by A. G. Howard
Lyra considered that, then gestured to the doorway where a guard was stationed in the hall. It was forbidden for Eldorians to clip any of the buds. Only Nerezeth was approved to harvest the bounty.
Lustacia bowed her head close, her whisper scented of pears and cinnamon from the tea. “One small stalk won’t be missed. I can be as quiet as your shadows, you’ll see. I’ll wrap my hair and disguise myself as a page boy. During the cessation course, the guards play dice and drink ale while everyone sleeps. They hardly pay attention to anything but the steins and money trading hands.” She tossed a sidelong glance at her sisters who were on their way back to the table. “We’ll keep it secret, between us.”
Wrathalyne and Avaricette arrived thereafter, bowl of beads in hand, and took their seats. Soon, talk fell to courtly gossip once more.
The rest of the day passed without event, but during the cessation course, thoughts of Lustacia’s promise kept Lyra awake. She twisted in bed until the moths abandoned their perches and fluttered around her face and ears, their shushing wings lulling her to sleep.
In her dreamscape, she visited the night realm where shadows lifted her into the air to meet her betrothed—the faceless Prince Vesper; a liquid song sluiced through her vocal cords in greeting, and glistening gold ink bled from his fingertips. Inspired by her melody, he wrote out every note, scripting a musical composition in strands of sunlight across the black sky. And the sun and the moon danced in harmony.
Lyra shot up out of her slumber, awakened by screams and loud sobs. She crept into the bluish glow of the corridor in nothing but her nightgown. Griselda’s two knights, several guards, and a handful of servants gathered around a sobbing heap on the floor. Wrathalyne and Avaricette were there, too, drowsy-faced and on their knees, trying to console their mother who curled, fetal position, around a scarf that belonged to Lustacia—now ripped to shreds and stained with blood. Griselda convulsed and vomited. The resulting sour-acid stench overpowered the melting wax from the candelabra by Lyra’s doorway.
The servants whispered, questioning why Lustacia would’ve wandered so far from the castle gates; why a panacea rose was found alongside a page boy’s bloodied cap and her scarf by the entrance to the Ashen Ravine, yet all the page boys of the castle were accounted for, asleep in their quarters.
“There must have been a conjurin’ of some dark force. Seduced the girl through her dreams,” said one.
“Lured her to sneak out in costume and pick flowers? What’s to become of us, if our minds are prey to such bewitchments? The ravine might still be hungry. We could all be dragged into the serpentine briars by morning,” answered another.
None of the guards had witnessed anything, and Lustacia’s remains and clothes had not been found, other than a clump of her lustrous auburn hair—matted and muddy—alongside the harrower witch’s skeletal staff.
Lyra’s eyes burned. She wanted to step forward and help comfort, but she didn’t belong . . . and worse, she was to blame. Not only had she freed the witch from the dungeon months ago, but Lustacia had left on a favor for her.
Backing into her room on shaky legs, Lyra shut the door and crawled into the wardrobe. She sealed herself in, letting the darkness cradle her. Her chest constricted as she envisioned her cousin’s softly freckled skin, contused with bite marks and thorns, torn to shreds like the bloodied scarf they’d found. Lyra’s sobs escalated to wails—a birdsong muffled by one of her mother’s remaining gowns wrapped around her head and stuffed in her mouth.
After her tongue grew dry against the fabric and she was all sung out, she hunched in quiet despair—chest and lungs sore and hollow.
Mia opened the wardrobe some time later.
“Oh, Princess!” The lady’s maid loosened Lyra from her tangle of velvet. “You gave us such a start! We couldn’t find you, and after what happened to Lustacia . . .” She bit her lip, as if unsure how much Lyra knew.
Lyra’s violet-stained cheeks must have given her away, for Mia opened her arms so the princess could fall against her ample bosom—a comforting cushion scented of talcum and clean cotton.
“There, there, child.” Mia stroked Lyra’s frazzled hair. “You’re going to be safe. Regent Griselda will see to that. If any good could’ve come of this tragedy, it’s that your aunt’s eyes ’ave been opened to how precious you are to us all. Let’s pack your things. You’re moving to the dungeon.”
