The Five Daughters of the Moon

Chapter 2: Merile

Smell. I could smell everyone present in the grand hall even with my eyes closed. The favored nobles with their perfumes and colognes, bergamot oils with a hint of lavender and amber undertones. The servants carrying refreshments, sparkling white wine and bite-size sweet pastries in more sorts than I care to count. The omnipresent stink of horse sweat and gunpowder that ever clings to the high-ranking soldiers. And then… then there’s the sharp, thorny scent of the gagargi that always confuses both me and my dear companions.

“Tonight is an important night.” Gagargi Prataslav reaches toward the sky beyond the grand hall’s glass ceiling. Dressed in his ceremonial black robes, he looks taller and more powerful than I’ve seen him ever before. For a moment, I think he might really manage to touch the clouds that hide the Moon. Then he slowly folds his fingers into a fist, lowers his hand before him. Though I know what’s to come, my skin goes to goose bumps. It’s five years since I got my name, but it’s a day that one can never forget. “The Moon shines benevolently upon us.”

I stand on the raised stage with my sisters and dear companions, in a crescent arc behind Mama, Gagargi Prataslav, and our youngest sister. The nobles dressed in the shades of the Moon, officers of the imperial army, and servants alike stare at the trio, regardless of why they’re present. Though I can see only my sister’s back, the gray-brown hair held in place with dove pearls and the white, silver-sequined, long-sleeved dress that looks slightly too large even though three different seamstresses took it in on three separate occasions, I can tell she feels more out of place and nervous than I did on my name day. Whatever potion Nurse Nookes tricked her into swallowing isn’t strong enough.

Mama, regal in her ermine-trimmed gown, smiles in approval as the gagargi uncurls his long, bony fingers. A white bead the size of my fist rests in the cup of his palm. For some reason, at that moment, I think he holds the whole world in his palm, though it’s just the soul he needs for the naming spell. Rafa nudges me, her nose cold and wet through the silk of my dress. Though I’d normally pick my dear companion up and coo at her, I don’t, for this is a solemn ceremony. But Rafa was right to rebuke me for the ridiculous, childish thought. Mama is the Crescent Empress. Everything under the Moon belongs to her. And after her, that same everything will be Celestia’s, for she’s the oldest Daughter of the Moon.

I fix my attention to my little sister just in time to see the gagargi bend toward her, closer than is necessary. Blackness. Not even one glimmer of silver breaks the blackness of his robes, and so he is akin to a storm cloud or a rogue wave. My heart goes out to my little sister.

“Honored Daughter of the Moon,” Gagargi Prataslav says, leaning even closer. The hall is only dimly lit—the chandeliers bear egret beads—and in the swan bead’s white glow, what little skin remains visible from under the gagargi’s oiled beard bears the paleness of one who rarely steps outdoors. His thin, colorless lips remain parted as if he were reluctant to continue. Or as if he were displeased by something.

As the silence stretches on, people in the audience shuffle toward the stage regardless of their rank or lack of it. For this is an important moment not only for my little sister but also for the whole Crescent Empire. Though my little sister is the youngest, she’s fifth in the line of succession. Poor Mama never had sisters.

Another nudge against my calf. This time it’s Mufu. She’s getting impatient, too—her thin black tail wags like a pendulum of a clock gone mad. Still the gagargi won’t continue. I want to order him to do so, but it’s not my place to say a word. Mama’s pose remains regal. She looks calm from behind, but I can’t help wondering if a flicker of annoyance mars her expression.

At last, Gagargi Prataslav says, “What name have you chosen for yourself?”

My little sister—she’s told me her name, but I don’t dare to address her with it yet—glances shyly at Mama. We’re not fully human before our sixth birthday, not before we get our name. Officially get our name. No one is, and this is how it has always been, even for the Daughters of the Moon.

Mama nods sagely. With her pale hair pinned up, with an ibis-bead crown circling her head, she looks ethereal, dreamy, as if she existed not only here, but also in the world beyond this one. She turns to face my little sister, and the scent of her perfume tickles my nostrils. White roses in bloom. Curious that she still wears her summer perfume.

“My name is…” My little sister shivers. I’ve heard the servants whisper that she chose a bad month to be born. Her name day falls in the second month of autumn—on any other year we would have left for the Winter City already. Maybe the crowd’s anxiety is partially caused by that.

“Yes, my child?” Mama prompts, gently brushing my sister’s shoulder. As an empress, she would never display impatience of any sort in public, but she must want the ceremony to be over and us on our way to a warmer climate. This city was designed to remain cool during the summer months. It’s autumn already, and come winter, everything here will freeze.

My little sister crosses her hands over her heart. She whispers shyly, “My name is Alina.”

