by Tabitha Vale
At their silence, she continued. “I'm a Crown, and that alone should let you know that I am better than all of you Finchies. I don't deserve this kind of torture. This whole Bride career is nonsense and you're all deluding yourselves into thinking you're special. That's pretty much all there is to this job, isn't there? Deluding each other. I'll have no part in it, thanks.”
They were three different shades of surprised. Maydessa, despite her souring expression, seemed to have to have the last word.
“If you're a Bride, you're not a Crown.”
Those words nagged at Braya for the rest of the day. Was that know-nothing-at-all Finch actually right? Out of all the citizens ever born into a Crown family, none had ever been demoted. They had all been given a Crown job. Was she the first? The realization sunk into her like a stone sinking to the bottom of a river.
No. Her mother would change her job tonight. Braya was sure of it. One hundred percent.
~Chapter 3: Moon Tamer~
Braya had stayed away from her Bride Sisters—apparently it was a term they learned during the Orientation speech that was supposed to bond the small groups of girls together—for the rest of the day. After brunch they'd gotten the tour of the grounds, and then they had the first of the Groom Selections, in which they could choose four out of the group of fifty Grooms to date over the course of the next few weeks. If that alone didn't scream true love, Braya didn't know what did. Then dinner had been served, which had been tense among the four girls, and after that had been Move-In.
The girls, save Braya, were ecstatic to be moving into dormitories in the manor—it was a million times nicer than whatever they lived in with their families. Braya had bid farewell to her “Bride Sisters” at that time, told them to live happy, beautiful lives, and left.
Now she was back in her own home, pacing nervously outside the door to her mother's private study. Her aunt Rosamund and two older cousins Seralie and Sasha were already home as well, but Braya didn't want to confront them until she talked to her mother about changing her career. They were all members of important Crown careers. How could she confront them as a Bride?
She'd changed out of her dress and into a long white tank-top, its collar tall and elaborate around her neck. It had two over-sized pockets resting at her hips and a pleated skirt peaking out from under the long shirt. Braya dug her hands into her pockets as she cast frequent glances at the door that kept her mother in privacy.
She was so worried about what she would say first that she didn't notice her brother appear behind her.
“Braya? What's wrong?” Aspen's soft rain-drop voice stopped her in her tracks. She cast him one long glance before resuming her pacing. She hadn't talked to him since her Career Interview, either. She didn't want to tell anyone about the shaming Bride career she'd been stuck with—she wanted to boast about whatever her mother could change it into.
“Oh, nothing,” she said dismissively. Braya didn't know why she did it, since he was always eerily perceptive, but her answer held little conviction.
“Braya...” he moved so that she could see him. “I wanted to know what happened in your Interview. What job did you get? I couldn't find you in the house today, so I assumed you'd already left for your training.”
Braya let out a shaky breath, and folded her arms around her chest. She couldn't lie to him, and she didn't want to, she realized. Braya needed to let the truth out—she needed that release as she waited for her mother to emerge from her study.
“It was a total disaster,” she confessed, slumping over a window sill across the hall. “I swear they must've had some grudge against Mother—even Mother Ophelia mentioned something about a grudge—”
Aspen's brows furrowed. “Mother Ophelia? She was at your Interview?”
Braya nodded. “So was some man. His name was Sir Channing or something. Anyway...”
“They didn't give you what you wanted,” he concluded. She looked up and caught his gaze—his unwavering, magenta gaze—and instantly felt something inside her squirm. He was oddly perceptive for a male, and she'd never realized that before. “That's really peculiar. Why would they do that to you?”
“That's right!” Braya exclaimed. When he said it like that, the rage she'd felt yesterday after receiving the Bride career swept over her anew. “They know who I am! They know Mother is the most powerful person in this whole city. I bet even Mother Ophelia is her puppet. Something weird must be going on...they all knew this was supposed to be a fixed interview. I bet they're trying to pull something over on Mother—well, I'll warn her right away.”
