Talia stood up and walked over to her parrot’s perch, stroking the bird’s bright feathers as she avoided her friend’s question.
“You’re not even dressed yet,” Ayah admonished.
“I wanted some time to myself. I sent the attendants away.”
“You are entirely too dramatic.”
Talia glanced back to see Ayah grinning at her.
“It’s not going to be that bad.”
Talia forced a smile, trying to ignore the wrench in her stomach. She’d promised her mother to keep her true identity hidden, even though every last servant seemed to know. “I have to give a speech!”
Ayah grabbed her hands and spun her around in a circle. “And be presented to the court as an eligible woman, and eat mountains of food, and dance with every handsome man in Enduena. I don’t know what you’re worried about.”
“I might not get to see you as much.”
“Huen’s bones. Of course you will.”
Ayah’s oath made Talia smile in earnest—her friend’s religious inclinations made her curse all the more amusing. It wasn’t popular to believe in the gods anymore—religion had scarcely been practiced at all in the last half-century, and it was rare to even find a working temple these days. The Emperor frowned upon belief in the old gods, and most people only used them to swear by. But Ayah hailed from one of the Empire’s colonies on Od, where the old myths were more generally accepted, and she had apprenticed with a palace librarian. Od supposedly had the greatest university in the world, but Eddenahr still boasted the best library—even though, according to Ayah, they were still trying to recover texts lost in a fire several centuries back. Talia didn’t like the library. It was huge and oppressively ancient and too easy to get lost in. If she believed in ghosts—which she didn’t—she was sure that’s where they would all live. Ayah was always nagging her to go in there anyway, quoting from her dusty religious books and trying to convince her that the gods were as real as the palace stones. Talia liked to tease her that if the gods did exist, it was awfully cruel of them to have made her hair so very orange.
“What would I do without you, Ay?”
Ayah grinned again. “Allow yourself to be very miserable. Now come on, I’ll help you get dressed.”
Talia showed her the gown that had arrived that morning from the seamstress, and had to laugh as Ayah punched her in the shoulder and cursed again. “What on gods’ green Endahr are you miserable about, you ridiculous mongoose? Arriving at your coming-of-age ball dressed like a goddess?”
The gown was beautiful. It was a delicate yellow silk so pale it looked like starlight, and its accompanying air-light sash was sewn with gold thread and glints of diamonds.
“We don’t do anything for coming-of-age in Od,” said Ayah wistfully.
“What do you miss most?” This was a question Talia had asked frequently, ever since she’d found a very homesick Ayah sobbing in the corridor outside the library four years ago. It seemed to help Ayah to talk about Od, and Talia loved hearing her stories. Sometimes Talia imagined visiting her friend’s homeland, but it was hard to wish to be somewhere else when she already lived in one of the wonders of the world, “the Jewel of Endahr.” Endahr was an ancient word that meant “the earth,” and Eddenahr’s name was derived from it, which seemed appropriate to Talia. Eddenahr really did seem like it contained the whole world.
“The forests,” said Ayah. “Starlight through the trees. Winter.”
Talia slipped into the yellow gown, and Ayah started fastening the back. “We have winter in northern Irsa.”
“Not like in Od. Snow so high you can’t leave your cottage for days. Cold so sharp you feel it in your bones.”
“Sounds miserable.”
Ayah punched her in the arm again. “No disrespecting my homeland!”
They both dissolved into laughter.
There came a knock on Talia’s door and she went to answer it. An army of attendants flooded in, propelling her to her dressing table and wrapping a sheet around her neck so her dress wouldn’t get dirty as they applied her cosmetics.
Talia tried to sit as still as possible while the attendants went to work. Ayah hovered nearby, chattering about the latest mythological text she’d been copying in the library all week, but Talia couldn’t pay attention. The words of her speech tumbled about with the memory of her father’s laughter, the image of the Emperor in the courtyard, spittle running down his beard.
The attendants twisted her hair into elaborate braids and pinned them on top of her head, crowning her with fresh lilies that filled the whole room with their sweet scent. Over the balcony, the sun began to sink below the city and Talia’s anxiety sharpened. It was nearly time. Soon Ayah and everyone else would know. Would Ayah treat her differently?
The attendants brushed gold powder across her eyelids and painted her lashes with kohl. They stained her lips a deep blood red. They rubbed her arms and neck and shoulders with citrus-scented oil. They hung sapphires in her ears and slipped calfskin sandals onto her feet. Then they drew the sheet away.
Talia stood from her dressing table and Ayah appraised her with wide eyes. “Caida’s teeth,” she whispered. “Beautiful.”
They went into the corridor together, where Talia’s mother was waiting. She wore a red gown that cascaded like water to the floor, with a shimmering, gold sash. Her black hair was bound up with diamonds, her brown skin glimmering with that same citrus-scented oil. “Are you ready?” A question deeper than the one she’d asked hung in her dark eyes.
Talia sucked in a deep breath. “I’m ready,” she lied.
When she stepped into the ballroom, bells resounded in the city below to call up the moon—Talia could just glimpse its silver edge through the gauzy curtains adorning the open balcony. Thousands of candles in iron stands and glittering chandeliers cast flickering shadows over the white-and-gold inlaid marble floor. People were already dancing, to the music of harps, flutes, tuned cymbals, and the resounding pulse of a booming drum that echoed in the huge domed chamber.
The attendant in the doorway announced Talia and her mother as they stepped through: “The esteemed Countess Aria Dahl-Saida, Governor of Irsa, and her daughter, Talia Dahl-Saida.”
Talia tried not to think of the “Imperial Highness” that would be added to her name after tonight. She shuddered.
Ayah didn’t get an introduction. She slipped in behind them and gave Talia a wave as she pushed her way through the dancers to the refreshment table at the back of the room. As much as she’d teased Talia about it, Ayah didn’t care to be the center of attention either. Her bright hair and pale skin already made her stand out.
Talia glanced at the raised dais a few feet from the refreshment table where two carved-ivory thrones stood empty. “I thought the Emperor would be here already,” she whispered to her mother.
Her mother frowned. “So did I, but I’m sure he’ll be here soon.” She grasped Talia’s shoulders. “I’m so proud of you. I hope you know that. Your father would be, too.”