Stain

by A. G. Howard

  “Sit here, little majesty.” The minister directed her to a long oval table in the library late one afternoon. Only a few scholarly types occupied the room, and they were busy looking at books of their own. None of the council attended this meeting.

  Lyra pointed to the empty seats at the candlelit table, indicating their missing council members.

  “Today it will be just the two of us. I aim to teach you to speak, and don’t want you feeling pressured by an audience.” The minister’s ebony complexion reminded her of Sir Nicolet. The biggest difference between them were their eyes. Albous’s were a glittering green that sparkled when he was teaching Lyra, as though he gleaned as much enjoyment from giving lessons as Lyra did in the taking.

  Lyra sat and her shadows mimicked her movements before settling around her. Several of the scholars in the room balked, but Prime Minister Albous didn’t even flinch. She appreciated his effort. It made her feel less different. But she was different, undeniably, and she pointed to her throat to remind her teacher of that.

  A bright smile lit his face. “I’m aware of your voice. It’s a miracle, and a lovely one at that. No need to think of it as a hindrance. You’re going to speak with a part of yourself you’d already been using with your father.” As if catching the sadness that flashed across her face, the prime minister took one of her hands in his. He shaped three of her pale fingers into a curve, then showed her how to sweep her hand upward in a gesture that ended with her pinky held high. “King Kiran. That’s how you say his name. He had me seeking a way for you to communicate visually, with your hands, for some years now. A special language I could teach everyone on the council to understand.” Lyra’s jaw dropped as he unrolled several ancient scrolls. Each had hand signals sketched upon them, with words or singular letters written out underneath. “I found these a week before he left for Nerezeth. You were to learn them together upon his return. Will you let me teach you now? The council can join our lessons, once you’re comfortable in the speaking.”

  Lyra’s face flushed warm, as hope overflowed within her. With this, she could communicate, truly have conversations . . . speak her mind! She nodded enthusiastically.

  “Just the relish for learning I like to see, little majesty.” The prime minister’s smile widened, and together, they began.

  Lyra practiced every day. During cessation courses, if she had trouble sleeping, she’d pull out a poetry tome and use her signals to spell out the verses. It was lovely, as though her hands and fingers were waltzing with the beautiful words. She caught on quickly, and with the prime minister’s help, her vocabulary and understanding of politics also grew. One day she would take Griselda’s place, presiding over the domestic life and squabbles of the people within her keep, using sign language and the written word to arbitrate.

  Lyra wondered if this caused her aunt any jealousy. If so, Griselda hid it well, never once calling herself Lyra’s mother again . . . ever treating her as an equal. Yet Lyra dared not lower her guard. Her scalp still remembered the hair-wrenching tugs in the dungeon, just as the cryptic conversation between the witch and her aunt still haunted her.

  Lyra couldn’t quite tie the pieces together, but she suspected Griselda knew more about her father’s and Sir Nicolet’s deaths than she let on. Lyra wasn’t convinced the witch was wholly responsible, despite what the soldiers insisted.

  However, her skepticism about the witch’s guilt shattered when murder once again darkened the candlelit halls of the castle, a few months after her father’s own.

  It had become routine for Lyra and her three cousins to sit together in the solar at teatime. Curtains drawn tight, they practiced embroidery and beading, surrounded by the scent of melting candle wax, the steam of tea and fruit pies, and the songs of chickadees caged in the corner.

  In Eldoria, it was tradition for the royal bridesmaids—any girls related to the bride—to sew the veil, gloves, and headdress for their queen’s wedding. Griselda had already been teaching her daughters the skill, and now she insisted on Lyra sitting in to supervise.

  In the past, Eldoria’s royal brides wore crimson velvet trimmed in gold ruffles, but in keeping with the new style, Griselda substituted a blush-pink organza with cream lace to flatter Lyra’s complexion and small frame. The girls were learning to sew on scraps of the thin, slippery fabric before tackling the real project. Each afternoon, once they were settled, her aunt occupied herself elsewhere; all four girls would await Griselda’s exit, needle and thread in hand, impatient to share newly learned tidbits of kingdom gossip. That afternoon was no different.

