*
By the next morning, on the day of Channary’s coronation, it seemed that all of Luna had been granted permission to pretend that the assassinations had never happened, that the memories of King Marrok and Queen Jannali would live on peaceably in their history texts, and that young Channary would make for a most fair and just ruler. Levana wasn’t sure how many people believed this, and no doubt those who did had never met her sister, but Channary’s right to the throne went unquestioned even by her. They were, after all, the only known heirs of the Blackburn bloodline, that distant ancestor who had been first born with the Lunar gift. Channary, as the eldest royal daughter, would be queen, as her son or daughter would rule next, and the generation after that, and the generation after that. It was how the crown had been passed on since the day Luna became a monarchy, since the day Cyprus Blackburn created his own throne.
Levana would not be the one to disrupt those values now, no matter how much it irked her to know that silly, vapid Channary would spend more time batting her lashes at handsome servants than discussing the economic difficulties facing their country.
But Levana was only fifteen years old, as she was so often reminded, so what did she know about it?
Nothing at all, is what Channary would say, or any one of the thaumaturges who were preparing to swear fealty to her. Their bias seemed to ignore the laws, that Lunar royalty could rule as young as thirteen, with or without the advice of a council.
Levana stood on the third-level balcony, staring down into the great hall where the funeral had been, where her sister had sobbed until she could hardly breathe and then fainted, or pretended to faint, and was carried away by—of all the guards—Evret Hayle, who was standing nearby when it happened. Where Levana had been left alone to blunder through an unprepared speech of lies and fake tears.
The grays were gone now, replaced with the official colors of Luna—white, red, and black. An enormous tapestry hung on the wall behind the dais, depicting the Lunar insignia in shimmering, handwoven threads, a design that had originated back when Luna was a republic. It depicted Luna and the capital city of Artemisia in the foreground, with Earth—once their ally—in the distance. It was a majestic piece, but it was impossible for Levana not to think that it would have been even more stunning had it been made by the fingers of Solstice Hayle.
Though countless servants were toiling away in preparation for the ceremony, and her sister was no doubt being fitted into her gown at that moment, Levana was glad for the temporary serenity in the empty hall.
She had selected a simple sapphire-blue dress to match the gloves delivered to her chambers that morning. They arrived in a white box, wrapped in crisp tissue paper and accompanied by a little note from Solstice, which Levana had thrown away without reading.
The gloves were even more beautiful in the daylight that poured through the palace windows, and the embroidery was more delicate and exquisite than she’d imagined. The threads began with flourishing Ls placed covertly on her palms, before curling around her forearms and past her elbows like living vines that then blended perfectly with the chains that continued on to her neck.
She almost felt like a queen standing there, and she couldn’t keep away a fantasy that she was the one being crowned that day. She hadn’t yet decided on an acceptable glamour for the occasion, so in that moment, she became her sister. Twenty-two years old, mature and elegant, with those ever-smiling eyes.
But no. She didn’t want to be Channary. She didn’t want her beauty, not if it came with her cruelty and selfishness as well.
No sooner had she thought it than another woman flashed through her thoughts.
I do not believe you have ever met my wife.
Trying on the glamour of Solstice Hayle felt like something taboo and reprehensible, and strangely right in the very wrongness of it. Levana thought of her flawless complexion and the ringlets of dark hair draped over her shoulders, of her almond-shaped eyes and the way her lips had a just-kissed hint of rouge to them, though the idea that the redness was caused by a kiss was quite possibly a product of Levana’s own envy. She thought of Solstice’s thick, flirtatious eyelashes, and how she had seemed to glow with happiness, even on a day of mourning. She thought of Solstice’s stomach, plump and round with the promise of a child.
Evret’s child.
Levana settled a hand on her own stomach, incorporating the pregnancy into the glamour. What must that feel like, to have a living creature growing inside her? A child created by love, not political advantage or manipulation.
“Levana, are you up—”
Gasping, Levana spun around as Channary crested the top of the staircase. Her sister saw her and paused. “Oh, you’re not…”
Channary hesitated, her eyes narrowing. It was an expression that Levana had seen a thousand times. No matter how confident she was becoming in her glamours, Channary always saw through them. She would never explain what Levana was giving away, whether it was the way she held herself or a particular expression or some other tell, like a gambler’s tick. But Channary had a special knack for discovering it.
Sensing that Channary hadn’t yet made up her mind about the pregnant woman loitering on the great hall’s upper balcony, Levana dipped into a humble curtsy.
“I do beg your pardon, Your Highness,” she said in her meekest voice. “I should not be up here. I was only waiting for my husband to get off duty and thought I would come to admire the decorations.”
