Page 5 of Those Fatal Flowers
The bedroom opens to a small landing. To my right, a narrow set of stairs leads down to the floor below. The hallway continues to my left, a dark place with no windows. The only light, the moon’s, filters through a tiny window straight ahead of me. Underneath it sits a small wooden table with two matching chairs on either side. Dust hangs suspended in theair like slow-falling snow, visible only because the exact angle of Luna’s beams has exposed it.
I take one more look down the depressing corridor. Two doors line the opposing wall. Beside each door is a sconce, but the candles are no longer lit. Thin trails of smoke rise up from their wicks, weaving transparent ribbons in the air. Someone blew them out before retiring.
I hear my heart beating in my ears, and my first instinct is to soar down the stairs, to flee from this home. Instead, I take a deep breath and retreat into my room. Disappearing into the night would be dangerous, and I must keep calm. Raidne and Pisinoe are depending on me.
But from where?
Despite everything, the woman’s question brings a smile to my lips, for how could I ever possibly begin to answer it? I’d love nothing more than to describe Sirenum Scopuli to her. To explain that my prison was an archipelago formed by three islands: the main landmass, Scopuli, and two smaller isles. One we call Castle because of its three stone spires that look like turrets against the setting sun, and the other Rotunda simply because it’s round. I’d tell her that Scopuli looks like aporpoise from the air, and that its sweet half-moon body creates the archipelago’s eastern boundary, with Castle and Rotunda completing it to the west. It’s inside this net that ships break upon our reef, the lucky sailors smashed to their deaths against the cliffside of the porpoise’s belly, the unlucky ones washing ashore alive onto the beach located, quite fittingly, inside its mouth.
But her son will learn all about that soon enough.
I crawl back into the bed. It doesn’t take long for Proserpina’s voice to find me one final time.
My dear Thelia. I can save you all, but I need more blood.
What would it feel like to be the girl who balked at such arequest? The question leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. That girl died for the first time on her hands and knees, clawing at scorched earth that swallowed the one she loved, and she’s died a thousand deaths since then. She was weak; there’s no place for her here. Not with one full moon already lost and the next only a week away.
Six turns of the moon, Proserpina had said, and now I’m down to five. That’s all I have before her magic wears off, before my sisters and I will be officially sentenced to death.
When I speak, there’s no hesitation. “Then you shall have it.”
2
Now
Despite my exhaustion, sleep doesn’t come easily. I toss and turn in the strange bed, surprised to find no relief in its soft linens. I’m untethered without the sound of the waves lapping at Scopuli’s shore, without the ocean sloshing against the edges of my boat. Wherever I am, it’s far enough inland to hide these comforts from me. The house is still and silent.
Streaks of light eventually filter into the room from a window behind my bed. The air that slips between its shutters is cold, and I draw my blanket around my shoulders as I peer through them. A line of thatched-roofed cottages sit in view, and behind them, a timber wall so high that it’s impossible todiscern what the world holds on the other side of it. The architecture is dark and angular compared to the marbled palace of my youth, with exteriors stripped of any embellishments; these homes are purely functional. They look nothing like the warm mud-brick dwellings of mortals past. Are they a mirror of what lives inside their builders’ hearts?
People are already meandering past. Men with curiousmetal devices slung over their shoulders and conical hats on top of their heads, a woman with a basket of mushrooms resting on her hip. Many wear shades of brown and black, as muted as the dying earth beneath their feet. All slow their gait before this home, eyes lingering on the windows, no doubt trying to glimpse the strange woman who arrived the previous night. I pull back from the aperture before I’m spotted, sinking down into the mattress.
A light knock at my door catches me by surprise, and I lift my head in time to watch an unfamiliar woman slip inside. The sight of her takes my breath away. When was the last time I saw a woman? Alive, that is. My throat closes at the memory, and I shove those waterlogged corpses as far out of mind as possible. It must have been Ceres, perched on her golden throne, the same color as late autumn wheat. She’d been so furious that her anger formed its own entity, a dark shadow that twisted up the wall behind her. After all these years, I can still see it,feelit, as the shade shifted from beast to beast—first a wolf, then a bear, then some unknowable monster of teeth and claws, but always a predator bearing down on us.
At the time, I didn’t understand how rage could be so potent. Now I do.
This woman is nothing like Ceres. Her garb is plain, made of a simple gray linen, and wisps of blond hair escape from beneath a strange little white hat to delicately frame her thin face. Her eyes are a deep brown, and a dusting of freckles adorns her cheeks. She’s young but worn past her years. There are deep purple bags under her eyes, dark as bruises, and her limbs are bordering on too thin. To call her beautiful would be a stretch to most, but not to me—after all these years, she is a miracle. A tray of food is balanced on her left hip, and she kicks the door gently closed behind her. Whenshe finds me sitting upright, she gasps with surprise. Is this the mystery woman who watched over me last night?
An unfamiliar voice dashes my hopes.
“Mistress! I didn’t expect to find you awake!” She shuffles over to set the tray delicately down on a small end table beside the bed and offers me a biscuit. “My name’s Margery Harvie. I’m the Bailies’ maid. Mistress Bailie told me all about you. How they found you on the beach last night with so much treasure…”
I look at the biscuit blankly, too stunned by her presence to move. Is it safe to eat? Attitudes toward wanderers varied among mortals the last time I interacted with them. Some treated travelers with respect, opening their homes and their pantries to those who could be sages, mystics, or even gods. Other groups ravaged and murdered those unfortunate enough to cross their path. What type of people do I find myself with now? The offering of food suggests the former, but humans have never been above poisoning. My stomach, unafraid of injury, gurgles loudly at the sight of food.
The maid’s expression crumples. “I know it’s hardly a worthy meal, but it’s all we have. Provisions are already low, and with winter so close…”
I still can’t bring myself to take it from her. What would become of Raidne and Pisinoe if I died now? And over something so foolish.
Realization washes over her features. She smiles softly, placing a warm hand on top of mine. The feeling of her palm, calloused by work, on my skin makes my heart leap into my throat. “It’s safe, mistress. Here, I’ll show you. They’re more palatable if you soak them in the soup.”
To the audible protest of my stomach, she cracks the biscuit in half, sending crumbs raining down into the steaming broth below. The liquid is a pale yellow and woefully empty,a mockery of Raidne’s soups during times of plenty, colorful creations packed with herbs, mushrooms, and meat. Saliva pools beneath my tongue at the memory.
Only after Margery’s swallowed her piece do I wolf down mine. The broth is tasteless, but at least it’s warm.
“What’s your name, mistress?”
It feels as if a piece of the hardtack is stuck in my throat, but the sensation’s caused by nerves. The importance of this moment isn’t lost on me. This is where my test truly begins. Up until now, my journey was passive. I climbed into the boat, and the boat brought me here. I was discovered on the shore and carried to this home. And now, finally, an actual person sits before me, asking me who I am and what I want. I try to gulp down the blockage as my hand finds the golden relic around my neck. The delicate oval pendant fits easily in my palm, though the sapphire in its center bites into my skin as anxiety tightens my grip around it. Will it translate my words for Margery’s ears like it does hers to mine?
Proserpina, please, let this work.