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.”