From the corner of my eye, I catch Celestia nodding, Elise and Sibilia hastening to follow her example. I do likewise. My dear companions, Rafa and Mufu, nod too. The light brown head goes down as the black head goes up. They’re so silly.

“Alina.” Mama is the first to repeat the name my little sister has chosen. It rolls off her tongue smoothly. No one has a voice as full and pleasant as hers, one that stirs your heart and summons you to obey, no matter what the request may be. “Let her name anchor her soul to her body.”

“Alina.” Gagargi Prataslav repeats the name, but from his lips, it sounds jagged. I don’t understand why. Nurse Nookes says that only the gagargis and empresses are without fault, devoted as they are to serving the Crescent Empire. “Veneered Moon, hear the name your daughter has chosen.”

The crowd of favored ones, those who have been chosen to witness the sacred ceremony, stills in anticipation. Even my sisters and I stare fixedly at the gagargi as he lifts the soul bead up once more. He pronounces the sacred spell under his breath and lets the bead drop. As the bead connects with the black stone tiles, the glass cracks. For a moment, there’s nothing but shards.

Sea after rain. I can smell the swan soul before I see it, the moist scent of the sea after rain. Then a white shape, no bigger than the bead was, forms before Alina, at her feet. Thickening wisps spin into a shape: powerful wings, arched neck, black beak. The swan spreads its wings wide, flaps briskly. Rafa and Mufu shuffle back. They hide in the cover of my voluminous hem. I remember more vividly than is proper how it felt to stand there, feel myself become whole, a person.

“Honored swan, the sacred messenger of the Moon.” Gagargi Prataslav sails to stand behind Alina, black robes billowing. As the swan regains control of its wings, the gagargi spreads his arms wide and his sleeves brush the floor. His voice, strong as a gale wind, touches every nook and corner of the grand hall. I must be imagining it, but it almost sounds as if it hides a hint of displeasure. But how could it?

He says, “Bear the name Alina through the clouds and the sky, to the night that blesses us after day. Let the Moon know the name of his daughter. Let the Moon be proud of his child.”

Alina sways as if she were about to faint. I hear one of my sisters gasping in concern—Elise or Sibilia, I think, but I don’t dare to glance at them. Rafa and Mufu whimper from the depths of my hem as the swan takes to the air. It soars over me and my sisters, circles up, toward the domed ceiling. For a moment, I’m sure the glass panes will hold it back, or that they will soon shatter.

But the swan’s soul passes through the panes as easily as if nothing had ever held it back. I stare after the bird, the receding white dot. Clouds part before it, close in after. All too soon, it becomes just one more speck of light, a faraway star, and I think… Are all the stars swans, messengers of the gagargis? Do they sing to Papa of good and bad, of what has come to pass in the empire he’s bestowed upon his wife to rule?

“My dear daughter,” Mama congratulates Alina. She pecks a kiss on both her cheeks, but lightly, so that her reddened lips don’t leave marks. I can’t recall the last time she displayed such warmth toward any of us. We see her but an hour a day, for running the empire keeps her occupied from dawn to dusk.

At last, I dare to steal a glance at my sisters. Celestia, as pale and fair as Mama, beams in ethereal approval. Elise and Sibilia, each fair of skin but merely pale compared to her, whisper to each other. I’m darker of blood, and so is Alina, but only mildly compared to me. There are rumors in the court—I’ve heard them, for people are often careless around those who don’t have a name or have acquired theirs only recently—that Mama’s choices for our seeds are political, that it suited her to pick mine and Alina’s from the Southern Colonies.

“This gift,” Mama says as she accepts a gold-engraved box from an attendant draped in midnight blue. She holds it up for everyone to see, and light slowly returns to the hall as servants unveil owl-soul lanterns. “It is from General Rasvatan. He sends his fondest regards from the Southern Front.”

Alina stares at Mama, her big brown eyes round with confusion. It’s as if she’s not really here, but seeing things that exist only in her mind. How can Nurse Nookes’s potion be wearing off already?

“Poor thing,” Sibilia whispers to Elise as she fidgets with her long sleeves. She insisted they be made of lace so thin as to appear almost translucent, but that may not have been the best call. The fabric seems to itch. “Not to have her seed present at her name ceremony.”

“Hush.” Celestia nudges Elise, who proceeds to nudge Sibilia.

I feel bad for Alina only. Rafa must sense it, for she rubs her head against my knee. Since the most important part of the ceremony is over, and since I’m only eleven and hence allowed some leeway, I pick my companion up and clutch her against my chest. Mama should have summoned General Rasvatan to the court. She could have done so. Why didn’t she?

