A Compendium of Poetry and Blood
Over the next week, Lyra’s subjects abandoned superstition and welcomed her with open arms. It was a feeling she’d never experienced, and one that at times overwhelmed. All of the castle’s servants, even those who had once been strangers, rallied around her, devoted to her comfort. Not a curtain anywhere was left open. Even the east, west, and south sides lingered in perpetual darkness, brightened only by the harmless glow of candlelight. New glass panels were crafted for the tower windows, tinted with blue dye. When a cloudy sky presented itself, drapes were opened so Lyra could look out safely upon her muted kingdom.
Joyful shouts arose as Lyra peered from behind the curtains of the dormer window in the southern tower’s turret, high enough to be seen by the commoners. She looked down at the sea of waving hands, caught a breath, and jerked back into hiding. In her childhood, the one time she reached a finger toward a window, she’d been scalded by the sun. Those who stood in the light had always been separate from her. That had changed with her betrothal to the night prince, Nerezeth’s evening star.
Lyra tried to picture Prince Vesper with only the prophecy to go by: a star-boy forged of sunlight. It was breathtaking to imagine—golden rays gleaming from his eyes . . . his flesh and hair as dazzling-bright as the sun glinting off water like in the paintings that decked the castle’s halls and corridors.
She would barely even be able to look upon him, much less touch him. Despite how she might long to, for in her most secret heart, she had never stopped loving the sun, even though it hated her.
A few weeks into this new life, Mia arrived one morning to awaken the princess. The maid removed the blue globes from the candles to brighten the room, then prodded Lyra’s feet gently, as was her ritual, in memory of how Matilde used to tickle her toes with goose feathers. Lyra awoke with a smile that flitted away as quickly as the moths darted toward the rising flames on the wicks. Mia had settled at the wardrobe to pull out Queen Arael’s dresses.
Lyra threw off her covers to stand, her feet chilly on the marble floor. Mia glanced across her shoulder as she folded a velvet gown. The princess shrugged—an unspoken query.
“Something astonishing ’as happened.” Mia’s face beamed with happiness. “The townspeople . . . they’re changing. Oh, how ’is majesty your father would’ve loved to see it.” Her round, full cheeks flushed. “The children of the kingdom are pretending to be made of moonlight. The girls are coating their hair with the silt that oozes beneath the silvery pebbles along the banks of the Crystal Lake . . . slopping their brows and lips with cream made of crushed periwinkle pearls. Some are even using ’oney to glue molted goose feathers upon their eyelids as lashes. And they’re playing games with their brothers in the root cellars, commanding shadows by waving candles in the air and casting silhouettes along the walls.” She chortled deep in her chest. “Wouldn’t be surprised if they trade their pet cats and dogs for sparrows. They’re all imitating birdsongs, in ’opes to sound like you—though none could ever capture the purity of your voice.” Mia winked.
Lyra’s cheerful friend pulled out a damask gown. The princess’s eyebrows drew tight in question again as she pointed to the folded clothes piling up next to Mia’s feet, still confused about what this had to do with her mother’s things.
“Oh, this.” Mia sighed—a relieved sound. “I will only take out a few and store them safely away. But I must make room. You’re about to receive a new wardrobe. We all are! The clothiers are scrambling to meet demands for tunics, gowns, chemises, and corsets in lightweight fabrics like yours. The deeper hues are being cast out for shades of blush and pastel. They say it better pays ’omage to the blooms of spring and summer.”
Lyra fashioned part of her hair into a hasty side braid—the symbol for her aunt Griselda that she’d been using for years with her father and Mia.
Mia laughed again. “Ah, well, ’ere was the grand regent’s reaction . . .” She stuck her nose in the air and flapped about the room, holding an outdated gown in front of her. “Tsk. I simply cannot understand why it took everyone so long.” Mia parodied Griselda’s commanding voice and snooty mannerisms to perfection. “I’ve always said Lyra’s ensembles are breezier than the weighty velvets and brocades of the past. This kingdom would run so much smoother if everyone listened to meeeeee!”
Lyra slapped a hand across her mouth, but not fast enough to stifle a bubble of musical laughter. Mia placed one of Arael’s ruby rings to hang loosely on Lyra’s thumb. “You see, my little delight, you’ve given the kingdom a reason to be curious. A reason to wonder upon what we’ve been missing all these centuries. You’re paving the way for your night prince to bring back the moon to our skies. Come five more years, and they’ll be laying out white-gold bricks for his feet to trod upon when he comes to claim your hand.”
Lyra winced. She returned her mother’s ring to its satin-lined box, her fingers yet too small for such precious gems. She knew little about marriage. Both her father and aunt had lost their spouses early. But she’d read enough romantic poems to know that courting involved the touching of lips and hands and fingertips. Skin pressed to skin. To be bound to a man as bright as the sun would mean a life of excruciating pain.
Should it come to that, she would choose to suffer the agony of his sunlit touch. She’d had enough of loneliness in her past to know she didn’t want it in her future.
Mia released the princess’s hand and began folding clothes again. Lyra reached over to help her smooth out the wrinkles in the heavy fabrics, though she couldn’t straighten the crimp in her forehead.
“I know what you fear,” Mia said, her intuitive, dark eyes tender in the candle glow. “But perhaps the prophecy isn’t literal on the prince’s end. Though your part is, undeniably.”
Lyra hadn’t tried to hide her new friendship with the night creatures. The curtains always being drawn enabled her shadow attendants to accompany her everywhere, even during court sessions, meals, and the occasional formal banquet or ball. People accepted the strange sight—for this was the prophecy. However, Lyra didn’t miss the uneasy side glances when her shadows rose tall and spindly from the corners, so she kept them shrunken small; she wanted her human subjects to be comfortable with her, too.
She also kept her creeper bugs well hidden. Since they feared getting trampled, following Lyra’s new daily routines with people frightened them. Also, Griselda turned into a mass of quivering bones at the sight of any night creatures, so having them guarding the queen’s chamber was the best way to keep her mother’s things safe.
Lyra had yet to show anyone else, even Mia, how her pets could be used as a mouthpiece when in the room with her. It was something she kept secret between herself and Griselda, to shock and command attention once more should the day ever prove necessary. After all, Lyra wanted to honor her father by being a great ruler—like him and her mother. She needed power for that, and her odd attendants offered this. But there was more to being a majesty than power; she needed to learn how to make day-to-day decisions for the kingdom and was invited into council by Prime Minister Albous to learn.
“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.