7
Milk, Toast, and Unfortunate Ghosts
To most princesses, dungeons were cold, formidable places. Lyra, however, had already found solace and succor amid the shadows and vermin there. Still, with her heart aching over the recent loss of her father, Sir Nicolet, and now her cousin, she felt more alone than ever. The anticipation of being shut away felt like punishment instead of protection.
Lyra hadn’t told anyone why Lustacia left the castle, but did Griselda somehow know? Was this her aunt’s vengeance . . . to lock up her niece and ensure she’d be forgotten by everyone in her kingdom?
The morning following Lustacia’s bloody disappearance, Lady Griselda gathered Wrathalyne, Avaricette, and Lyra on the dais in the grand hall. They were each adorned in solemn navy-and-mulberry gowns to signify their grief—Lyra’s borrowed from her dead cousin’s wardrobe, for she had no such styles herself. The council, a crowd of subjects, and all of the servants filed in to listen.
“This was not the random act of some magical beast wandering out of the ravine and past the vicinage’s borders,” Griselda began, swishing the long train of her silk gown as she scanned those in the room. “The creature who lured my daughter away was the wild witch we’d held imprisoned. We have proof.” She held up the skeletal staff and half the audience exclaimed in fright.
Lyra swallowed the knot in her throat. Surely Griselda would blame her for the witch’s escape, here and now. The weight of everyone’s stares doubled her guilt and she kept her gaze averted to the white marble at her feet where her faithful shadows waited, mirroring her movements.
Her aunt continued without turning her direction. “The witch has a proven vendetta against Eldoria’s royalty. She killed my lord brother, our king, then ate the heart of his dearest friend and most loyal knight, Sir Nicolet. Now she’s taken my precious Lusta—” Griselda’s voice caught and she dropped the staff with a clack that echoed through the halls. She wavered.
Worried her aunt might be sick again, Lyra instinctively stepped forward, but retreated upon remembering how Griselda always bristled at her touch. One of the knights, Sir Erwan, moved forward to offer his elbow as a brace. Griselda took it, tears streaming her pale cheeks in the candle’s glow.
Lyra watched, sharing in her sorrow . . . seeing her aunt in a new light. Griselda could have pointed out to everyone that Lyra set the witch loose. Yet she didn’t.
Griselda took a trembling breath and continued. “As some of you know, the nightsky materials have gone missing as well.”
Several gasps bounced around the dim room, Lyra’s included. This was the first she’d heard of thievery. The fact that the articles Prince Vesper took such care in sending were now gone affected her over anyone else, an obvious strike against her personally.
Positioned behind her aunt’s skirts and beside her two sniffling cousins, Lyra shut her eyes so her tears would not stain the white lace collar on the borrowed dress. Knowing Lustacia would never again wear it put things in perspective—how foolish to be sad for lost materials. At least she still had her life.
“It’s obvious that the witch is not working alone,” Griselda continued, though her voice wavered. “A dark spy haunts these halls. We must hide our future queen.” With this, she reached behind to guide Lyra forward and gently placed a hand on her head—so different from the last time she had touched her hair. “To assure she lives to the age of coronation, and that she fulfills the prophecy and treaty as the bride of Nerezeth’s prince, she must be secreted away to the dungeon out of the sun’s reach and protected from unseen enemies. No one can be trusted to
abide with her other than family.” She motioned to her daughters and herself. “The two knights who were guarding my bedchamber when Lustacia disappeared are the only subjects with an alibi I can corroborate. With this in mind, Sir Erwan and Sir Bartley will exclusively guard our door. They alone will deliver our meals, see to any personal requests or needs, and transport our laundry to and from the washerwomen. Once Nerezeth sends more materials for a nightsky suit, our knights will accompany us around the walled garden for daily constitutionals.”
Prime Minister Albous stepped forward, his green eyes narrowed in a way that spoke of deep introspection. “The princess must continue her training with me and the council. She’s become quite proficient in the art of signing, but there’s so much more to politics and carrying a kingdom than simple communication. How’s she to learn diplomacy and the administration of justice, locked away with only her family?”
