My mother’s face looks back at me from the mirror. Her freckles dance over my nose and cheeks like unmapped constellations. Her olive skin glows like topaz in the candlelight. Her hair shines, the color of deep mahogany, though hers was always down and wild, never held back so severely from her face like mine. The eyes are not her eyes, though. Instead, Ampelio’s dark hazel eyes stare back at me, deep-set, with heavy lashes.
Though these are flaws that Kalovaxian beauty standards demand I hide, I remember how people spoke about my mother’s beauty, how they wrote poems and sang songs in her honor.
I blink and I see the Theyn’s knife pressing into my throat—into my mother’s throat. I feel the bite of the steel, see beads of blood well up. I blink again and it’s only me. Only a broken girl.
Theodosia Eirene Houzzara. The name whispers through me again, followed by my mother’s dying words.
Would she forgive me for killing Ampelio? Would she understand why I did it? Or does she turn her back on me from her place in the After?
He’s with her now, I have to believe that. He’s with her because he gave his life to spare me, though that isn’t fair. He risked everything for Astrea, while I have done nothing but try to appease the monster who destroyed us.
I can’t play the Kaiser’s game anymore. I can’t follow his rules and keep him amused while my people wear chains. I can’t laugh and talk about poetry with Crescentia. I can’t speak in their hard, ugly language. I can’t respond to a name that isn’t the one my mother gave me.
Ampelio was the last person I thought could rescue me, my last hope that this nightmare could end one day. I thought I’d killed that hope when I killed him, but I realize now that I didn’t. The hope inside me is not smothered yet. It is dying, yes, with only a few embers left. But I’ve seen fires rekindled with less.
Hoa still hasn’t returned, so I paint my face again, covering up every last trace of my mother. My true name feels heavy on my tongue after hearing Ampelio speak it earlier, and I want to hear it again. I want to say it, to banish Thora from my mind for good, but I don’t dare.
Theodosia, Theodosia, Theodosia.
Something in me is waking up. This is not my home. I am not their prize. I am not content with the life they have so kindly spared.
Ampelio can’t save me anymore, but I won’t let his sacrifice be in vain. I have to figure out how to save myself.
THE DRESS THE KAISER SENDS for me to wear is bright vermilion with no sleeves and very little back. It’s similar to the loose, simple chiton styles my people wore before the Conquering. Strangely, in recent years, Astrean styles have become popular among the younger courtiers, as opposed to the structured heavy velvets the Kalovaxians wore when they first arrived. But I don’t think the Kaiser picked it with style in mind. With my shoulders and back bare, my scars are exposed and his message can be read all the clearer.
Astrea is defeated. Astrea is broken. Astrea is no more.
I’ve always been ashamed of the red, gnarled skin of my back. The record of Astrea’s rebellions can be traced there. Each time Astrean pirates sank one of the Kaiser’s ships, each time one of the mines tried to revolt, each time a slave spit at their master, it was carved into my skin. The scars are ugly and monstrous and a constant reminder of what I am.
But now, sitting in front of the vanity mirror while Hoa braids my hair, it’s not shame I feel. Now, fresh hate trickles through my veins like water from thawing ice. I’ve been pushing it down for so long that it feels good to finally let it overtake me. It’s an aimless aura of hate, though. It needs a focus. It needs a channel. It needs a plan.
But I am isolated here—there is no one to turn to for help. All I know of what goes on outside the palace comes from overhearing Kalovaxian courtiers, and it’s usually been filtered through so many people by then that I’m not sure how much truth is in it. There are Astreans in the capital, but all of them are slaves and most of them are younger than I am and kept malnourished and weak. And though I hate myself for thinking it, I’m not sure I can trust them.
The Theyn. Even though the very thought of him makes me want to vomit again, I can’t deny that if there’s anyone who is likely to have accurate information about Astrean rebellions, it’s him. There’s the possibility Cress has overheard him saying something relevant, but the world outside the palace holds little interest for her, so it doesn’t seem likely she’d remember anything important. No, I’ll have to speak with the Theyn himself tonight, though being around him always makes me feel like I’m six years old again, watching him slit my mother’s throat.
I am sure he doesn’t like me any more than I like him, but if I corner him with Cress at my side, if I widen my eyes and let my voice tremble as I act like I’m frightened that Ampelio was working with someone, that whoever it is will try to come and take me away, he’ll have to tell me something. Admittedly, he’ll tell me there’s no one left no matter what the truth is, but for all his skills in battle, the Theyn is a horrible liar.
Cress herself pointed out the tells to me once, how his skin turns a flustered red under the long yellow beard that takes up most of his face. How he makes too much eye contact, how his nostrils flare.
Either way, I’ll have a better idea of what’s going on with the rebellion.
Hoa fastens another braid back with a plain pin. Her eyes meet mine in the mirror, and for an instant I could swear she reads my thoughts as clearly as words on a page. Her eyes narrow, but after a moment she looks away, braiding the last section of my hair and securing it in place.
There’s a knock at the door, and without waiting, a servant enters with a gold box. The final part of my ensemble.
Inside is a crown modeled after the one my mother wore: a circlet of flames that cuts across the forehead and reaches up a few inches, licking at the air.
Hoa places it on my head with a featherlight touch. It’s a routine we’ve been through too many times to count, so often that it’s become banal, but this time is different. This time, I let myself remember how my mother would sometimes let me wear her crown, how it was so big it would fall down around my neck. But while my mother’s crown was wrought from black gold and set with rubies, the one the Kaiser sends me is molded from ashes, and as soon as it is in place, it begins to crumble, streaking my hair, skin, and dress.
My mother was known as the Fire Queen, regal and strong. But I am the Ash Princess, a living joke.
* * *
—
The stares lie heavy on my skin as soon as I step into the banquet hall, followed by whispers and titters that warm my cheeks. Flakes of ash come down with each step I take, each infinitesimal move of my head, fluttering against my cheeks and shoulders and chest. I pretend not to notice, keeping my head high and letting my eyes glide over the courtiers until they catch on one stare in particular. The Prinz’s eyes are so much like his father’s that my chest constricts until I can hardly breathe. I look away, wanting to sink through the floor and disappear entirely as I remember how I vomited on him earlier. His stare has a purpose to it, though, which is not to gawk or gloat, but to draw my eyes back to his. I won’t give in.
I have my own purpose. While he watches me, I watch the shadows, where the slaves wait with their sunken eyes until they’re needed. They are mostly children and adolescents, though there are a few older women as well. No one who could prove a threat, physically. They are all frail bones jutting out beneath sallow skin, with missing teeth and thinning clumps of hair.