Alina’s small hands shake as she holds the box, though it’s only the size of a thick book. Whatever the box holds, it’s bound to be immeasurably valuable. Though it can’t contain anything living. I press a kiss on Rafa’s forehead and inhale the lovely scent of her fur. My seed gave me the best name day gift possible—my dear companions!

“I can’t wait to see what she gets,” Elise whispers to Sibilia, though we’re not supposed to prattle during the ceremony.

Hesitantly. Unaware of our curiosity, Alina lifts the lid slowly, almost hesitantly. She holds the box so that only she and those standing right behind her can see what it contains. Elise strains her neck. Celestia elbows her once more. I hold my posture. There’s a limit to what I can get away with before Nurse Nookes is forced to reprimand me.

“Oh!” Alina lowers the box as an intense blue glow escapes from inside it. Her mousy gray hair lights up in shades of indigo. Her pallid skin turns even more so. “It’s…”

Mama steps to her side. Slowly and regally, she picks up the object from inside the box. General Rasvatan’s gift is a blue-and-green-enameled miniature peacock. Its feathers are crafted to lifelike perfection, but where its belly and chest should be gleams brightness in a cage of gold-netted glass.

“Is that a…” I whisper under my breath, hoping one of my sisters can impede my curiosity. Rafa shivers against my chest, but Mufu, rather uncharacteristically the braver of the two, lifts her forepaw. She’ll go and investigate if I give her the permission to do so. I don’t.

“It’s a soul-automaton,” Sibilia replies without moving her lips. She must fear Celestia’s elbows, though there’s no way our sister could reach her without making a scene. And that’s something someone as serene as Celestia would never do in public.

The attendant in midnight blue retrieves the box from Alina. She sighs in what can only be relief. Next to her, Mama turns the tiny golden screw under the peacock’s tail. Alina stands very still as the automaton comes to life, and I can’t help thinking that it’s as if my sister doesn’t realize that the spell is already fueled by the peacock soul, that she thinks that she must cease to be for the bird to be!

The mechanical peacock sings a chiming, vibrating tune. Alina trembles. She’ll soon burst into tears. Elise must have reached the same conclusion, for she rushes to embrace our sister from behind. Mama’s brows lift, but she nods at Elise as if her presence were indeed required by the ceremony.

“A gift fit for a Daughter of the Moon,” Gagargi Prataslav announces, clearly pleased by the general’s choice. He has his arms clasped before him, but hidden by the voluminous sleeves.

Alina barely glances at the peacock. Her tight smile is one I recognize too well. She’s very afraid of something. But of what, I can’t say, and I can’t ask. For the time has come for the rest of the court to present their gifts to Alina.

“Have you seen Poet Granizol?”

Sibilia pauses munching the éclair only when she wheels around to face me. Beautiful blush covers her round cheeks. Powdered sugar dusts her plump lips. She swallows and pats her mouth in a napkin embroidered with the crescent motif. “Ummm… sorry? But, have you seen the servant with macarons lately?”

Sibilia and her obsession with pastries… Sometimes she’s just as bad as Rafa and Mufu, who continuously beg for treats. I rise to my toes to crane past her into the dance hall, and my dear companions echo the movement.

Inside, Elise swirls from the arms of one handsome young man to those of another. Dressed in a white gown with a high, silver-sequined waistline and a hem so light it follows her every movement, she looks akin to a young swan. Her red-gold hair curls into a crown of its own, the weaves held together by plumes and dove pins. Her laughter chimes even above the court gossip and the waltz the string quartet plays.

“Sixteen,” I whisper under my breath. Our sister is beautiful, carefree, and admired by everyone. “If that is what it’s like to be sixteen…”

“It is!” Sibilia sighs, palms pressed against her heart. Of course she’d be the one to know. She’s but one year away from the magical age. “This year simply can’t pass fast enough.”

We watch, mesmerized, as Elise dances. When the song comes to an end, she curtsies to her current partner, then turns around to choose her next one from amongst a half dozen or so admirers.

“If I were her, I’d pick Count Albusov.” Sibilia nods as if agreeing with herself. “Sure, he might be bald and a bit on the skeletal side, but look at the plenitude of soul beads sewn into his coat. I’ve heard his estate is one of the largest in the whole empire!”

For a moment, it does seem like Elise will favor Count Albusov, though he must be twice her age. But then, a dashing young captain with his copper brown hair tied into an elaborate topknot boldly strides past the count to our sister. He’s muscular in the lean sort of way, and his midnight blue and silver uniform fits him so perfectly that he must be blessed by Papa himself.

“The nerve of him…” Sibilia gasps. Both Rafa and Mufu turn to look at her. I don’t, for then I’d miss the action on the dance floor.