Griselda’s body tensed, but to Lyra’s shock, she responded with an even tone. “Princess Lyra and I will correspond with both parliament and council via letters, so we might carry out our judicial and royal duties. She will still have her hand in politics and learn diplomacy, deciding the proper action upon facts presented. I’ll brook no argument. Her safety is of upmost importance. The livelihood of our kingdom, the very balance of our skies, depends on it. Thus, the four of us will remain in sanctuary until the witch and her spy are captured and imprisoned. Even if it takes the next five years.”
Among a burst of murmured concerns, Griselda clasped Lyra’s fingers without even cringing, surprising her for a third time. With her free hand, Griselda guided Wrathalyne, who clung to Avaricette. United, they descended the dais and headed to the door with their appointed knights flanking them. The silent pilgrimage of Lyra’s bugs followed, too, hidden behind the walls.
Her shadows swept alongside her feet, stretching and shrinking as passing candles dictated. She cast a final look at the council members and servants—familiar as they had become—stopping on the prime minister. Her heart ached already with the loss of their time together, and even more to see that he’d been left as speechless as she had ever been.
The rest of the morning, amidst a whirlwind of preparations, Lyra watched items being carried to the largest cell in the farthest corner of the dungeon: family portraits, tapestries, books, writing and sewing appurtenances, furniture, a large trunk stuffed with clothing (including Queen Arael’s remaining gowns), bed linens, dried spices, and potpourri soaps. There was also a hip bath, chamber pot, and a wrought-iron box fireplace, for their hygiene and comfort.
Two hours before the kingdom retired for the cessation course, she descended the twining stairs alongside her family to enter their new abode for the first time.
Bright tapestries—scented with spices—draped the walls from top to bottom, deftly arranged to conceal cold stones while masking the stench. A long golden cord hung from the ceiling, connecting them. Griselda’s knights had been in charge of this arrangement before the cell was furnished. They explained if the cord was pulled, the tapestries would peel free to simplify cleaning.
Two oversized canopied beds with wool-stuffed mattresses sat against one wall, their white lace curtains so ethereal and gauzy they could have been fragments of clouds held open with red ribbon ties. The trunk, brimming with linens and supplies, sat at the foot of the largest bed. At the foot of the smallest was a long, pine box with a latched lid to be used for any soiled clothes and bedsheets the knights would need to carry out for washing.
A small dining table with four padded chairs and the fireplace—complete with a shiny copper chimney that connected to a freshly drilled damper for filtering smoke from the room—replaced the cot and torture devices which had once been the only furnishings. Soft candlelight flickered in lanterns secured on tall stands. The flames reflected off a long mirror—strung up to spin from the ceiling’s center—creating a luminary effect across the walls, a safe alternative to windows.
Then came the final changes that transformed the cell to something like a cottage in a fairy tale. Freshly cut honeysuckle vines, to be replaced each day, spilled out of large vases. Standing birdcages housed chickadees, mockingbirds, and swallows. The nectarous scent and lyrical chirps filled the room with the illusion of the outdoors.
Against the surreal sensations tapping her spine, Lyra stepped within. Her slippers trounced lightly upon brightly woven rugs and bearskin throws, in direct opposition to the weighted hesitation in her heart. As opulent as everything was, it was still only one room to be shared with the aunt and two cousins who were once so cruel. Was this truly where they would live for the next five years if the witch and her spy weren’t captured? At the end of it all, would Lyra’s kingdom even need her anymore?
Exhausted from weeping all day, Wrathalyne and Avaricette tottered over to a bed and belly flopped atop fluffy quilts.
A few servants remained, rearranging and straightening until Griselda commanded they leave. Mia strayed over to a corner where the royal family portraits had been set in a pile. Lyra’s aunt insisted they be carried down, every last likeness of Lyra and of her parents, so she mightn’t forget them over time. Griselda had even insisted on bringing Queen Arael’s broken mirror, so painstakingly glued back together by Lyra’s father before he left for Nerezeth.
“Could I ’ang these, or find a spot for the mirror, Lady Griselda?” Mia asked.
“No. We’ll need something to do to pass the hours,” Griselda answered while wrestling the dustrag from the maid’s hand. “Time you go.”
