Lyra ducked in behind the chambermaids, unseen, looking on as her aunt made a show of it: shaking the dust from the heavy drapes until several servants sneezed; folding back the brocade bedspread to line the sheets with musky-scented pillow-soaps of black amber and jasmine—Griselda’s signature fragrance; and opening the wardrobe to chase away the moths so she could air out the late queen’s beaded and bejeweled gowns of damasks, velvets, and silks.
Griselda’s hands already sparkled with ruby rings and white gold bracelets—pilfered from the royal jewelry box—as she lifted a gown free and held it against herself. Although unsettled by the image, Lyra couldn’t escape how her aunt seemed to belong in this room. How her confidence and poise favored her queenly mother in portraits more than Lyra ever would. How much more regal her aunt’s ivory complexion appeared in those warm, lush colors, compared to Lyra’s ghostly pallor.
Yet, in the back of the wardrobe, there remained a few pastel gowns of pale citrine, periwinkle, and seafoam that Lyra aspired to wear one day.
She looked down at her own unadorned gown of sage chiffon. Carnation-pink lace gilded the sleeves where they kissed her elbows, and a hem of the same skimmed the floor at her ankles—long enough her bare feet could only be seen in snippets when she walked.
In one cherished memory of her father, Lyra had followed him to the seamstress’s chamber and listened as he requested special gowns for her. “It’s of utmost importance that she’s comfortable. Airy fabrics free of embellishments. Nothing to weigh her down. Already she bears enough, wrapped in cloaks just so she can frequent other parts of the castle. And none of those deep colors that are fashionable in court. Something soft and delicate. Pastels, perhaps. They’ll flatter her coloring and be gentle on her eyes.”
Though his heart had been in the right place, her special wardrobe had the undesired effect of magnifying her differences, making Lyra stand out like a faded lily in a field of brilliant poppies and wildflowers.
“From this point on, we’ll visit our subjects daily in the commons, accompanied by the royal guards.” Griselda’s statement recaptured Lyra’s attention as the two chambermaids helped her into a black damask gown. Once the lacings on the corset back were tightened to fit her curves, she spun so the exquisite fabric rustled and whirled around her. When the dress came to a stop, a seamstress adjusted the diamond pin tucks across the bodice. “It’s time to refurbish our wardrobes. Our late Queen Arael wouldn’t have wished for her things to go unused . . . gathering dust.” Griselda raised her arms theatrically, delivering the speech as if to a great audience, although it was only Lyra, her cousins, and a handful of servants remaining. Griselda leveled a glance at her daughters who were seated on the bed. “We’ll deconstruct some of her less fashionable gowns and have the seamstresses reprise their embellishments and gemstones, so you will also have new accoutrements for our constitutionals. And this mattress . . .” Griselda snatched the seamstress’s scissors and scored a slit in Queen Arael’s bed, revealing the goose-down stuffing within. “Have the chamberlain bring us lamb’s wool to replace this filling,” she directed the blond chambermaid. “I won’t suffer sleeping upon feathers.”
At the thought of those same scissors ripping apart her mother’s beautiful things, Lyra stepped out of hiding and shouted, “No, please!” The room went completely silent. As always, her words held no shape. Even to her own ears, the sound rebounded in musical notes, and the only emotion the songs portrayed was joy . . . a bird’s trill despite that her heart cried in plaintive desperation.
Everyone in the room stalled their activities to stare at her. The moths that had been hiding since being chased from the wardrobe came out to hover along the ceiling—drawn by the enchanting sound.
Defeated, Lyra slumped against the cushioned headboard.
Griselda’s razor-sharp focus sliced into her. She dragged out her glossy crimson-and-black side braid to hang along the bodice of Arael’s gown. “Perhaps our princess would wipe the pout off her lips.” Lyra’s lowered her lashes, hiding from the attention beneath fans of snowy fringe. “Although you can’t accompany us on our diurnal processions, I am sure you can be satisfied to wait here for our return. We are each making sacrifices, dearest one. Ours is the most substantial, living here on the dark side of the castle. But I am willing to do that, for just as our kingdom needs to see that their royal line is still thriving and strong, my niece needs to be assured that I’m not only regent over Eldoria, but over her as well. I am your mother now.”
Lyra’s rapid heartbeats denied the lie even as her cousins chattered in agreement.
Wrathalyne sorted through Queen Arael’s books piled on the bed. “Mums, since we’re to have an extra sister now, we should move into Sir Nicolet’s chamber. It’s the biggest on the floor other than the king’s. It can be a wallowship of royal sisters!”
“Fellowship, Wrath,” Avaricette corrected around a mouthful of confections while shoving a lexicon off the top of the book pile toward her sister. “And may I suggest you start with this book and read it from front to back?”
While her cousins bickered, fresh sadness surged through Lyra at the reminder of Sir Nicolet’s absence. He, her father, and her aunt had grown up together, which made him the closest thing to an uncle Lyra ever had. She adored how his skin and eyes were a rich ebony, a comforting depth that reminded her of safe places, but how he also beamed like strands of sunlight each time he’d reveal his white-toothed smile. The day her father was to travel to Nerezeth to bargain with Queen Nova, Lyra secretly hid beneath the bed in the king’s chambers to stay close to him until he left. Sir Nicolet had visited to speak privately with the king as he sat his desk, gluing the pieces of her mother’s broken mirror back together. “You will stay behind and watch over Lyra,” her father insisted. “When you hear of my returning, wait at our secret meeting place where I’ll give you an update.”
Lyra had kept the clandestine conference to herself, and hoped against all hope that Sir Nicolet was still waiting in that secret place and would come out soon.
Griselda tsk’d at her daughters. “There will be no moving into Sir Nicolet’s chamber. He’s an experienced knight. We must have faith he’ll return unharmed. Now, come choose your favorite embellishments.”
Avaricette dropped the plate of cherry-jams she’d been munching upon, sending them rolling around on the floor; Wrathalyne set aside one of Queen Arael’s gardening books she accused of being “mundanian and pedantic”; and Lustacia stood from sorting through rubies, emeralds, sapphires and diamonds. Her eyes met Lyra’s and glistened with something akin to compassion before she joined her sisters. Candlelight bounced off their expertly coiffed locks as they stepped together to the wardrobe, finding favorite gowns to be used as scrap materials for their own ensembles.
Lyra hedged into a corner where the moths had gathered—where the shadows swirled thick as a black cape.
The moths, spiders, and occasional rat occupying the castle were the only night creatures left behind after Eldoria’s victory over Nerezeth. Since then, most of their slimy, spindly-legged, and fuzzy-winged kin had migrated to the starlit realm. Lyra was grateful some chose to stay. They were outcasts like her, and she shared their desire to stay hidden.
Her father had always told her, “Beware the light.” Over her lifetime, she’d come to understand the true meaning: Beware the light, for those who love it hate you.
Just as that thought occurred to her, the beating of the moths’ wings blended to a murmur: “Be-be-be-ware-ware-ware, be-be-be-ware-ware-ware.”
Lyra looked up at them, stunned. Her cousin Lustacia stirred from admiring a plum underskirt embroidered with gold-beaded ivy, as if also hearing the airy mantra. Her gaze locked on Lyra for all of three blinks, then she furrowed her brow and looked down, as though convinced she’d imagined it.
But it wasn’t imaginary. Lyra’s chin trembled. The moths’ wings had echoed what was in her mind, as if they were the mouthpieces for her defective tongue. For the first time in her life, her unspoken words had reached someone’s ears.
A sense of belonging welled within, filling spaces that had been empty ever since her birth. She decided she loved moths . . . and they loved her, even more than her family did.