Of the Divine

by Amelia Atwater-Rhodes

  As Dahlia murmured her last goodbyes, Verte stepped back to give her privacy and to plan his next words. When Dahlia took her leave of the younger girl and approached him, her back was straight, her eyes were dry, and her expression was set in lines of determination. No weeping for her, at least not here, not now. Instead, she led the way back toward the market square and the palace with long, confident steps. Tealyn, apparently comfortable that Dahlia wasn’t a threat, dropped discreetly behind, though the fury at what she had seen and heard remained on her face.

  Apologies and explanations wouldn’t be sufficient. Verte said, “This rift between you and your guardians is my fault. I will see that you are taken care of.”

  Dahlia looked at him sharply, and Verte realized his words had been badly spoken. He had meant that he would ensure she had a place to stay and resources to get back on her feet, but Dahlia Indathrone clearly wasn’t a woman who wanted anyone to “take care” of her.

  “I would appreciate your help, but only until I can find my own way,” she replied, flawlessly polite. “I have job prospects.”

  He didn’t want to upset her more, but she needed to be honest about her situation.

  “I doubt that,” he said, as gently as he could. “I suspect most places you’ve applied have rejected you the moment you told them where you were living, or where you received your education. You would have had more luck at Quin-owned establishments, but if Celadon speaks against you, they will not hire you, either.”

  “I am not sure whether I’m meant to be impressed that you are aware of the bald discrimination Quin face in your city,” Dahlia bit out, “or horrified that you are so aware, and yet do nothing to alleviate the situation.”

  She was three steps ahead of him before she seemed to realize that he had stopped, shocked by her blunt, accusing words.

  She turned, for the first time appearing chagrined. “I apologize,” she said, ducking her head. “I spoke with no regard to your station, or the kindness you have offered. I have very little reliable information about any measures you have taken to ensure equality in this city or the rest of Kavet. I have only ever heard these topics discussed by people like Celadon or my father, who I now know will speak badly of you no matter what you do.”

  The apology did not make him feel better, because in truth Verte had done very little to address the issue of which she spoke. But what was the royal house supposed to do? Force people to employ zealots, who often caused trouble with customers or refused to carry out the portions of their jobs that forced them into contact with sorcery?

  This was not the time to debate the issue. Verte started walking again, and attempted to change the subject.

  “I had heard,” he said, attempting to put levity into his voice, “that Quin girls were taught to be meek and placid and defer to the men in their lives. You don’t fit that expectation.”

  Dahlia tossed her head. When she replied, it was in the modulated tone of a teacher. “A Quin lady is polite, not meek. She thinks before she speaks or acts, considers consequences, and accepts advice, but that does not mean she has no voice or autonomy. She is expected to respect the leadership of her father, her community leaders, and her husband when she has one—but that does not mean she must tolerate abuse. The moment Celadon slandered me and raised his voice and hand against me, he lost all right to my respect.”

  You need to . . . to keep her, teach her . . . protect her, Henna had said.

  Oh, Henna, who is this woman you have put into my path?

  Chapter 12

  Dahlia

  “Thank you. I’ll be fine.” Dahlia kept her head up and her tone modulated as the stout, gray-haired woman who had guided her to one of the many guest chambers nodded politely.

  “Very well,” Sepia said. “I will assign a maid to assist you from now on. If you need anything, simply ring, and she will attend you promptly.” Sepia gestured toward an ornate silver bell set on a small, velvet-topped table by the door. It was smaller than a duck egg, and couldn’t possibly make much sound, which meant it was probably enchanted somehow.

  As soon as Sepia closed the door behind herself, Dahlia felt her knees give out and she slid to the floor. All other contemplation abruptly broke off in favor of the single, overwhelming thought, What have I done?

  It was all well and good to tell Celadon to take his judgmental words and accusations to the Abyss and storm off, but what now?

  The Terre was right. If Celadon spoke against her—and she had no doubt that he would—she would never be able to find employment in any of the few Quin establishments in the city, and she had already learned that the non-Quin ones were unlikely to hire her.

  She looked around the luxurious guest room. Rooms. She was in a parlor larger than the kitchen at home. It had its own fireplace, currently unlit, ringed with marble so polished it looked like it had never seen a flake of ash. The floor was nominally stone, but covered with such a plush, luxuriously woven rug it might as well have been made of feathers. What was Dahlia doing in such a place?

  What if Celadon was right?

  No. She didn’t believe that. Yes, she knew Terre Verte’s reputation, but the same rumors made it clear he had no need to take advantage of the idiotic country fool Celadon clearly thought Dahlia was. The prince had plenty of beautiful and powerful women available to him.

  So why am I here?

  She was still on the floor when there was a polite knock on the door, and a maid brought a compress for Dahlia’s cheek. It hadn’t occurred to Dahlia to ask for one, which meant the bruising and swelling must be obvious enough that Sepia had seen it and taken the initiative.