The idea of being able to expose some insidious plot imbued her with courage. No longer would she be traipsing in to complain about being given the wrong career, but to report something potentially harmful to her mother. Yes, Mother would appreciate it, and in return she'd change her career—
Aspen sighed, and it was that very sound, soft as the prattling of rain, that paused her just as her hand hovered over her mother's door to knock. It was enough to extinguish whatever small scraps of courage his words had given her. “Braya, you should be careful not to jump to conclusions. I'm sure it had nothing to do with Charlotte.”
Braya scowled at him. When he referred to their mother by her name, it was easier for her to rebuff him. It was when he became gentle, his spirit chilled like rain-soaked skin, that she felt herself become liquid inside and her cold rebukes would shrink up back inside her and leave a strange sort of pang deep in her chest. That Aspen—the rainy one—always got the best of her. This Aspen—the defiant one—she could treat how she should treat a brother.
“And you should be careful not to call Mother in such an insolent manner,” she snapped back. “So who cares if they really have cooked up a twisted plot against Mother or not? They snubbed me, her daughter, so they should expect punishment, shouldn't they? Those...those evil pricks...making me a Bride—”
She hadn't even realized her slip until Aspen reached over to touch her shoulder. It was a tender brush, barely anything, but it stung her deeply. She jerked away from him. She fixed him with a withering glare, but he didn't shrink back like he should—his magenta eyes were like a stoked fire, crackling and bright. She frowned.
“A Bride, did you say? Braya, that could work to our advantage better than any of the Crown jobs,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.
“What are you talking about?” She hissed, unable to control her irritation. It was seeping through her now, like hot soup, and she hated the feeling.
He cast a glance toward their mother's study and then looked back at her. “Come on, we need to go somewhere else to discuss this.”
Braya didn't want to follow him, didn't want him to think she was listening to him because she was curious. She wasn't curious—just morbidly annoyed. If she didn't shake it before she confronted her mother she feared her abilities of persuasion would be hindered. So she followed him, if only to calm her nerves.
He was a white blur, moving soundlessly. He only ever wore white—always various white sweaters with white pants, but never any other color. It was odd, but she had long stopped questioning him on it.
Their mother's study was on the second floor, and Aspen led them up to the third floor. They headed into the library, where no one usually went except the two of them. It was a modest library—probably only as big as a dining hall—with rounded walls, an indented ceiling, and five tall bookcases lining the center of the room. The walls were covered in bookshelves, too, and small tables with lamps took up most of the rest of the space. It smelt like books—new and old, tight spines and musty pages—and was slightly chillier than the rest of the house.
Braya slumped over in one of the small armchairs and watched warily as Aspen took up the chair across from her. He switched on the lamp on the table between them, its dim glow throwing shadows across his face. His strawberry blond hair looked almost orange and his magenta eyes were alight with eagerness.
“What's this about?” She asked tiredl
y.
“Don't,” he murmured, “pretend like you don't remember what we talked about a couple days ago.” He paused. “Bellamine. The cure.”
Braya bit the inside of her lip. “Yes. None of that really relates to this issue, though. We need to wait until I can talk to Mother and she changes my career. I can't help Bellamine as a Bride.”
Aspen shook his head. “That's not entirely true. There's a woman—Leraphone—oh, have you met her?”
At the mention of Leraphone's name Braya's expression instantly folded into a sneer. “Yeah. You've got to be kidding me. That blue frizz ball who speaks like she's reading a crystal ball? Her voice is creepy.”
Aspen looked slightly amused. “I wouldn't know what she looks like.”
She shot him an accusatory look. “Then how would you know she can give us the cure? She doesn't look like the type of woman to even know what the Tristant disease is. She lives in her own world. I wouldn't doubt she has crystal balls and hides in her room creating magic potions.”