Everyone. Everyone has paused to stare at the scene around our sister. The orchestra, bows hovering above the strings of violins and cellos. The couples with hands wound around each other. The older ladies and lords standing on the sides of the hall, holding drinks raised to their lips or about to spill them. And then there are the very people involved in what is about to turn into a major faux pas. Count Albusov’s bald head positively glows with his shock at this disregard for rank. The young captain completely ignores this, and… he bows at Elise swiftly, but elegantly.

Our sister glances at Count Albusov, then at the young captain. She lifts two fingers to her lips and smiles so radiantly that no matter how she’ll choose, no one can think ill of her. She lowers her hand, brushes her hem in a way that leaves it girlishly swaying. And then, she favors the young captain with the tiniest of nods.

“She can’t!” Sibilia stomps the floor twice, and Rafa and Mufu bounce back to the shelter of my hem. “She simply mustn’t approve of that sort of behavior.”

Too late. Elise has made up her mind. As the young captain offers her his hand, she accepts it. She places her hand on his shoulder, white kid glove against the silver epaulet. He draws her closer, his hand on the small of her back. As if it were in his right to lead a Daughter of the Moon, to demand anything, let alone… intimacy. A violin sings the first note of the waltz, and it’s too late, too late to do anything.

“Oh no…” For quite some time Sibilia is lost in her thoughts, no doubt imagining the chastisements Elise’s disregard for court etiquette will rain upon us. Then she shrugs, and her red-gold eyebrows lift as if she’d just remembered that I still wait for her answer. Her skirts swoosh as she squats down. As she pats my shoulders, her white gloves ooze the scent of honey and chocolate. “Come to think of it, dear Merile, I haven’t seen Poet Granizol since the ceremony.”

I sigh, and Rafa and Mufu sigh with me. But my companions get over their disappointment much faster than I do. Mufu rises to her hind legs, more interested in what might remain of the éclair than my distress. Sibilia shakes her head at my companion. As she pats her head, a red-gold curl escapes from behind her ear. She notices the stain on her glove, shrugs, and lets the curl remain as it is. “And you’re out of luck, too.”

A servant with a tray laden with tiny butter-crust pastries—apples and almonds, by the smell—ambles past us, so overwhelmed by the crowd that he doesn’t notice Sibilia and me. Both Rafa and Mufu, however, turn whip-fast, to stare after him in hopes the man might fall and a blessed avalanche of treats tumble upon them.

“Luck,” I remark, aiming my words at my apparently completely gullible and bribable companions. “We’re all out of luck.”

“Oh, Merile, don’t be sad.” Sibilia, still squatted down, leans toward me, ready to hug me if need be. Her white gown clings to her skin, to her round bosom, to tell the truth. Though she’s already fifteen, she wears a dress more akin to mine than to Elise’s or Celestia’s. Ours have high necklines and long, tight-fitted lace sleeves. I like my dress, but on Sibilia… She’s a woman dressed like a girl.

“I’m not sad,” I say.

“He must be somewhere here…” Sibilia trails off as she spots a servant to our right with a tray full of macarons. The silver reflects the red and green and yellow promises of sweetness. My sister swiftly gets up. She casts one last glance at the dancing Elise, then an equally longing one at the macarons. “Do you want me to help you look for him?”

Sibilia doesn’t ask why I want to find my seed, and I don’t want to tell her. She’s not particularly fond of hers. General Kravakiv has been off fighting for the empire since she was born anyway.

“No,” I reply, and, released by my word, she sails away toward the sugary salvation of macarons.

Grand hall. I can’t find Poet Granizol in the grand hall and neither does he loiter in the hallway leading into the older, colder parts of the palace. But it’s in this hallway that I detect the faintest hint of bitter smoke, and though I shouldn’t wander off alone, I do. Either the guards will shadow me or then they won’t. I’m not worried—no harm can fall on me on the palace grounds, no matter what Nurse Nookes might think.

The crowd thins as I leave behind the rooms where the guests plot and gossip and dance as is the way things have always been here. I pretend not to see people holding hands with the wrong people, stealing kisses, swaying away, locking doors behind them. Rafa and Mufu trot beside me, nails clicking against the plainer floor tiles. They sneeze at the sticky smell of the many perfumes mixed with sweat. I follow the scent of smoke, for I know I will thus find the Poet.

Right turn. Down a narrow corridor. Left turn. The farther away I veer from the grand hall, the more the temperature drops. Coldness seeps through the soles of my slippers. My breathing turns into white clouds.

“Children are not tarnished by personal pursuits or the other faults that come with a name.”

Anywhere. The voice is faint, and yet I’d recognize it anywhere. I stumble to a halt. Rafa and Mufu bump into my legs, tangling into my hem. What is Gagargi Prataslav doing here, so far away from the center of the party?

