Griselda stood beside her mother’s torn mattress, ripping out goose down and tossing it in the air. Dancing beneath the feathers, her cousins raided every corner of Queen Arael’s room. Jewels, gowns, and tapestries littered the marble floor—a lush and glittering rainbow of violation and gluttony. Wrathalyne and Avaricette knocked over knickknacks and gimcracks that had once been important to Lyra’s mother for some sentimental reason she would never know.
Her cousins’ antics moved ever closer to a potted lavender rose upon the dresser—that tempting bloom Queen Arael had brought back after being pricked by its thorn. It was the one remaining piece of the rosebushes King Kiran had kept alive, albeit hidden away. In his queen’s superstitious mind, she believed its magical reach was not limited to death, but to life as well, much like the sylph elm within their garden. And such things should always be protected. So the king had honored her dying wish to let it live, keeping it harbored within her room and opening the curtains to give it sun.
Lyra couldn’t trust her aunt to continue the tradition. Under her keep, the rose would die of neglect. So, before the flowerpot could topple, Lyra lunged forward into the candlelight, sweeping it up.
No one noticed. The servants had left, and her aunt and cousins were kicking the spilled cherry-jams atop the pile of pastel gowns from the queen’s collection that Griselda had proclaimed unflattering and out of style; soon, all the candies were trampled to a gooey mess, and red footprints smeared across the fabrics in the wake of Lyra’s dancing cousins.
Lyra’s eyes stung. Griselda had scolded her harshly yesterday for staining the great hall’s pristine marble with her discolored tears at her father’s interment. To save her mother’s floor, Lyra slunk along the wall, arms hugging the potted plant tightly. Only when she was two steps from the doorway did she notice that the shadows had clustered around her, camouflaging her movements. She’d felt a fondness for them ever since first wearing the nightsky hood, but until today, didn’t know they felt the same.
A half smile lifted Lyra’s lips as she stepped outside the chamber and into the empty corridor with the moths and shadows at her side. She chanted in her mind: Quiet-quiet, hush-hush. Be the feral beast they say you are . . .
Quiet-quiet, hush-hush. The bugs’ flapping wings echoed the command. Hearing her words upon the rustles made her smile flourish.
Tiptoeing, she nuzzled the fragrant rose, careful to avoid the thorns climbing the stem. The petals smelled crisp, like fresh-fallen snow. She shouldn’t know such a detail. Perhaps her shadowy, winged companions imparted a wisdom they shared with all other night creatures. Or perhaps the flower told her itself—like the tempting whisper that had drawn her mother to touch it in the first place.
The scent of coolness frosted Lyra’s heart, so no fear could penetrate. She braved taking a turn toward a part of the castle her father had forbidden her to explore. It was the one safe place for the moth and shadows trailing her . . . the one safe place for her to cry her violet tears . . . the one place her cousins had said she belonged, and the only haven she had left in this fortress that had once been her home.
When the winding staircase appeared below, she didn’t hesitate. Together, Lyra and her new friends braved the cool descent into the yawning depths of the dungeon.
None of the torches were lit, but Lyra’s eyes penetrated the darkness, and she easily found her way down without tripping or falling.
There were no prisoners, which meant no guards. She had all forty cells to herself. The closest was left ajar due to a busted lock. Unsure where they kept the keys, Lyra settled for the broken room. She pushed the door and the rusted hinges wailed and leaked a red, powdery dust, welcoming her like an old acquaintance weeping blissful tears.
Following her tiny escort of wings and furry antennas, Lyra stepped in.
The stench of stale urine and old sweat fell away to the memory of the fresh breeze once shared with her beloved father while standing by a window and speaking of sylph elms. She had cried for him all through her sleep. Now she wanted to remember their happier times.
Lyra set aside her mother’s rose, confident that Mia could help find a sunny spot for it somewhere. The dusty grit on the floor slickened the bottom of her feet, and she skated from one wall to another, the same way the children crossed the ice in the stories Father used to read. The shadows joined in and formed a trail at her toes; Lyra chased them, as if following the silhouettes of shimmery goldfish beneath a frozen pond—something she’d seen in a painting upon the library wall.
