by Sharon Shinn
For a second, incomprehension made her face so blank that she almost looked like one of her imitation creatures. “But they always accompany me,” she said.
“Yes, but they didn’t have to.”
She just spread her hands. For the first time I realized, really understood, that Marguerite didn’t see the echoes as separate from her—a delight or an inconvenience or a symbol of status, as the mood struck her—but as parts of herself. I had viewed them as being roughly equal to shoes or hats—something she wouldn’t choose to leave at home, but something she could dispense with if she wanted. She saw them more as arms and feet. Parts of her body. Essential. Inseparable. I wondered if Dorothea felt the same about her echoes. Probably so, or they would not have accompanied us today. Dorothea didn’t seem to have sentimental attachments to people or things; she was accompanied by the echoes because there was nowhere else she could imagine they would be.
“I guess someone who doesn’t have an echo can’t understand it,” I said at last.
“I guess not.”
“And something else I don’t understand. Your mother’s echoes do exactly what she does. So do your father’s. Ever since I’ve met you, you’ve always let your echoes move of their own volition—except suddenly today in the coach, when all at once they started mimicking you perfectly. How do you decide when to control them and when to let them go? And how do you do it? You didn’t even say a word.”
Again she looked bewildered, as if someone had asked her to explain why she had teeth or hair. “I just—how can I— You know what it’s like when you’re breathing? Sometimes you decide to take in a really deep breath—” She inhaled noisily and held the air for a moment before slowly letting it out. “And you can do that for as long as you like. Other times, you just forget about it, you think about other things, but you keep breathing all the same. That’s what it’s like in terms of controlling the echoes. Sometimes I do it on purpose and sometimes I don’t. But they keep existing right alongside me anyway.”
I squinched my face up, trying to make sense of that. “It seems like it has to be more complicated than that.”
“I suppose it is. I find that when I’m most relaxed, it’s easier to let the echoes go. When I’m very focused on a task, or when I’m upset about something, they’re most likely to copy my every move.”
She thought for a moment and then went on, “I was still a little girl when I realized I could let the echoes go. Up until that point, they had always mimicked me, every movement. Then one day I found myself just staring at one of them and wondering what it would be like if she didn’t always copy me. And I—I just released her. I don’t know how else to explain it. And she picked up her hand and looked at it a moment, and then put it back in her lap.” Marguerite smiled. “I’m guessing that was Purpose. I couldn’t tell them apart then, but now I know she is always the first one to try anything. Over the next fifteen years I learned how to release all of them at once for as long as I want—and to gather them up again when I want, as well.”
“But then do they—have their own thoughts? Make their own decisions?”
She shook her head. “Not that I can tell. I don’t believe they could exist apart from me. To this day, they breathe when I breathe. Their hearts beat at precisely the same rate as mine. They sleep when I sleep and wake when I wake. It’s just that I can let them go if I want to. I don’t know how else to say it.”
I wanted to ask more questions, but just then, the modiste hurried back in, several lengths of fabric thrown over her left arm. “I had an idea about this deep lavender satin, and I wanted to ask you before I said anything to your mother,” she said to Marguerite. “I have a lighter color in stock, but I thought perhaps this time, something slightly different—a purple with a brighter strain of pink in it—that might be a lovely contrast for your echoes.”
“Let’s take a look,” Marguerite said.
The dressmaker draped the darker fabric around Marguerite’s shoulders and then motioned me over. “Your maid is your same height. Have her stand next to you so I can show you what the fabrics look like side by side—yes—that is very nice.”
For a moment, Marguerite and I stood shoulder to shoulder, studying our joint reflection in a tall mirror. We were the same height, which I’d never noticed before, and close enough in weight that I could probably wear her dresses if I did a few minimum alterations. Of course, my hair was much darker and my eyes were gray, not blue, and the bones of my face were stronger and wider than her elegant ones.
“I like that,” Marguerite said. “Brianna, what do you think?”
“It’s pretty,” I decided. “It will make you distinctive, especially if there are lots of other ladies there with their own echoes.”
“Oh, I imagine every girl with an echo will make her way to Oberton when Prince Cormac is around,” the dressmaker said. “Waving her handkerchief and trying to get his attention.”
“Yes,” said Marguerite dryly, “we will all have to work very hard to make ourselves distinctive enough to stand out from the crowd.”
“As to that,” the modiste said, “I had an idea the other day when I got a very large shipment of netting. Wouldn’t it be pretty to make colorful veils to go with every outfit? You could enter the room with a veil across your face, then slowly draw it back to reveal your features. It would be very dramatic. Everyone would notice you.”
Marguerite and I exchanged glances of amusement. Marguerite wasn’t much for engaging in drama. “Well, I suppose that might be an interesting accessory,” Marguerite said politely.
The modiste produced a long, spiderweb-fine length of tulle and draped it over my face. It was exactly the same shade as the satin still wrapped around my shoulders, but so light and transparent that it was like the memory of color, not color itself. In spite of myself, I liked the way it softened my features and brushed a hint of shadow onto my cheekbones. “And what about the days when you’re tired, or ill, and you simply don’t look your best?” the dressmaker said. “Wouldn’t it be nice to hide your face so no one sees the circles under your eyes?”