Aspen let out a little laugh, and it made Braya's chest constrict. He didn't laugh very often. “Well, in that case, she sounds like the perfect person, doesn't she?”
Braya shook her head, averting her gaze. She couldn't look at him when he was like this. He was lively, excited. It pained her because it was all wasted on a futile hope. “I still don't see how any of this connects to our problem. I need a Crown job, Aspen. A real job where I can find a real cure for our sister. Asking favors from some weirdo with blue hair...”
“Don't dismiss this plan just yet,” he replied, his tone still feather-soft. “Listen to me. If you had gotten your dream job in the Fair Lady's Court or the Hem Line or even the Handkerchief Society, it would still take you weeks, maybe even months to gain rank. Without rank you can't access the Venus Vault. Even then, most of the Crowns in those jobs still don't ever get within fifty feet of it. Without access to the vault, there is absolutely no cure. The chances of success are extremely low. Bellamine might not have months to wait.”
“And you think I can just go up to this Leraphone woman and ask for a cure?” She nearly shouted. “This cure isn't even supposed to exist. How do you expect this woman will just hand it over?”
Aspen snapped back in his chair, almost like a child who had gotten too close to the edge of a cliff. She could barely see his eyes now, staring hard into his lap, and his hair was a dark shadow outside the lamplight's reach. “You have to trust me. I just...I know. I know this is going to work. I can't tell you why...but you have to trust me.”
Something stirred in her stomach. Braya didn't know if it was distrust or her unwillingness to overlook his strange message, but she didn't like it. If Maydessa were there, she could imagine the girl jumping to her feet and calling him a criminal. Her brother wasn't supposed to have shady connections like this. Then again, could Leraphone of all people be considered shady? It was a thought worth pondering later.
She watched him for a prolonged moment. “I'm sorry, but I can't do that. I'm going to get my job changed.”
She could hear him swallow. He licked his lips, and then said, ghost-light, “And what if she can't? Or won't? Then what?”
“That won't happen—”
“Braya.” His voice was pleading, but it hadn't lost its softness. “Don't be foolish. You never thought in your wildest dreams you would be in this place. You are, though. So just assume anything could go wrong. What will you do to help Bellamine?”
Braya gnashed her teeth together, begrudgingly admitting to herself that he was right. He had her. She hated being talked into a corner. “Fine,” she exhaled sharply. “IF Mother doesn't change my job—unlikely—I'll ask blue frizz for help.”
“You promise?” Aspen had moved back into the ring of light cast by the lamp, and the doubt in his expression was like a mother bird not believing its baby bird when it said it could fly from the nest on its own.
“Yes.”
A moment of silence passed over them. Braya was preoccupied with horrific images of what her life would be like if she stayed as a Bride, and Aspen seemed content for her to finish it.
“Can I...see her? The way you were talking about the disease earlier, you made it sound like it's got worse...” Braya said somberly.
“Yeah. She's just talking less, but that's to be expected. Let's go see her real quick,” Aspen said, rising from his chair. Braya turned the light off and rubbed at the bright colors that sprung up in her vision. She followed her brother's white outline to the side door that led into the next room.
A spiraling staircase twisted beneath them. A large, vaulted room stretched down to the second floor, its walls completely concealed in deep purple drapes. The back wall was a full sheet of sparkling glass, offering a beautiful view of their garden, the neighboring hills, and Sandy River that glittered in the far distance—well, when it was daytime, at least. Now, the lights of the Heart District could be seen bunched together on the horizon like one strip of light.
A grand piano sat in the center of the room, and off to the side, almost directly under the staircase was a large pile of silk pillows. They were lavender in color, with blankets even paler a purple strewn nearby.
Their 12-year-old sister Bellamine was curled up among the island of pillows, her chestnut curls fanned out around her head. Her eyes were closed, her pale skin glowed in the moonlight, and her small body was covered with a blanket.
“Is it smart to wake her? She should get as much sleep as possible,” Braya said uneasily.