She pretended the gray moths swirling about her head were jeweled butterflies, like the ones Sir Nicolet used to collect for her in shadow boxes—sapphire, topaz, and emerald—their colors so vivid they tickled her eyes and made her laugh, jubilant and breathless. But these weren’t pinned to a backing, or muted by a nightsky hood. These were flying free in the open air, as was she . . .
While dancing, her heel kicked a tin cup. A spider scurried from beneath. A wave of babies followed. Their legs would soon be spindly and lengthy like their mother’s . . . like Lyra’s lashes. Their graceful surge filled the wall—like raindrops drizzling a windowpane in reverse.
Lifting the tin cup, Lyra gathered her rose and carried them both to where an empty wooden crate sat beside a cot. She flipped the box over to serve as a table, not even pausing when a vicious splinter tore into her thumb and made her bleed. She willed the pain away, determined to have a tea party like the ones she used to have with Mia, Matilde, and Brindle.
Her cousins thought themselves too old for games of pretend. Yet her father had encouraged her imagination. He believed, without the blank slate of a night sky to open up their minds to the possibilities of other realms and cultures, Eldorians could no longer imagine anywhere or anyone other than their simplest selves in their own set places. Stardust lit the footsteps of the heroes and heroines of old: those who conquered dragons and basilisks; those who befriended immortals, sorcerers and mages; those who built the two magical kingdoms with a balance of both logic and vision. In comparison, the sun’s harsh yellow beams inspired the sensible side of a mind.
Aunt Griselda blamed Lyra’s inability to face the sun for leaving her sensible side malnourished. Lyra lifted her chin, taking pride in it. This was a part of herself her father loved.
Surrounded by gray walls and grime, she spun her games within the splendor of solitude. Her new friends didn’t mind when her lacy hem and feet became tinged with grime, or when the blood from her thumb smeared across the bodice of her dress. In darkness, she forgot the troubles of the world outside, until she heard a clamor coming down the stairway that chased the shadows, spiders, and moths to their hiding places.
Lyra’s chest tightened. She didn’t recognize the men’s voices, but Griselda’s burned her ears and melted the icy tendrils she’d wound around her heart, leaving her exposed.
Huddled atop the cot with her mother’s rose and the tin cup, Lyra strained to listen.
“So, we brought the prisoner here. As we knew you’d wish to question her.”
“And you’ve told no one else of her capture or your findings?” Griselda’s inquiry echoed down the corridor alongside swishes of light.
“As you instructed, Your Grace. You made it very clear any news on Sir Nicolet should come straight to you.”
Lyra swallowed a delighted gasp. Sir Nicolet was on his way back! She would go to him about her mother’s things. He would help her rescue all that was left.
Lyra scooted to the cot’s edge. Since her cell’s lock was broken, she assumed the soldiers would choose one of the other rooms for the prisoner. When the footsteps scuffled closer, she shoved the potted rose beneath the cot and sought a better hiding place for herself. She’d just managed to fold her body under the box when they entered with lanterns. There was a knothole in the slats wide enough for her to spy through. The soldiers lit the torches on each wall, chasing the shadows even farther into the corners.
Lyra muffled a gasp as the men peeled a bag away from the prisoner’s head. A set of black horns jutted from a grimy, reptilian face, followed by sharp teeth and eyes devoid of any white—their color murky like dirty dishwater. The prisoner hissed at the guards as they wrestled it into wrist and ankle manacles secured to the wall.
Griselda paced the dirty stone floor, out of reach of the chains. “You saw her do it?” Her voice cracked slightly upon the last word of the question.
“Well,” the taller soldier answered. “Truthfully, Sir Nicolet was dead before we got there. His heart was ripped clean away.”
Lyra gnawed on her cheek to stifle a sob. The tears she had earlier kept at bay rushed down her cheeks, joining the blood that already stained her dress.
“The witch must’ve ate it or some such.” The stumpy soldier standing by the door added.
“I hear they’re the most powerful organs for rituals.” The first soldier chimed in again.