Mia tried once more to plead her fealty. “I’ve served the little princess all ’er life. Might I come once a day at least? In the evenings, for baths, or to read stories and poetry. I made a lifelong commitment to serve Eldoria’s monarchy, your ladyship.”
Griselda’s expression transformed from weary to shrewd. “If you wish to continue to serve, you may be our food taster. You’re obviously very practiced.” She squeezed Mia’s plump forearm and led her to the door. There, the knights waited on the edge of the threshold, having already sent the other servants through the long stone corridor and up the winding stairs back to the castle.
“In a time like this,” Griselda added, “meals are perilous undertakings. We are defenseless to the cook and kitchen hands. Prove yourself courageous and loyal by sampling our food, and in time I’ll trust you enough to allow your service within our sanctuary.” She gave Mia a push, breaking the eye contact the lady’s maid had been keeping with Lyra.
The door slammed shut with a thunderous echo of latches and bolts. The metallic cacophony vibrated through the floor, then up Lyra’s legs and all the way to her chest. It stopped there and snapped into place, as if the cage of her ribs locked around her heart.
With the knights stationed outside, utter silence fell over the room; even the birds hushed, leaving only the flutter of their feathers, the pop of the lanterns, and the soft whimpers of Lyra’s grieving cousins.
Griselda and Lyra watched one another, reflections of candleflame spinning around them in a dizzying sequence. Her aunt’s lip curled up, revealing teeth clenched in a wretched smile. It was that same expression that clutched at Lyra’s heart on the day of her father’s interment.
Her aunt had not forgiven her for releasing the witch who killed her daughter. Not at all.
Lyra wavered, then looked around. Being in a dimly lit dungeon allowed endless perches for her shadows. They hovered in the wall corners and under furniture, giving her courage. She had her own faithful guards, just as Griselda did. That in mind, Lyra signaled her bugs mentally, calling them from her mother’s room in the northern wing of the castle, bidding them to make haste to the dungeon, on the chance she might need reinforcements.
Griselda broke her stare and arranged the refreshments the servants had left on a tray beside the table. She poured steaming milk from the porcelain pitcher into teacups and coaxed her girls to her. “It has been a harrowing day. We will not await the cessation course to seek our rest
. Let’s have milk and toast, then off to bed. Lyra, you, too, please. I’ve something to speak to you about before we sleep.”
Cautiously, Lyra followed her cousins, sitting where her aunt directed. There were just enough place settings and chairs for each of them. The absence of a fifth that would’ve accommodated Lustacia tugged at everyone’s emotions. It reflected vividly in Lyra’s cousins’ red, swollen eyes and puckered lips as they nibbled the iced raisin bread on their plates. Lyra sipped milk to ease her stomach, unable to bring herself to eat. The creamy warmth seeped into her bones, though she still couldn’t relax.
Griselda touched her daughters’ heads in a comforting gesture. “We’ll have no more tears today. They are for those who are weak and hopeless. But we . . . we are powerful, and we have hope.” She left the table. Her gown’s train dragged across the rugs on her trek toward the birdcages. “What say we have some music?”
“Is that why you brought our pet birds from the aviary?” asked Avaricette while licking white icing from her crust. “Are they to sing our sadness away?”
“I brought them to keep our home vermin-free. You know how I abhor infestation.” Griselda’s dark gaze circled around to meet Lyra’s. “They haven’t eaten since yesterday. It makes them better hunters, keeping them on the edge of hunger.”
Lyra polished off the last of her milk in a painful gulp as Griselda opened each cage. The birds fluttered in chaos until they found places to settle: on the bed canopies, on the copper chimney plugged into the one slip of wall not covered with a tapestry, on the mirror strung from the ceiling.
Taken aback by her aunt’s ingenuity, Lyra blotted the milk from her lips with her sleeve. Her mind called to the moths and spiders that now scurried behind the stone walls, forbidding their entrance. She couldn’t risk them coming out just to be eaten. They were too dear to her.
After aiming a smile upward at the chirping birds, Griselda turned to the trunk at the foot of the largest bed.
