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 seat 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.