I’ve never liked the gagargi—something I share with Alina—and I’m not particularly keen on seeing him now. But I do want to know with whom he’s talking, for I suspect he might be up to something.

Gagargi Prataslav’s Great Thinking Machine devours human souls, though no one wants to believe it. That is, Elise laughed at me when I told her what I’d seen, and cautioned me that if I were to make such a joke before anyone else I’d soon find myself sipping Nurse Nookes’s potions. After that, I didn’t have the courage to mention what I’d seen to anyone else, and the next day I learned that Mama had rebuked the gagargi’s plan, thank the Moon!

But now, Gagargi Prataslav might have other plans. I sneak farther down the corridor lit by duck-soul lamps.

“I knew upon first seeing you that I could place my trust in you. You are wise beyond your years. Many times wiser than those who have made so many unfortunate decisions in the past.” A pause. Someone must have replied to the gagargi. “Indeed, what those who criticize progress don’t see, what you saw straightaway, is that the Great Thinking Machine is a gift sent by the Moon himself.”

Closed door. The gagargi’s voice comes from the room at the corridor’s end, from behind a closed blue-paneled door. My fingers tingle with excitement and… I glance over my shoulder, wishing that a guard had indeed trailed after me. There’s no one around but Rafa and Mufu. Yet my curiosity is stronger than my current uneasiness. I tiptoe to the door, my companions right behind me, nails scratching the tiles until they halt with me. After a moment of hesitation, I peek through the brass keyhole. Surely if the gagargi can’t see me, he won’t know I’m listening.

“We teeter on the edge of two ages.” There’s no mistaking Gagargi Prataslav, with his thick, oiled braid resting against his back. However, I’m more curious as to whom he’s talking to than what he’s preaching about. Unfortunately, the gagargi’s figure blocks the view, and I only catch a glimpse of a white gown. That’s not helpful at all, for most ladies honor Papa tonight by wearing the shades of the Moon. “The time has come to decide whether we want to be a part of the new age or fade away with the old one.”

I tilt and turn my head to better see, my eye so close to the brass that its cold surface stings my cheek. To no avail. Rafa nudges me, sensing my frustration.

“The Great Thinking Machine has crunched through the numbers. The Crescent Empire has reached the optimal borders. There is no need to expand upon what is enough to provide for all those who have worked so hard for the good of the empire. Let there be no more pointless campaigns, young men yanked from their bright futures, good women and children starving to provide for useless military excursions.”

Strange. These are strange things that he speaks of. But what do I know of what goes on behind closed doors? Politics are for Mama and Celestia. All that is expected of Elise, Sibilia, me, and Alina is to… well, we are the Daughters of the Moon. We can do mostly whatever we want, barring endangering the succession, whatever that might mean in practice.

“It is not lightly that I have bestowed these words on you.” Gagargi Prataslav strolls toward the lady in white. His movements are smooth, but grim, akin to those of an alley cat approaching a mouse. And he ends up standing too close to her, looming over her. “You will consider my words.”

A statement. Not a question. I strain my ears to hear the lady’s reply. With each pounding heartbeat, I want to know more dearly who she is. But before she can reply, the gagargi flinches. He angles his head as if he were the one listening now. Then he spins around, to face the door.

I stumble back, and my companions retreat with me. The gagargi, the holy messenger of Papa himself, possesses knowledge from the world beyond this one, from the realm of shadows. He has many powers, maybe some that I don’t know about. He might have sensed me spying on him!

“There you are.” A hand that reeks of smoke grasps my shoulder from behind. I stifle a shriek. But Rafa and Mufu yelp in joy. Their tails wag wild. “My darling little Merile.”

Relief washes over me as I recognize my seed, the Poet Granizol. He’s a big man with what Elise calls a perpetual tan and eyes as black as onyx. She would also call his scarlet, gold-embroidered coat garish. She wouldn’t deign to comment on his green, reptile-leather boots.

“Here.” I clutch his arm. Rafa and Mufu trot away from the door. They sense my need to flee the scene. And flee I must before the gagargi comes to investigate these sounds. “I was only here looking for you.”

Poet Granizol sways as I lead him down the corridor, toward a corner and away from the line of sight the gagargi would have from the door. Mufu sneezes. I hold my breath.

“And now you’ve found me, my shine of a star,” the Poet announces, impervious to my wish to move faster. Loud. He’s so loud! “You shouldn’t have looked for me from so afar!”

I can hear sounds from the door behind us, a key moving in the lock, the handle turning. I hasten my steps, trying to reach the corner before the door opens. Though a horrible thought occurs to me: if I can hear these sounds, then the gagargi might have heard me talking to the Poet too!

“I…” I try to come up with a lie. But my throat is parched. “I’m thirsty.”

