats posturing defiantly against each other. Finally Lucien breaks off, walking out of the room with clipped strides. He passes just shy of touching me on the couch, and I linger weakly in the clearwater smell of him. I’m almost weak enough not to notice the scent of white mercury following it. Almost. Has he been hanging around polymaths often or something?
When the click of his boots on the marble fades, I look to Varia. “Is everything okay?”
Varia turns back to her makeup boudoir calmly. “You were outside the door. You tell me.”
I scoff. “Do you always know where I am?”
“I know where you are the way I know where my own foot is.” Varia picks up a wax-pencil, drawing careful lines on her cheeks.
“What, so I can’t even play hide-and-seek with you? Boo.” I blow hair out of my eyes. “I’ve suddenly decided magic is cheating.”
“You and Gavik have been speaking with each other, haven’t you?”
My spine goes stiff. If she can tell where her Heartless are at all times, then there’s no use denying it.
“We ran into each other and decided to get tea together,” I say.
Varia doesn’t respond, applying her makeup with precision and focus, but even through the strokes, I can see the way her hand trembles. She’s going to die. She’s going to sacrifice herself to stop this war. That’s all I can think. There’s a grand ball gown on her dressing mannequin, a deep crimson with silver stars embroidered into the bust and skirt. There must be some banquet tonight, but the idea of banquets rings hollowly in what I know she plans to do.
She speaks eventually. “I want you gone as soon as possible, Zera.”
the longer you linger, the hunger lilts, the more he risks.
The coldness with which she says it is like the deepest winter ice. I shiver, once, and breathe in to steady myself. I laugh and take a swig of wine.
“This is why I’ve stuck with you, my dearest princess. Partly because I have no conceivable choice in the matter, but mostly because you and I are written on the same page of the same bad book about terrible people.”
17
Moonskemp
I was wrong.
I know, shocking. Me, of all people on the two gods’ green Arathess, wrong? But I am—it isn’t a banquet Varia is getting ready for tonight. It’s Moonskemp.
I’d almost forgotten about Moonskemp with all the valkerax and Lucien feelings and war preparations going on. Moonskemp comes the week after Verdance Day. Verdance Day marks the changing of seasons, but Moonskemp marks the mythological day in which long ago the Old God sundered the too-bright single moon—which allowed no one on Arathess to sleep—into three moons. Vetris, of course, has modified the story, in that they celebrate the New God sundering the moons.
I’d been so busy worrying in the carriage this morning that I hadn’t given any thought to the garlands of pale yellow moonflowers being hung about in the city or to the dishes of red-and-blue-dyed sea salt left out on the doorsteps. Usually there’s a midnight feast of thin buckwheat pancakes in which fresh summer fruits and vegetables are wrapped, and a roast red-tailed duck to signify a change for the better, but with the war enacted and rationing already in effect, the only people who can conceivably indulge in the traditional duck are, of course, the nobles.
The maids who help Varia dress won’t stop chattering about the “dance” tonight, a Moonskemp dance in the grand ballroom. Apparently the nobles are intent on making this last holiday before the breakout of the war a decadent one.
Varia dons her dress—quiet the entire time—and leaves around sunset, dripping clear quartz jewels and leaving me to the empty apartments. I flit my fingers over her boudoir, where a strange bracelet and earrings lie—made entirely of ivory of some kind, carved with flowers and vines. Varia obviously chose the quartz gems over this pair.
Feelings aren’t jewelry. But neither are they scars. They aren’t fleeting, but neither are they permanent. I think of Y’shennria, of the scars on her neck, and then of her gentle smile at me.
Even scars can fade.
I still feel terrible about being so cruel to Fione, and Lucien’s anger toward his sister because of me pushes the guilt down my throat even more. They’re going to be at the dance—they have to be, as Firstblood nobles. As an Y’shennria, I suppose I should be there, too. I pull out the last dress left to me from Varia’s old things—a soft cream one of flax and lace. I catch my reflection in the boudoir mirror: thin dark circles, thinner lips. What does Lucien see in me? Is there anything in me worth more than standing against his beloved sister? Is there a light in the world strong enough to shine through the dark things I’ve done?