  Dahlia thanked the maid, who curtsied and backed out of the room as Dahlia probed the tender area below her left eye. At some point in their argument, Celadon had grabbed her wrist as if to drag her physically out of the house; pulled along, stumbling, she had tripped over a bag of candles Ginger had left in the hall and slammed her face into the doorpost. The asinine look on Celadon’s face as he attempted to apologize had infuriated Dahlia so much she had responded with a slap so hard it was probably closer to a punch, a level of violence she hadn’t known was inside her.

  She set her jaw as she put the compress to her cheek, wondering how bad the bruising would be by the time Festival rolled around, and whether she should ask Sepia for some cosmetics to try to hide it. At that moment, it seemed more satisfying to brazenly display the injury and tell the world how it had happened.

  But if she attended Festival with Terre Verte, she would be representing the Followers of the Quinacridone not only to the royal family but also to the visiting nobles from Silmat and Tamar. She would not allow the evening to focus on one awful, hypocritical example of a preacher, when the movement as a whole was still dear to her. She had to represent herself, and Eiderlee, and the Indathrone family, and the rest of the Quin community—who would have condemned Celadon for resorting to violence at all.

  That meant Dahlia needed to get up, gather her composure, and figure out how to make it through the day and evening without shaming herself.

  She would have liked something to write on and with while she organized her thoughts, but wasn’t so desperate for it that she wanted to bother the servants. Instead she stood and paced, as if she were standing in front of a class teaching, and considered aloud what she needed to do next.

  “I need to ask about etiquette. Greetings, introductions, titles,” she ticked off, thinking of the trouble she had already had when introduced to the prince. Dear Numen, she would be meeting the Terre and Terra, wouldn’t she? Almost certainly.

  Her mouth was dry. Thankfully Sepia had left a decanter of cool water and a clean glass. Dahlia put the compress down to pour, and only then realized her face no longer hurt. She touched where the injury had been, but the swelling and tenderness were completely gone.

  I should also find a polite way to ask the staff here to warn me if they have just handed me something magic, she thought, putting the compress down and
examining it with a grimace. There was nothing on the cool, cotton-swaddled compress to indicate it had been made with sorcery, but simple ice would not have healed her so perfectly. She wouldn’t necessarily have refused the aid if she had known, but she didn’t like the precedent it set that she hadn’t been warned.

  “Talk to Sepia if you get a chance,” she added to her verbal list, trying to refocus herself. She continued making her list, and by the time she had eaten breakfast and the Terre had returned, she had a bevvy of questions ready. They were her armor, her preparation for battle against a future that was suddenly unsure.

  Verte, as he insisted she should call him, answered each one thoughtfully and patiently, only occasionally displaying amusement or chagrin.

  “I’m still not sure I understand why you need me at all,” she said, after Verte had reviewed the situation with her.

  Terre Verte nodded, with a smile that was clearly forced. “The why is complicated,” he said. “Among the Osei, a son has no status. He is a political nonentity until a queen claims him. For me to have a right to be in the room and at the bargaining table, I need a woman by my side.”

  “And I’m all you could get.” Dahlia didn’t believe that for a moment, and knew her skepticism was audible.

  Verte shrugged. “Henna’s right. If I can’t have her here, I would rather be able to focus on my task with the Osei and spend my free time tonight speaking with you and trying to get a better grasp of the conflict with the Quin than politely flirting and trying to avoid giving the wrong impression to a woman who might think I’m offering her a chance at the throne.”

  Dahlia considered asking again why he couldn’t have Henna there, but he had avoided the question earlier. He also avoided acknowledging that the idea had clearly been Henna’s in the first place.

  “Do you have any questions about the etiquette regarding the Osei?” Verte asked, moving on. “That part is critical.”

  That part was simple. Dahlia summarized what he had told her. “I only speak to the Osei queen. I do not approach any of the princes, make eye contact with them, or pay attention to them. I treat your father—” she managed to refer to the king of Kavet with only a slight tightening of her voice “—in the same manner, as the Osei will see him as belonging to the Terra. All the other men at the event will be unattached and therefore it is not a problem if I speak to them.”

  Not just one seamstress but a team of men and women interrupted at that point, bustling in to measure Dahlia and present her with an assortment of finished and half-finished gowns they promised could be ready in a few hours. Terre Verte took his leave then, but Sepia returned to answer the seamstress’s questions about cut and color.

  Dahlia stood mutely though the process, thinking wryly, this is what my tax dollars go to, is it? She understood that she would be with the prince, representing Kavet, and that called for a certain level of formality in dress, but the casual assumption of power and wealth still dizzied her, highlighting the gap between her life and Terre Verte’s. And as she considered different views, she thought of her parents, and how they would react if Celadon wrote to them about the morning’s events before she had a chance.

  “Do I have time to send a letter?” she asked Sepia, pulling the head servant aside as soon as the seamstresses were gone.

  “Yes, you should have a few hours before you are expected to appear with the Terre. Would you like me to send a secretary?”

  “No, thank you. If I have that much time, I’ll go to the stationer myself.” She wanted to do this on her own, and she wanted to get out of the palace for a while, and be away from all the unfamiliar finery. “If that’s all right?”

  “You are a guest, not a prisoner,” Sepia reminded her. “You are free to go where you like. Do you need directions?”