“But of course.” The Poet’s gait steadies as though his life had a purpose now. “A flower needs water to grow, rain and sunshine to bloom. Come, my little Merile, I know just the room.”

When we finally turn around the corner, I risk a glance behind us. The door is just about to open. We made it.

Of course we made it. I’m a Daughter of the Moon. Papa looks after me from the sky.

“I see the seed I sowed in the fertile soil of the empire has taken root well and grown into true beauty. There, I couldn’t have said it better.” The Poet leans back on the plush blue sofa of the smoking room. The corners of his onyx eyes wrinkle, and his wide smile reveals his impeccably white teeth. Handsome. I’ve heard ladies whisper that he’s handsome to look at. I’ve heard with my own ears that he’s a fine speaker. But I’ve also been told by my sisters on numerous occasions that the only sharp object he can wield without being a danger to both himself and others is a pen, and since even his skills with a pen are highly debatable, he would be so useless at the battlefronts that Mama never sends him there.

The Poet pats a silver-tasseled cushion, and if anything has ever bothered him, there’s no sign of that tonight. “Do sit down here where the velvet whispers.”

I grin, and Rafa and Mufu grin too, pink tongues peeking out. They rub against my calves, and I no longer worry about the gagargi. Even I had a hard time tracking the turns my seed took as he led us into this room. I take a seat next to him. My companions curl against my feet.

“Is it the shine of the Moon himself that I see in her innocent eyes?” The Poet waves his hand in a wide arc, golden rings gleaming around every single finger. He stares theatrically at the ceiling, though I doubt he admires the paintings there, as the sickly sweet smoke veils the whole room. Just as we can’t see the other people in the room, the smoke also hides us, and my seed and I are just two shapes occupying one of the many sofas. “I know it without a doubt, she will grow very wise.”

I giggle at him. Sibilia says the Poet has got his tongue stuck in honey and coated with sugar. She claims the Poet flatters everyone, but I don’t care what she says. She might just be envious. Her seed is always at the battlefronts, never here.

“My gift!” Poet Granizol claps. His rings clink as they meet. Rafa and Mufu stir to this sound. Mufu’s floppy ears perk. Then she sneezes again. “Have you found them to your liking? Or are you disturbed by their occasional licking? Ah, they truly look fine tonight! You must have brushed them with all your might.”

I beam. I did brush my companions myself, and personally chose the collars. The chain of oval diamonds complements the shine of Rafa’s silky hazel fur. The dove pearls shine lovely against Mufu’s dark gray coat. To me, they look more elegant than Elise, who spent the whole evening before her mirrors. Though that I would never say aloud, lest she’d tell Nurse Nookes, and I’d be the one disciplined.

“Fine are the creatures I chose for my seed. Now, where is this one thing I dearly need?”

I watch the Poet pat through his pockets, amused. He has a way with words. Will I have that gift too when I grow up? That would be wonderful. I could put an end to my sisters’ teasing for good.

“Ah, there it was all along. For a moment I thought it truly was gone.” The Poet produces a silver cigarette box from his pocket, a gift from Mama when he was still in her favor, I’ve heard. He flicks the lid open and fumbles to pick up a cigarette. He’s already about to light it when he glances at me, grinning as if he were a scullery boy about to do something forbidden. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

The smoke in the salon is already so thick that I can’t see past my own extended hand. Besides, I don’t understand why he’s asking my permission, of all things. It’s not as if I really matter. And yet, I nod.

“She was always full of nos.” A tremor runs through the Poet’s body. His fingers tremble as he produces a flame from the silver lighter. This trembling eases only after he’s sucked the first taste of the acrid smoke. “Though that is not a word she knows.”

He’s talking of Mama, I guess. But since I don’t know for sure, it’s better not to reply. I pat my knee lightly. Mufu replies to my summons instantly and jumps on my lap. My darling companion.

“Ahh…” The Poet smacks his lips, eyes closed. His lashes are long and black. I hope mine will grow to be like his, for in comparison, even Elise’s are short and pale. “Never does this taste better than on a night blessed by the Moon himself.”

I watch my seed smoke in silence. Rumors. There are almost as many rumors about him as there are of me and my sisters. He was Mama’s favorite once, but only for a short while. These days he’s rarely invited to the court. Though many share his vices, I’ve been told Mama can’t tolerate his. I bury my fingers between Mufu’s collar and her fur, seeking comfort from the warmth. I don’t want to anger my seed, but there’s so much I don’t know. So much I want to know.

“What is it that you are smoking?” I ask, for to that he can answer honestly at least.

Poet Granizol turns his back to me before he puffs more gray clouds. When he’s done, he leans toward me, elbows against knees, onyx eyes wide. “The nectar for those who need to imagine, for those who yearn to see more. For those who are afraid, but bold enough, to glimpse the world beyond the great door.”