I don’t know. I wish I knew, but these questions just hang, invisible, with no answer.
you will never have an answer. The hunger laughs. all you have is me.
I touch the ivory jewelry, slowly pulling the bracelet on and clipping the earrings in.
Nobles meander the halls on their way to the ballroom, and a familiar gentle voice breaks through the sparse crowd. “Lady Zera!”
I turn to see Lady Tarroux running toward me, out of breath but dazzling in a cool pink dress with a layered skirt, the shape emulating a rosebud just opening. Nobles murmur as she passes—running won’t do for a lady. But now more than ever, she doesn’t seem to care.
“Lady Tarroux.” I make a bow. “You look as if a groundskeeper just picked you fresh from a bush!”
She blushes pink enough to match her dress and offers me her arm. “Thank you. Will you walk with me?”
It’s a gesture so reminiscent of Fione, of the way she and I walked in the garden, that it makes my unheart sing with longing. If only she were Fione. If only she knew what I really was, she would be so afraid of me, just like Fione. Softly, I take her arm, and together we make our way to the dance.
“Out of curiosity and admiration,” I start, “I’ve heard running is good for you, but I’ve also heard the other nobles hate it.”
“Oh.” She waves her hand dismissively. “I am not overly concerned about what they think.”
This time I do laugh, and she blinks.
“Is something funny?”
“Sorry. I just spent two very exhausting weeks training to be extremely concerned with what the other nobles thought of me, so to hear you put it like that…it’s a bit like hearing a celeon say they can’t grow hair.”
It’s Lady Tarroux’s turn to laugh. “Forgive me, but that’s because you’re a Firstblood. How you conduct yourself is your social currency. But mine is, well, currency.”
It hits me then. “The war! Your father is funding a good amount of it, which means—” I smirk at her. “You’re the only one of us in the palace who can do whatever she wants.”
She becomes hesitant, lowering her lashes. “I would never do irresponsible things in the eyes of Kavar, but yes. Before the declaration of war, my father was funding Archduke Gavik’s white mercury research. So I’ve never had to concern myself overly much with public opinion.”
“Well.” I sigh. “That’ll make being queen a wee bit harder for you, won’t it?”
She stumbles in her pale pink shoes. “Q-Queen? What are you saying, Lady Zera?”
I chuckle and pull her by the arm playfully. “Come on. There’s dancing to be done.”
The Moonskemp ball is by no means a banquet—there’s much less decorum to it. No one is announced as they walk in. The grand ballroom is less extravagant than the banquet hall, smaller and yet just as packed with nobles. Moonskemp forbids the use of any light except for candles, colored with blue and red flames thanks to polymath powders, so the usual brightness of the oil and white mercury lamps is absent. Thousands of ruby- and sapphire-flamed candles drip and flicker on top of columns, tables, and statues, like thousands of miniature moons—th
e Blue Giant and Red Twins. A balcony stretches out beyond a wall of opened glass doors, the banister lined with melting candles. The ball is in full swing by the time I arrive, the scents of perfumes and wine heavy on the air.
I lean in to whisper in Lady Tarroux’s ear. “Y’shennria always taught me nobles do their best to remain reasonably sober during parties, but this is clearly an exception.”
She nods, her cinnamon eyes wide. Whether it’s the stress of the war or something else, a number of nobles are staggering around, sloshing their drinks and laughing far louder than is acceptable. I watch a noblewoman lean too far over some candles, and she shrieks as blue fire catches to her silk collar. She beats it out with her kerchief, laughing.