  “No, thank you,” Dahlia said again. She had visited a stationer not far from the palace the day before, hoping for work, though a surly apprentice had sent her away the moment she asked about job possibilities.

  As she passed through the crowded market, she caught a glimpse of Celadon surrounded by about a dozen other men and women and her breath hitched. Compared to the bright costumes of the merchants and decorators, the small Quin group appeared cold and severe.

  Dahlia hurried on, hoping not to be seen.

  “Someone chasing you?” the stationer asked as she stepped into his small shop too quickly. He moved up to peer out the window, then shook his head. “Cremnitz and his band give you the shivers?”

  “A little,” she admitted. “I need to write a letter to my father, and have it delivered to Eiderlee as soon as possible?”

  “Here to Eiderlee takes four or five days,” he told her. “But it being the Apple Blossom Festival, the post won’t leave until tomorrow morning.” He frowned, studying her face. “Did you try to send this yesterday? I saw you talking to my apprentice Grayson, but you left in a hurry. I hope he wasn’t rude to you.”

  “Not overly,” Dahlia said, distracted. Celadon wouldn’t be able to get a letter out any sooner, so the delay shouldn’t matter. “He was busy, and I wasn’t here as a customer. If I purchase paper and ink, do you mind if I write the letter here?”

  “That’s fine. Just give me a minute to tidy up, then I’ll help you find your materials. I had a young man in here having some trouble with a love-letter,” he confided. “I had to pull everything out before he found something he liked.”

  He started ruffling papers together, and Dahlia drew a deep, calming breath. The familiar scents of paper and ink made her eyes sting with tears, which she quickly blinked back before the stationer could notice. This was her world—not palaces and magic and royal balls.

  Hoping to hide her moment of sentiment Dahlia reached forward to help, tidying stacks of delicate flower-petal sheets, linen, and small bottles of inks and perfumes. “Looks like he had quite a time of it,” she observed inanely. “Is Grayson not here to help you today?”

  The man let out a bitter laugh. “On a festival day?” he asked incredulously. “He was supposed to come in to prepare inks this morning before I let him off for the afternoon, but I suppose the lure of the day was too much for him.”

  As the shopkeeper carefully wrapped the flower sheets to protect their delicate edges, Dahlia found a stack of what felt like good-quality cotton-blend correspondence paper.

  “May I use this?” she asked.

  The money in her pocket was all she had to her name at the moment, but the penny or two she might save by using cheaper paper wasn’t worth it. This letter was too important. She wouldn’t risk having her explanation to her father arrive smeared and wrinkled due to cheap stock.

  “Help yourself to whatever you need. I’ll put the rest of this away, then tally your items.”

  Dahlia took a sheet of paper, then located what seemed to be an acceptable, basic ink, and a glass pen with a simple, elegant shape that fit nicely in her hand.

  Careful not to splash the ink, she described the morning’s events, what had led up to them, and the decision she had made. She did not include specifics of the insults Celadon had thrown at her, only that he had shown no respect or trust in her character or her integrity. When she tried to describe the way Celadon had dragged her down the hall, her hand shook and she had to pause.

  Blue eyes wide and face flushed, Celadon had shouted his attempted apology at her in the same volume as his accusations, including a denial she would have accepted from a three-year-old—“I didn’t mean to!”—but which was despicable coming from a grown man. He might not have deliberately slammed her into the wall, but it wouldn’t have happened if he hadn’t violently put his hands on her in the first place.

  She had said enough. Let Celadon mention her “accident” and try to explain it away in his letter. Dahlia’s parents weren’t stupid, and they knew Dahlia wasn’t, either.

  I hope I can still make you proud, she concluded, blinking to hide tears from the shopkeeper, who was watching her write. I will let you know when I am
settled. Love, your daughter, Dahlia.

  She capped the bottle again, then blotted the letter dry.

  “Eiderlee, you said?” the shopkeeper asked as she sealed the letter, and wrote her father’s name on the outside.

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll see the courier gets it in the morning.” He placed the letter carefully with several others. “You have a very clear hand, Miss Indathrone.”

  “Thank you.” Her eyes lingered on the letter. Altering those words would not change recent events, but even so, she was seized by the desire to strike out what she had written, to undo it all.

  “And you seem to know your way around a shop like this,” the shopkeeper added.

  “I’ve never needed to use one before coming to the city,” she admitted. “My father has always kept writing tools in the house.”

  “He taught you about papers and inks?”

  “Yes.” Her throat was tight as she imagined the hours she had spent at her father’s knee, learning these skills. He wouldn’t believe Celadon. He couldn’t. “He—” She stopped. She had been answering the questions out of habitual courtesy, and only now broke from her own thoughts to realize they didn’t sound like idle conversation. “Yes, sir.” She continued, “He believes it is important to know how to communicate, which includes undersanding which papers or inks are more likely to bleed, and which are better suited for casual notes versus those for public record.”

  “It sounds like he raised you to be a scribe.”

  She paused to consider her answer. A lie would probably serve her better, and now that she wasn’t staying at the Cremnitz household, she wouldn’t have her current address to betray her. Still, her tongue told the truth, as it always had. “He had hoped I would join the Quinacridone Order of monks,” she said.