“Or the days when I don’t feel like smiling,” Marguerite murmured, sounding more intrigued. My guess was that she had a lot of those days.
“I rather like it,” I said, still watching myself in the mirror. “It might be worth buying the tulle in a few colors and seeing what we can do with it.”
Marguerite reached up and slowly began unwinding the satin from around her shoulders. “Why not? It might be pretty after all.” She smiled at the modiste. “Thank you for the suggestion.”
The tradeswoman smiled back. “You’re my favorite customer,” she said. “I save all my best ideas for you.”
Naturally, whether or not she started incorporating veils into her wardrobe, Marguerite intended to continue wearing blossoms in her hair. I was learning how to dry flowers and sew them onto hair clips so they could be used more than once, though the dried petals were fragile and had to be handled very carefully. We headed to the flower markets every two or three days to buy fresh supplies; I had come to love the rich, mixed smells of soil, water, and greenery.
One day we spent more time than usual searching through the flower stalls and making our selections. The sun was particularly hot and we were all as wilted as summer violets by the time we made it back to the carriage. Marguerite slumped in her seat, resting her head on one echo’s shoulder; the other two sat beside me on the facing bench, similarly collapsed against each other. I tried to remain alert and upright, but I fought off yawns for the first ten minutes of the return trip.
Some disaster on the roads had snarled traffic while we were still deep in the heart of the commercial district. The sun beat down heavily on the roof of the stalled carriage. Marguerite sighed and straightened.
“Patience, you have the boniest shoulder,” she said, rubbing the side of her face. “It’s so hot.”
“We’ll get you a nice, cool bath as soon as we’re home,” I promised.
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She was looking out the window. “Maybe we could get out and wait somewhere more comfortable until the roads clear up.”
“Maybe,” I said doubtfully. “I don’t know where.”
She pointed. “There’s a temple.”
I glanced out. Indeed, yes, there was one of the temples to the triple goddess. In fact, it was the largest temple I had come across so far during my time in Oberton. I guessed it was the main one serving the city, despite the fact that it was nothing more than an unpretentious gray stone building surrounded by a simple green hedge. The only remarkable thing about it was the arrangement of the windows I could see on this side. Each one consisted of three panes designed in some distinctive fashion—three interlocking circles, three diamond shapes, three triskeles. At the entrance to the building stood a small, pretty fountain consisting of a trio of women standing in a circle, facing outward, their hands stretched above them, before them, to either side. Just like the statuary in Marguerite’s room. Water dripped from their fingertips in a never-ending bounty.
“Do you want to go inside?” I asked.
She had already tapped on the roof of the carriage to signal the driver to stop. “Yes, let’s. It’s bound to be cooler in there,” she said.
A few minutes later, I trailed Marguerite and her echoes as we entered the building. Aunt Jean had taken me to a much smaller temple during my first week in the city. We had done no more than light candles before a carved representation of the goddess and say the standard prayers. But that place had been the size of a child’s bedroom, a sort of outpost on a busy street where harried tradesmen could stop to make a five-minute obeisance.
This one was much larger, maybe as big as a merchant’s house. The dim light admitted by those tripled-paned windows showed perhaps twenty wooden pews lined up, facing a central dais where another grouping of statues held their arms out in arbitration, supplication, and celebration. A heavy wooden door just to the left of the dais stood half open, and through it I could see a narrow hallway stretching back. Apparently the sanctuary was connected to another building—living quarters for the priestesses, I supposed, if this really was the main temple for the city.
About a half dozen people were already inside, widely scattered across the wooden benches. Some sat with their hands folded and their heads bent, praying silently; others seemed to be merely lost in thought. Two white-robed priestesses moved slowly between them, sitting beside each visitor and carrying on quiet conversations before going on to speak to the next one.
I felt the sweat chill on my body and realized that Marguerite had been right: It was definitely cooler inside. “How long do you want to stay?” I whispered.
She moved forward, pulling the four of us in her wake. “I don’t know,” she whispered back, “awhile.”
She took a seat about midway down the last pew. The echoes settled beside her, and I sat closest to the left-hand aisle. I folded my hands like I was supposed to, but I didn’t have any prayers ready and I wasn’t feeling contemplative, so I glanced around. The walls were painted with murals depicting the three goddesses among the people, meting out justice, offering mercy, or reflecting joy, as the occasion dictated. The paint was pale and faded, and the gray stones themselves looked softened with age. This place must be very old, I thought. Perhaps it was Oberton’s original temple.
We had been inside maybe five minutes when one of the priestesses slipped into our row from the right-hand aisle and sat beside Marguerite. “Blessings upon your head,” she said softly. “What brings you to the temple today?”
“Heat and chance and flowers,” Marguerite replied, her voice so low it was hard for me to make out the words.
“Three reasons for three goddesses, though I would wish for weightier motivations,” the priestess answered. I thought I could hear a smile in her voice, but I couldn’t be sure without seeing her face. And I could hardly lean past the echoes and stare at her, making it clear I was eavesdropping on the conversation.