King Sref and Queen Kolissa are with Varia and Lucien, of course, glowing with pride and gathered with the ministers and a few other Goldblood nobles near the punch table. There’s a very good-looking Goldblood nobleman, and the queen seems intent on getting him and Varia to talk. I can’t see Fione, but I’m certain she can’t be happy about it. And Varia knows better than to let her displeasure show on her face. She smiles affably, but behind her smiling gaze I see daggers.
I watch my witch converse with her parents, her smile strained. She won’t tell them she’s a witch, and apparently she won’t tell them she’s in a relationship with Fione, either. They haven’t exactly been quiet about their relationship—the guards ordered to follow Varia around by King Sref no doubt have talked at some point—so I’m sure there are rumors I haven’t heard yet. But knowing how much noise was made around the Spring Brides and me for Lucien, I have no doubt the crown princess’s match will be enforced and celebrated in equal measure by her parents.
Unless, of course, she surfaces with an army of valkerax. With that much power, no one would dare tell her who to marry ever again.
But she would be dead soon after, wouldn’t she? A year? Maybe two? If Varia gets the Bone Tree, any marriage to Fione wouldn’t last forever, and that shreds my lungs like broken glass.
Lucien stands beside his parents, dressed in something bloodred, but my eyes skitter over him guiltily. He talks to the king and queen, but he won’t engage in small talk with Varia. He won’t even look her way. Because of me.
My guilt is short-lived as Lady Tarroux’s father—a tall man with a bright blond mustache—waves at her from the refreshment table, and she waves back.
“I’m jealous,” I admit. “I’m an orphan, so I can’t remember my father.”
“Oh.” Tarroux’s face falls. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It happened a long time ago.” I smile. “Are you on good terms with him?”
She sighs. “Usually, yes. But lately…” She shoots me a look. “I’m sorry. You probably don’t want to hear me complain.”
“Are you kidding? I complain all the time to anyone who’ll listen. The least I can do is give back. I promise—your secrets are safe with me.”
“It’s…it’s not really a secret,” she corrects. “It’s just… Father is afraid of the war. He wants to move the two of us back to Helkyris before it fully breaks out.”
My unheart sinks. If she moves, my plan to push her closer to Lucien will fail. The tenuous threads that are reaching out to bind them will be cut clean.
“Do you want to move?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Absolutely not. The temple is here and there are”—her eyes skirt over to Lucien’s frame and soften—“people whom I care for.”
I laugh a little under my breath. She practically has stars in her eyes over him.
“I hope you stay,” I say, nudging her knowingly. “I think you two would make a very cute couple.”
The words burn coming out, but some part of me knows they’re sincere. I want Lucien to have a peaceful, normal life, with a peaceful, normal girl. Tarroux just stares wistfully at Lucien. Finally, her father motions at her from the refreshment table, and she bids me a shy farewell and trots over.
I let out a hard, small breath. There’s a full musical stand in the corner, firehorns and windlutes chiming prettily into the dim room. The song changes to something more upbeat, easing a fraction of the tension in my chest, and suddenly the drunken nobles are clamoring to pair off and crowd the dance floor. I watch them twirl like colorful flowers over the marble, their loveliness eclipsed by the fact the open balcony shows the lights of Vetris below, and the thousands of crowded fires beyond the wall where the army sleeps.
Still, the smoke of the wartime forest razings lingers in the night sky.
“Lady Zera?”
I look up to see none other than Fione. She looks pensive but beautiful in a gray organza gown that makes her blue eyes seem more silver. She isn’t standing close to me, though it’s closer than usual. But that means little.
I smirk at her and nod over to where Varia’s standing. “Ah, parents. They’re truly clueless, aren’t they? Not that I would know. Or remember. But I imagine they can be.”
I don’t expect her to speak to me. After all, I can see her fists tightening in her skirts.
“Your jewelry is very pretty,” Fione offers finally, her words stiff. “It’s valkerax bone, isn’t it?”
I blink. “Is it?”
She nods, holding out her valkerax-headed cane so I can see it clearly beyond her sleeves. “You can tell by the way things look dimmer around it. Valkerax bones suck in light. See?”