The Poet’s words make no sense. Rafa and Mufu glance at him, too, sharing my opinion. Maybe seeking out my seed wasn’t such a good idea after all. Maybe I should return to the grand hall. Sensing that I’m about to get up, Mufu jumps on the floor.

“Don’t go.” The Poet lowers his hand on my arm. His fingers feel hot through the fabric of my sleeve.

“Mama might need me,” I say, although that’s not the truth. The court celebrates Alina tonight—though, given how shaky she was earlier, she has no doubt retired already. As in all the celebrations, everyone has their eyes set on Celestia and Elise. Sibilia and I don’t matter. That’s the role of the younger daughters. To be ignored and forgotten. But Mama can’t possibly understand any of that, as she’s the oldest and only daughter.

“The empress is akin to a celestial object or a distant star. She can only be glimpsed from afar. Oh, when the planets align right, terrible, terrible is her might.”

As I shake my head, the world blurs around the edges. Rafa nudges my shin. Mufu sneezes. I feel cold. “I’m not sure I feel well.”

The Poet touches my forehead, the wrinkles on his brown forehead deepening. “I will read you poems. A nourished soul can never fall ill.”

I debate with myself whether to leave or stay. If I leave, I might faint. If I stay… I don’t see my seed that often, and he did give me Rafa and Mufu. I decide to stay.

“Here, lay your head on my lap. This one is called ‘The Ode to the Moon, the Light of the World Beyond This One.’”

I close my eyes and let myself lull into the trickle of his carefully chosen words. As I inhale more smoke—there’s no avoiding it in this room—the words swell into a stream, then into a river. I float in my seed’s gentle voice. The words, they have no meaning, never had. All that matters is that I’m with him and that he cares the most for me, and not one of my sisters.

Suddenly the Poet falls quiet. A heartbeat later Rafa growls and Mufu joins the warning. I jerk up to a sitting position, just in time to see the smoke part and a ghastly figure emerge.

Gagargi Prataslav strides toward us. The heels of his boots clack loudly against the floor. His black robes billow behind him as if he were riding the wind. His dark eyes gleam with pure malice.

Frozen. I sit on the sofa, frozen, head spinning. My companions hide in my hem. The gagargi knows I eavesdropped on him. He might know more than that. How? I can’t say. It doesn’t matter.

“A Daughter of the Moon,” Gagargi Prataslav says as he halts before the sofa. His thin lips form a smile. Why he’s smiling, I can’t tell, but I scoot instinctively toward the Poet. The gagargi shakes his head. He says to the Poet, “Go.”

The Poet glances at me, at the gagargi. I cast a pleading look at my seed. Don’t go!

The gagargi’s smile deepens until it becomes a scythe’s edge. I know now where I’ve seen that expression before. On a cat toying with a mouse. What can he be thinking?

The Poet opens his mouth as if to argue. He’s noticed how I clutch my hem. He may have heard how my heart thunders.

“Go,” Gagargi Prataslav repeats, and his gaze darkens. He has much power. He’s to be feared.

The Poet gets up. He doesn’t look at me. Disappointment and anger pierce my heart, leaving me wounded beyond recovery. I can’t believe how easily he gave up on me. “Fine.” He sucks in another breath from his cigarette. He exhales it toward the gagargi. “But I’ll be back.”

Gagargi Prataslav laughs, a deep rumble from his chest. I hunch on the sofa. Rafa peeks out from the cover of my hem. She hesitates but a moment before she jumps to take the Poet’s place. My brave little companion. I hug her against my chest. I don’t even know why I feel so threatened. The palace is full of people; just there, on the other side of the room, older ladies gossip and decorated soldiers exchange war stories. I suspect.

“Now, little Daughter of the Moon.” The gagargi arranges his robes. He smooths the folds one at a time before he takes a seat too close to Rafa. My dear companion whips her head around to growl at him, needle-like teeth bared.

“Why…” Gagargi Prataslav pats Rafa on the head, though she pulls her ears back, tight against her slender neck. But as soon as the gagargi buries his bony fingers into her smooth hazel fur, she stills. The growl dies in her throat. “There is no need for ill will. None. None at all.”

Mufu, still hiding in my hem, trembles. She buries her head against the underside of my knee. But even that doesn’t make me feel better or braver.

“Look here, yes here, little Daughter of the Moon.” Gagargi Prataslav speaks softly, in a melodic tone that could pass for a grisly lullaby. I don’t want to listen to him, but how could I not? I obey.

The gagargi holds in his hand, the one that he’s not petting Rafa with, an empty glass globe the size of Alina’s fist. I know immediately what it’s used for. I saw one but hours earlier. A tremor that has nothing to do with the room’s temperature runs down my back.