  “You’ll wish to hear this, Lyra . . .” Avaricette paused to guide her threaded needle through one of the creamy pearls that filled the porcelain bowl on the table between them. “It concerns your betrothed.” She looked up and her brown eyes sparkled with something akin to malice.

  Lyra’s skin bristled. Sensing her unease, the shadows crept closer. Mentally, Lyra commanded them back to the corners. She coaxed a pearl onto her own needle and tacked it in place on a swatch of organza, for she refused to simply supervise. She wanted to be a part of her own wedding preparations, not a bystander. Gritting her teeth, she waited for her eldest cousin to continue.

  Avaricette smiled sweetly, though her gaze flitted to her middle sister. Judging by the smirk on Wrathalyne’s face, she already knew what Avaricette had to share. “I overhead Sir Bartley speaking to Mother. He saw Prince Vesper with his own eyes, months ago, when he accompanied King Kiran to Nerezeth. You’ve been wishing to know what he looks like?”

  Lyra nodded again, her fascination with the prince a welcome distraction from the slash of agony that gored her chest at the mention of her father.

  “Sir Bartley said he’s all that a prince should be. Striking and regal. Tall and bronzed, with hair the color of a raven’s wings. He looks more like your parents than you, which means the kingdom should have no trouble accepting him.” The insinuation of Lyra’s hard-won reception among her own people hung in the air between them. “And I’m sure everyone will be relieved that the royal portraits can once again have some tincture.” Avaricette’s lips twitched on a sneer.

  Wrathalyne snorted. “Why, if the painter uses a background of duck-egg blue, Lyra will blend in and everyone else in the portraits will be positively kaleidomatic!” Completely unaware that mixing up kaleidoscopic and prismatic made her sound like a buffoon, Wrathalyne beamed.

  Avaricette barked out an unladylike guffaw and Wrathalyne joined in—oblivious that the joke was partly on her. Their combined laughter shook the bowl until the pearls rattled.

  Lyra’s cheeks warmed. She didn’t like to blush. Each time she did, the veins behind her diaphanous skin grew darker, more prominent—making her look even closer to an apparition. She had just learned that her betrothed wasn’t literally made of the sun, which meant she had nothing to fear physically from him. This would have offered relief had she not been left to question if her kingdom would flock to him as their leader and leave her an outcast once more.

  Her two hysterical cousins flopped on the floor. Lyra allowed the shadows to stretch along the walls, closing in. The chickadees fluttered nervously in their cage. Lyra would’ve tried to settle them, but only night creatures seemed to understand her . . . to respond to her. She focused instead on her laughing cousins.

  Prime Minister Albous often spoke of how her father chose mercy over wrath unless the kingdom or a loved one was in danger. That was why he never went to battle with Nerezeth until he feared for Lyra’s welfare. Just as Lyra had only confronted Griselda when her aunt endangered her mother’s memory.

  Wrathalyne and Avaricette were already endangering themselves by writhing so precariously close to the wheeled tea cart. After so many years of taunting, Lyra debated: why resist acting when all it would take was a wayfaring shadowy gust to overturn the steaming brew onto their heads?

  Placing her sewing on the table, Lyra started to rise. A hand on her elbow stalled her. Lustacia had left her own s
eat and knelt by her chair. She was the only cousin not laughing. Lately, it was Lustacia who walked with Lyra in the dim corridors instead of going into the sunlit gardens or aviary where the princess couldn’t follow; it was Lustacia who patiently attended as Lyra practiced her gestures with the prime minister, although she didn’t quite understand the sign language.

  “Lyra, wait, please.” Lustacia’s eyes, shaded a deeper blue by her thick lashes, squeezed Lyra’s arm.

  The physical contact stunned her. None of her cousins had ever touched her, as if they feared she might be contagious. It struck her as so unnatural, she almost jerked free, but the promise of camaraderie melted her back into her chair. With just a thought, she sent her shadows sinking into their corners.