I look at my bracelet and her ivory cane—I hadn’t noticed before with so much light around, but with only the candlelight, it’s easy to see the haze of dimness that surrounds the bones, as if the slightest of shadows is hanging over them and only them.
“It’s why the darkness in the pipe the valkerax skeleton was in seemed so oppressive,” Fione says.
“Oh!” I marvel. “I can always count on you to help things make more sense, Your Grace.”
A waiter passes with a tray of fruit, and Fione takes a delicate snowfig and rolls it around in her fingers with all her nervous energy. “Thank you.” She clears her throat after a moment. “For saving me, earlier.”
“Oh, psh.” I wave her off. “Don’t worry about it.”
“I do. I have been. You knew you would stab yourself for touching me,” Fione insists. “But you pushed me out of the way anyway.”
for selfish reasons, the hunger snarls. to assuage your own guilt.
Fione speaks more quietly. “You said our friendship meant nothing. But then you saved me. So what am I supposed to believe now?”
It’s hard to bite my tongue rather than answer her. She can believe whatever she wants. But her beliefs are better off without me in them.
“Oh! Lord Grat.” I bow to the huge noble boy as he passes, his shoulders so broad they barely fit in his coat. He’s the perfect distraction. He was part of the duel nearly two weeks earlier, where he’d promised to win it for me, and he looks no less eager to see me now.
“Lady Zera!” He smiles. “I had no idea you were attending.”
“Neither did I, until a half ago.” I laugh, lacing his arm in mine. “Would you care to dance with me?”
Using Lord Grat as an excuse, I bid farewell to Fione stiffly and head to the dance floor. Lord Grat’s body is so big and distinct, it’s easy to get us space on the dance floor, so the only pair of feet I have to worry about stepping on are his. The music is so loud that it almost drowns out the hunger. It’s like hearing someone shout at me from another room—I know there’s hostility, but I can’t distinguish the exact words.
I haven’t danced since those clumsy lessons in Y’shennria’s manor, with Reginall leading me. But my body remembers slightly better than I do, and soon Lord Grat and I are moving smoothly over the floor.
“I know it’s rude of me.” Lord Grat shoots me a shy smile. “But everyone’s been dying to know…” He trails off, waiting for me to approve, and I nod.
“Ask me anything. As long as it’s not my measurements. I require compensation in the form of massive amounts of gold for those.”
He laughs, twirling me around, and then when I come to face him again, he blurts, “Are you still Prince Lucien’s Spring Bride?”
“Straightforwardness, here in the court? Why, Lord Grat, you must be terribly curious.”
Lord Grat’s cheeks tinge red, and he turns me again. There’s a break in the dance where we have to switch partners with the people diagonal to us, and it comes up just then, so Lord Grat lets me go. I spiral into the arms of another noble, thankful for the time to think of my answer and ready with a disarming smile for the stranger. Until I look up into his face.
Lucien.
He poses a striking figure in a red-breasted coat, his hair slicked back and his high cheekbones on full intimidating display, like two blades jutting out against the darkness. His posture is perfect, his eyes icy in their stillness. He’s beautiful. And I can’t bear to tear my gaze away. No matter how much I know I should, no matter how much I know I need to push him away, I can’t bring myself to.
Neither of us speaks.
His hand rests on the small of my back, feeling as if it’s burning a hole through my dress. Part of me shivers at the feel of our palms pressed together, so close to something like that night at the Hunt in his tent, when he kissed me.
The kiss. Suddenly, it’s all I can think about, my memory throbbing. I know those severe, dour lips that frown at me right now. I know the feel of them, how gentle and intoxicating they are.
“I have a confession,” Lucien says softly, his voice rumbling into my chest.
I compose my face, make it as unaffected as possible as I look up at him. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet, Your Highness. You’ve seen Lady Ania Tarroux around lately, I’m sure—”