Thinking she had already said more than a real seamstress would, Levana curtsied again. “May I take my leave of you, Your Highness?”
“Yes,” said Channary, still hesitant, “and don’t let me catch you up here again. This isn’t a playground for the desperately bored. If you need something useful to occupy your time while you’re”—she gestured at Levana’s stomach—“reproducing, I’m sure my lady’s maid can find something for you to do. There will be no idleness under my rule, not even for women of your condition.”
“Of course, Your Highness.” Keeping her head bowed, Levana ducked around her sister and darted toward the steps.
“One more thing.”
She froze, a mere three steps lower than where Channary stood, and dared not meet her gaze.
“You are Sir Hayle’s wife, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
She heard a soft footstep, and another, as Channary came to stand on the step above her. Curious, Levana dared to glance upward, regretting it the moment she saw Channary’s smirk.
“Do tell him how much I enjoyed our time together after the funeral,” said Channary, her voice lilting over the words like a stream bubbling over worn stones. “He was such a comfort to me, and I hope we can enjoy each other’s company again soon.” Her tongue darted through the corner of her mouth as she admired the fake pregnancy bump. “You are a very lucky woman, Mrs. Hayle.”
Levana’s jaw fell, horror and indignation filling her head as quickly as hot blood rushed to her face. “You’re lying!”
Channary’s insinuating look turned immediately to arrogance. “It is you!” she said, laughing delightedly. “What in the name of Luna are you doing impersonating a guard’s wife? And a pregnant one at that!”
Balling her hands into fists, Levana turned and marched down the steps. “I’m only practicing!” she called over her shoulder.
“Practicing your glamour?” Channary said, traipsing after her. “Or practicing for a life of eternal loneliness? You must know you’re not going to catch the eye of anyone in court by prancing around as a poor, pregnant woman. Or—oh!” Faking a gasp, Channary clapped a hand over her mouth. “Are you hoping that Sir Hayle himself sees you like this? Do you have fantasies of him mistaking you for his beloved? Swooping you into his arms, kissing you breathless, perhaps even … reenacting what led to your present condition?”
Smothering her embarrassment, Levana kept a firm hold on the glamour of Solstice Hayle, in part for the principle of it. Channary thought that if she taunted Levana enough, she could control her decisions, and Levana refused to let that be true.
“Stop it,” she seethed, arriving at the first landing. She rounded a carved column to continue down to the ground floor, her hand rested on her stomach like a real pregnant woman might do. “You’re only jealous because you never have any originality with your—”
She froze halfway down the steps.
Two guards stood at attention on the lower landing.
One of them was Evret Hayle.
A shudder pulsed through her, from her very empty womb up through her chest and vibrating down through her gloved fingertips.
Despite all his training, Evret was failing at keeping his expression stoic and disinterested. He gaped at Levana—Solstice—and he tried so very, very hard to look professional, but it was conflicted and confused.
“Solstice?” he stammered, brow furrowed as he took in the beautiful blue dress that pulled tight over her stomach, the elaborately embroidered gloves that he’d no doubt seen his wife working on the evening before. “You’re supposed to be resting. What are you doing here?”
Levana gulped and wished and wished and wished that she were truly his beloved.
“Oops,” said Channary. “I guess I should have told you he was down here. Completely slipped my mind.” She drifted down the steps until she was standing beside Levana and placed a hand on Levana’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, you silly man. This is my baby sister, only pretending to be your wife.” She dropped her voice into an exuberant whisper. “Between you and me, I think she might have a bit of a crush on you. Isn’t that just darling?”
Levana felt a sob in the base of her throat, clawing to get out, and knew it would succeed if she stood there a moment longer. She tried to figure out what was the worst part of this moment. That Evret had seen her impersonating his wife, or that he might have heard Channary’s accusations.
She decided it was all mortifying. She decided she would rather have been stabbed sixteen times in the chest than have to live through this one excruciating moment.
Shoving Channary away, she hid her face—her beautiful, flawless, beloved face—and ran from the hall. Ran as fast as she could, ignoring the protective guards that hastened to keep up with her, ignoring the servants that threw themselves against walls to be out of her way.
She started ripping off the gloves the second she reached her private chambers. One of the chains snapped. The hem on the other glove ripped. She unclasped the gold-braided necklace, nearly choking herself in her need to get it off.
The dress was next, and she didn’t care if she shredded it. She wanted to ruin it. Soon, the gown and the gloves were wadded into a tight ball and thrust into the corner of her wardrobe, and she knew she would never put them on again.
She was so stupid. Such a stupid, stupid girl.
For ever thinking she could be admired. For ever thinking she could be beautiful, or adored, or noticed. For ever thinking she could be anything at all.