  Lustacia patted Lyra’s elbow and released her. “That’s better. Don’t let these ninnies bait you. They’re blinded by jealousy. Neither one will ever marry a prince. Truthfully, they’re both so vapid, why would any man want them?” Lustacia’s older sisters silenced and glared at her between gasps for air, faces flushed from laughter. “Ava has eaten so many sweets her personality is rotting along with her teeth. And Wrath, well, if she would only read that lexicon of words from your mother’s room, she’d save herself a lifetime’s worth of tantrums because she wouldn’t look so idiosensical all the time.”

  Both girls sputtered, as if unable to make their mouths work.

  “If you two are so bored you can think of nothing to do but be nasty,” Lustacia said, standing, “I can offer an option.” Not missing a beat, she dumped the bowl of pearls atop their perfectly coiffed hair.

  “How dare you!” Avaricette screeched, shaking her head so the beads fell from her curls and tapped the floor like petrified raindrops.

  “I’ll tell Mother!” shouted Wrathalyne, spitting out three pearls that had dropped into her mouth—opened wide on a gasp during the dumping.

  “Oh, will you?” Lustacia asked, leaning across the table. “Or will I tell Mother how you offended our future queen? We’re all that’s left of the royal family. We’re to be kind and support one another now.” She then pointed to the pearls careening across the room, some vanishing beneath the chaise lounge and others behind the harp and a collection of instruments propped against the walls. “Pick up the mess.”

  Avaricette and Wrathalyne snarled as they knelt, cushioned by the multiple ruffles on their silky dresses, and gathered the beads, returning them to the bowl with tiny clacks. Lustacia scooted her chair closer to Lyra’s, putting her sisters out of earshot on the other side of the solar, where they were united in their efforts to gather pearls from beneath the chaise lounge.

  Lyra smiled a thank-you.

  “You’re welcome,” her cousin answered, as if she’d been deciphering Lyra’s expressions all her life. “There’s actually been some lovely news. I heard it from Mother myself.”

  Lyra cocked her head, half-curious, half-wary. She often rode this pendulum, swinging between trusting people and her own cautious nature.

  “The midnight shadows and stardust have arrived from Nerezeth.” Lustacia picked up her organza swatch and resumed her vine embroidery. She was careful to use a thimble today, having bruised her thumb the week prior while pushing a needle through the fabric. “The enchanted seamstresses will begin construction of the nightsky fabric in a few days. There’s enough to make an entire suit, so you’ll soon accompany us outside the castle!” She paused and her lashes lowered. “And . . . the prince sent a note for you.” She dipped her fingers into the lacy cuff at her wrist and dragged out a black vellum cylinder. “Mother intended to save it for when you’re older, but I slipped it away while she wasn’t looking. I’ll need it back, so she won’t know.”

  Lyra nodded and took the soft, pliable cylinder; it appeared they used calfskin vellum like the scrolls from which Prime Minister Albous taught her the ancient sign language. Though theirs was dyed black. As she unrolled it to read, she smelled a leathery scent and something cool and crisp, like the taste of winter she used to experience each time she held her mother’s panacea rose. Nostalgia tickled her nose. She glanced up to ensure her other two cousins were still preoccupied, then spread it open on her lap with the table’s edge covering it for protection.

  The gold ink stood bright against the dark vellum and called to her. She traced the slanting, elegant script—her fingertip held just above it. The ink moved. It seemed drawn to her, drifting upward across her skin in tiny glittery particles like dust motes swirling in dim light, as if rays of tender sunshine lived in each line. Lyra swallowed a surprised gasp and looked up at Lustacia, but her cousin was watching her sisters with a keen eye, motioning them farther across the room for some beads they’d missed when they moved too close.

  The sparkles stung Lyra’s fingers with heat—not uncomfortable but intrusive—as if wanting to fill her up. Disoriented by the sensation, she withdrew her hand and the ink fell back into place on the vellum in a dusting of gold, then blended again into words.

  Shaking her head, Lyra caught a breath. She kept her hands at her side this time and concentrated only on the message.