“Yes. It is an empty soul bead,” the gagargi says, his voice deceitfully friendly. With his middle finger, he draws a circle on Rafa’s forehead. My throat tightens, and I barely dare to breathe. Mufu nudges me, nose cold through the layers of my dress. “How should I fill this emptiness? What do you think, little Daughter of the Moon?”

I shake my head so vigorously that the pins holding my hair up loosen and the beautiful creation unravels. He wants to, means to, take my friend’s soul to fuel his foul spells. I know that without asking.

“You can’t…” I manage to whisper. But my voice is weak. As insignificant as I am.

He laughs again, as if pleased by my terror, and his gaze deepens. He cradles the empty soul bead in his palm, precariously from side to side. “I cannot what?”

The words get stuck in my throat. He can’t have my companion’s soul. That’s what I want to say. But as his stare bores through me, vicious, I shrivel. I shrink in the sofa. Rafa is limp, as if in deep sleep that precedes death. There’s no escape. The gagargi can take whatever he wants, and I can do nothing to stop him.

The gagargi inhales, grin baring his crooked teeth. I realize he enjoys my distress. He’s a cruel man. How he ever managed to climb into Mama’s favor, I can’t fathom.

“Merile…” Celestia’s voice comes from far away, pure and chiming and spun from silver. Then I see her—and I don’t know how I didn’t notice her sooner—gliding toward me. “What are you doing here, of all the places?”

My oldest sister takes in the scene, the predatorial lunge of the gagargi, my shrunken posture. She’s tall and serene, white as winter in her gown, with the diamonds and pearls forming an ethereal glow around her. She clicks her tongue, but her expression remains otherwise indecipherable.

“Honored Celestia.” Gagargi Prataslav rises up, gloating as though her sudden arrival pleases him immensely. As he lifts his fingers from Rafa’s forehead, my companion stirs. Rafa glances around, confused, as if she doesn’t know where she is or how she ended up on the sofa. I sigh a cooing sound of relief.

“Go,” Celestia says to me. There’s an undertone of urgency in her voice, as if she isn’t quite sure how long even she can hold the gagargi’s interest. “Go now, my dear sister.”

I flee. Rafa and Mufu run at my sides, treading on my hem. Their nails tear the silk. I don’t care. I won’t be wearing this dress ever again.

Spins. My head spins, and I shiver as I make my way toward the grand hall, up a stairway I don’t remember taking earlier, down another. I need to talk with Elise or Sibilia. They need to know what happened, even if they might accuse me of lying. Maybe I should talk with Nurse Nookes, maybe even with Mama. Though they might not believe me. They never believe Alina either.

As I stumble down another set of stairs, into a thickening crowd, I hear snippets of conversations. I can’t pinpoint who says what. Or understand. I can’t understand what they mean either. Like waves. There are too many people around me, parting before me, closing in after.

“The Crescent Empress is akin to a shark: as that great fish must swim to live, so must she expand her empire.”

“A shark, you say? Then what are the gagargis?”

My vision blurs, and I can smell only the smoke the Poet favors. I sway onward, toward the open double doors that lead to the grand hall. Elise. I will find Elise there. Surely this time she’ll believe me!

“The gagargis have always been a part of the empire. I say she should not have rejected the Great Thinking Machine without at least trying it. What does it matter if it consumes souls? We have plenty of war prisoners waiting for good use. Plenty of orphanages and workhouses filled to the brim.”

I flee the words that don’t make sense. Or maybe they do. I don’t know. The whole world is but smoke, and I forget… I’m fleeing the gagargi. I must remember that.

“We have been looking for you everywhere!” Someone grabs my hand when I’m but steps away from the grand hall’s doors.

I shriek. Rafa and Mufu shriek too. It’s the gagargi. He’s caught up with me!

“Merile?” But no, it’s just Elise and the young captain. Dove beads shine amidst her red-gold locks. The gagargi gave them to her as a gift. The gagargi…

“Gagargi,” I stutter. But speaking of him only reminds me of the immense terror. Hurt. He wanted to hurt me. My dear companions. “Oh, Elise… The gagargi…”

Elise bends down and sniffs at me. Her pale gray eyes widen. She shakes her head, brows arching. “Have you been smoking something? Tell me, have you?”

What is she talking about? There are more important things to say. But I know the look on her face, the frown, the pursed lips. She won’t listen to me now. I need to find Sibilia.

I yank myself free and spin around. Rafa and Mufu yelp as I stumble on them, in my hem. My left ankle twists. Something snaps, and pain lashes through my leg.

I fall on the hard parquet. People stop mid-sentence, to stare at me. Shame. I feel shame, but also terror and pain.

“Help,” I whimper. “Elise, help me.”