Aspen shook his head. “Don't worry. You know how she loves you. The last time you came to talk to her was a few days ago. She's been telling me everyday how she misses you.”
Braya felt her heart thud painfully inside her chest. The last time she had seen Bellamine had been four days ago, and she'd promised the younger girl that she would become a member of the Fair Lady's Court and find her a cure. She hadn't accomplished that yet—maybe she should wait until she was done talking with their mother before they stirred the girl.
Too late. Aspen was already shaking the girl awake. Braya sighed in defeat. She just wouldn't tell Bellamine yet. The girl barely ever spoke—it was part of the disease. Not a lot was known about it, except that it slowly weakened its victims' bodies and stole away their ability to speak. Gradually the person died of it. The oldest person to have ever survived with it was age fifteen. Bellamine didn't have another three years, and they all knew it.
Bellamine's brown eyes fluttered open. It took her a moment to adjust to the moonlight, but once she had blinked a few times her eyes fixed on Braya and the slowest smile crept across her face. She gracefully pulled her blankets back and rose to her feet. Her movements reminded her of a ghost, barely there and so effortless, but those thoughts made Braya feel horrible. How could she think of her dying sister as a ghost of all things?
Braya embraced the young girl. She held her tight for a minute and ran her hands through her tight ringlet curls. Aside from Harmony and Aspen, Braya knew this was the only time anyone showed Bellamine any affection.
“I miss you,” Bellamine uttered, her voice as small as the sound of butterfly wings. Braya didn't even know if that sounded like anything, but it was the same with Bellamine's voice. It was fleeting, and hardly there.
“I missed you, too,” Braya whispered back. She stroked her hair again, and Bellamine stared at her with her big doe eyes. “I'm sorry it took me so long to come see you again. You know how Mother is. I'm just glad Aspen and Harmony take care of you everyday. Are they treating you nicely?”
Bellamine nodded, a cute smile playing across her lips. Braya never knew what she did to deserve Bellamine's infatuation, but she was determined to protect the girl for it.
“I wrote a new song. For you. It's called Begonia,” Bellamine murmured.
Braya didn't question it. Bellamine never had the spare words to explain anything beyond a sentence, so Braya had come to accept whatever Bellamine said without complaint.
&nb
sp; Bellamine moved toward the piano. She was wearing what she always wore—she refused to wear anything new—a cream toned turtle-neck dress. The navy hem with white ruffles matched the long-backed navy sweater she wore over the top. Instead of zipping or buttoning up the front, the sweater had a large open gap where blue ribbons crisscrossed over the exposed cream dress all the way up to her collar. The shoulders were poofy, and the sleeves had cream ribbon crisscrossing up her arms. The thing Braya loved most about it was the matching navy colored cape that draped down to the back of Bellamine's knees.
Bellamine sat at the piano bench and Braya and Aspen moved over to stand in front of the window as they always did when she played for them. Braya watched her younger sister as she prepared—she brushed back her bangs, cracked her knuckles, and shot a timid smile up at them before her expression grew serious.
“Have you heard this new song yet?” Braya whispered to Aspen.
“I haven't.”
So it really was for her. Braya felt a tightening in her chest with the first dramatic note of the song. After a stretched pause the music continued, slow and haunting at first. It grew into something tragic, emotional—high notes retreating from the low notes, all the middle tones creating a melody that Braya felt tangled up in like a thicket of rose bushes.
She let out a long breath. Her eyes fluttered shut, and for a moment she just listened. If there was one thing her mother had done right in regards to Bellamine, it had been providing piano lessons. Ever since the young girl was six she’d been having a private tutor visit her daily. When she was ten she had started composing her own music, and when she was eleven they had permanently dismissed the tutor, as Bellamine had surpassed the woman’s talent. Bellamine was more than a natural. She was practically a prodigy, and Braya would hate to have it wasted to the disease.