  Dear Princess Lyra,

  Minutes ago, I watched our night sky flash with that fleeting glimpse of dawn. For one instant, I was in your world beside you. The colors swirled in a riot of violet, lilac, and silver, much like your hair and tears. I’ve yet to see your face, but I know your song. It lights my imaginings with the same wonder each flash of daybreak brings. I’ve heard what your kingdom thinks of mine, but do not let them make you fear our future. I will keep you safe. And know this: there is beauty here, too. True, we have no trilling mockingbirds, blue jays, swallows, or thrushes. What would they celebrate, without the sun for inspiration? Yet we have symphonies of our own. Crickets, nightingales, owls, and wolves who laud the glory of our snow-swept moon. Even the tinder-bats rejoice with a melody unique to the night. Upon your seventeenth year, I will bring you to Nerezeth to share all of this. Until then, I will keep you ensconced in shadows and stardust chosen by my own hand, so you might know the splendor and comfort of your daylight world within the safety of darkness, and so you might trust the scope of my devotion. Think of me each time you see the dusting of dusk, as I will think of you at each blink of dawn.

  Yours in both night and day,

  Prince Vesper

  Lyra’s pulse sped to a dizzying staccato, her skin flushing warm, but this time it had nothing to do with intrusive sparkles of ink. She’d never read such pretty words given so openly from the heart—at least not directed to her. Her hands covered her cheeks to hide the veins that must be glaring through her sheer skin. She wanted to answer the letter with one of her own, but Griselda would never allow it.

  Lustacia retrieved the vellum and rolled it closed without making a sound. As she did, Lyra noticed the ink didn’t respond to her cousin as it had with her. She raked a palm across the blank side to test it once more. The script lit up, showing through backward from the front. For an instant, the tips of Lyra’s fingers glowed gold in response, as if the light she’d absorbed earlier remembered its source.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I looked over Mother’s shoulder as she read the missive earlier.” Lustacia held her attention firmly on Lyra’s face as she tucked the cylinder away in her cuff. “Isn’t it wonderful? He’s overseeing all your supplies!”

  Lyra opened her palm, too preoccupied with her skin’s odd reaction to the ink to care that her aunt and cousin had read her note before her. The glowing at her fingertips had vanished and Lustacia seemed unaware it was ever there. Could Lyra have imagined it? Perhaps she had been swept away to a world of make-believe and wishes upon reading the prince’s poetic sentiments.

  “I see you’re as enchanted as I am,” Lustacia said under her breath, a dreamy smile softening her features. “The prince’s own hands gathered and wrapped the pieces that will form your shield from the sun. Only fifteen, and already he’s making romantic gestures. Can you imagine what he’ll be like as a grow
n man . . . as a husband? As your king?”

  Romantic. Lyra had no real concept of such a thing. But kindness? That she knew. She had yearned for so long to step outside one day . . . to breathe the summer air and look up at the swans as they blended into the clouds with their matching feathers; to watch frogs and fish flop in and out of the Crystal Lake and catch a spray of cool water upon her face through her hood; to gather the silvery pebbles that littered the banks and nestle them within satin-lined boxes, for those were worth more than all the jewels and gems within the kingdom’s treasury. Now, at last, this could be a reality—at the prince’s very hands.

  Hope of such a day was the reason her father had insisted on the supply of materials for nightsky fabric in the peace treaty. Even with him gone he was taking care of her—helping her belong—and it appeared the prince shared her father’s compassion.

  The resulting happy swell in her chest reminded her of Eldoria’s end of the bargain, and how Nerezeth needed the panacea roses for medicines. She’d given up her mother’s keepsake to be planted atop their iron stairway. She needed to know it had been worth the sacrifice.

  Lyra gathered her organza scrap into spiraling folds to mimic petals and held it out to her cousin, a question in her raised brow.

  Lustacia knotted off her thread and snipped it free of her embroidery. She studied Lyra’s upheld hand, then her eyes widened. “Oh, yes, the roses. They are doing well. There are enough buds that I could bring you back a clipping of your own to fill your mother’s pot again. Should I?”

  Lyra nodded enthusiastically, then frowned, worried for her cousin’s welfare. She took her needle and demonstrated being pricked in the finger.

  “Oh, don’t worry for the thorns. I’ll wear my heaviest gloves.”