“Would you?” Marguerite asked. “I find I prefer the weightless days.”
I frowned. An odd thing to say.
“Whether the days are heavy or light,” the priestess said, “I hope you remember to say your prayers daily.”
“I do. Sometimes I pray with great specificity. Other times I just ask for general guidance.”
“The goddesses are not in the habit of granting wishes, though I admit life would be easier sometimes if they were,” the priestess answered. “But they can give you the strength and willpower to achieve even the most difficult goals.”
“Or the endurance to make it through the realities that shape your life.”
“There are some who would say a fine lady with three echoes has no cause to complain about her realities,” the priestess said softly, “when so many others suffer illness, poverty, and abuse.”
“I would agree with them,” Marguerite said.
“Yet, I am sure your own sufferings are real,” the priestess added. “Tell me your woes, and I will petition the goddess on your behalf.”
I was staring straight ahead, still pretending I was not listening, so I could not be sure if Marguerite glanced in my direction, but I thought she did. At any rate, she bowed her head and dropped her voice to a whisper, and I could not hear anything she said to the priestess after that. Or anything the priestess said in reply. But it was clear to me that she did not want to be overheard—that she had deliberately positioned all of us in the pew so that the echoes would be between the two of us—and that something indeed was weighing heavily on her heart.
It made me sad to think she had no one to confide in except an anonymous temple priestess. No sister or friend, no loving mother or aunt. I supposed she could pour her heart out to the echoes because they’d never repeat a word, but they could hardly draw her into their arms and comfort her and promise they would love her no matter what. I twisted the triskele ring on my finger and felt, for a moment, intensely homesick.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Marguerite straighten in her seat, and the priestess lifted her head as well. “Very good,” the woman said, shifting somewhat so she was facing Marguerite. “I will share your prayers with the goddess. Until then, may you know she is with you as you go through your days seeking justice”—she touched a fingertip to Marguerite’s forehead—“mercy”—to the general region of Marguerite’s heart—“and joy”—her lips.
“Thank you,” Marguerite said. “I feel better for the prayer.”
The priestess rose to her feet, so the rest of us scrambled up as well, and we followed her out of the pew. One by one, as they stepped into the aisle, the echoes paused, and the priestess bestowed the triple benediction upon them as well.
I was the last to emerge and, as the priestess appeared to be waiting for me, I also came to a halt. Now that we stood face-to-face, I realized she was an inch or two taller than I was, and slender even inside the shapeless robes. Her thick brown hair was pulled back in a severe and not particularly flattering bun; in the temple’s low light, her eyes appeared to be an even darker shade. I guessed her to be in her mid to late twenties, though her tranquil face and guarded expression didn’t give much to go by. I was used to sizing people up at a glance, but I had the thought that it would take a great deal of time and effort to understand this woman and what had brought her to this place.
“A benediction?” she asked quietly. When I nodded, she repeated the ritual she had performed on the others. I nodded again in thanks and followed the other four out the door and back into the coach.
Truth to tell, the outside air seemed as hot as ever, and the traffic was just as bad as it was when we had alighted at the temple. But as we inched along the clogged roadway, I covertly watched Marguerite. She seemed calmer, or happier, or maybe lighter in spirit; perhaps the priestess had managed to ease her burdens with those whispered prayers. I knew it was not my place to speak, but once the pace of traffic started to pick up and we were only a few blocks from the mansion,
I found I couldn’t keep silent.
“I hope you know,” I said abruptly, “that I would never betray you.”
She had been leaning her head against the echo again, but at that she drew herself up and stared back at me. “What? I never said you would.”
“I don’t gossip with the servants and I have never exchanged a word with your mother and even if someone offered me five times my yearly salary I would never repeat anything you did or said,” I went on, determined to say the whole thing. “If you need something, I’ll help you get it. If you have a secret, I’ll help you keep it. I just thought you should know that.”
She didn’t shrink back like I was a lunatic; she smiled instead. “Thank you, Brianna, that’s very sweet. But I don’t need anything. I’m not looking for any help.”
I was a little embarrassed. “That’s all right, then,” I said with a nod, turning my head to look out the window. But I thought I could still feel Marguerite smiling for the duration of that short trip.
CHAPTER FIVE
Two days later I headed out to the flower market on my own, since Marguerite had obligations the entire day. I took advantage of the rare free time to have lunch with Aunt Jean, catching up on news from home and sharing my observations of life in the governor’s manor.
“What do you think of Lady Marguerite?” Jean asked when I was done.
Mindful of my promise, I didn’t go into great detail. “She’s the kindest woman there could be,” I said. “But I don’t think she leads a happy life. Her mother is … well … not the kindest woman. Her brothers are boisterous. Her father is busy. She doesn’t seem to have close friends. I know it’s presumptuous of me, but sometimes I feel sorry for her.”
“Not presumptuous—wasted,” Jean said dryly. “Folks like us never need to lavish sympathy on folks like her, who have so much in their lives they don’t need happiness, too.”
“I think I’d want happiness even if I was the highest noble in the Seven Jewels.”
