Page 11 of Those Fatal Flowers

It’s painted white and has two rows of tiny square windows adorning its facade. Between them sits a large wooden door. Light spills forth onto the street, and a cacophony of voices follows it, like thunder trailing in the wake of lightning. My trembling hands remember that the last time I appeared before a hall of people, it ended in my banishment, but my fluttering heart tells me tonight is different. This crowd is boisterous, composed of booming laughter and the clinking of glasses, and even—my heart swells to hear it—the notes of music. But my mood is quickly dampened by the article pinned to the door:

Laws Divine, Moral, and Martial of the City of Raleigh

No man may speak impiously or maliciously against the holy and blessed Trinity or against the known Articles of Christian faith, upon pain of death.

No man shall use any traitorous words against her Majesty’s Person or royal authority, upon pain of death.

No man shall commit the horrible and detestable sins of Sodomy, upon pain of death…

“Are you ready?”

Margery’s voice interrupts me before I can read the rest, though the first three are enough for my palms to grow slick with sweat. But despite the fear that tightens my throat, my dream is still fresh in my mind—my sisters’ faces as we were torn from the only home we had ever known. How no one,not even our parents, spoke in our defense. Even then, I’d already promised myself a thousand times over that if I ever had the chance to right what happened, to see her again, I’d take it without hesitating. I nod.

Margery pushes the door open, and light and music spill forth to greet us. My eyes flutter as they try to accept the sudden brightness. For the faintest moment, when the room’s details remain obscured by white, I almost see the willowy nymphs and muscled demigods of Ceres’s palace in their forms. But then, of course, my vision adjusts, and the ghosts of my past are gone.

In their place, three men pluck at oblong stringed instruments in the center of the room. Another blows on a conical one made of some sort of metal. I don’t recognize these variations of lutes and pipes, but the melody is surprisingly pleasant. The room is so enchanted by its notes that no one notices Margery beckon me forward. I cross inside and scan the scene before me. Nearly one hundred people fill the hall, and to my surprise and relief, most of the faces belong to men. I hadn’t expected the ratio to be so striking, but there are only twenty or so women and perhaps ten children scattered throughout a sea of beards, heavy brows, and thick jaws. My heart races at the sight of them all—there are more than enough here to save my sisters, and for the first time since arriving, I allow myself to find comfort in fate. For once, it finally seems to be on my side, though it’s hard to relax in this form. Longing for my old body floods me, a twist so bitter it sours my stomach. To miss that monstrous frame, that prison of feathers and talons…but it was powerful. It kept me safe. If these men decided to, they could tear me apart.

My eyes scan the crowd for her.

Please, Proserpina. Don’t let them tear me apart.

The door crashes into place behind me, drawing the room’sattention. The man with the metal instrument lowers it from his lips, while the other three remove their fingers from their strings. More than two hundred eyes find me, all wide as they take in the mysterious princess who washed onto their shore.

The attention is petrifying, but Thomas’s voice cuts through the tension.

“Welcome to our guest of honor!” he booms from a large table at the back of the room. It spreads out horizontally with seats for twelve, perhaps for the Council members and their partners. Thomas rests in the center, the place of a king, and stands to raise a glass in my direction. Six smaller, notably less striking tables sit perpendicular between us.

A large, unsettling smile is plastered across Thomas’s face. A wave of nausea hits, but with the help of my binding gown, I manage to keep the contents of my stomach in their rightful place. Mistress Bailie sits to his left, and I’m struck by another similarity they share—the same obvious lust for power. They wear it so brazenly, on their lips and in their gleaming eyes, and with so much conviction. What fools. Haven’t they learned that the gods love nothing more than to knock pompous men from their thrones? If these two haven’t drawn their attention yet, they will soon. A ripple of satisfaction cascades down my spine as understanding dawns—but of course, they already have. Why else would she bring me here?

I look away from the pair, and my attention falls to the woman on Thomas’s right. I didn’t see her until now, a fact that is instantly unimaginable. I’m looking at a ghost. It takes all my courage to meet her stare, to not lower my gaze in deference, or shame, or both. I’ve dreamed of this moment since the day I lost her, and yet here she is, and I’m unable to move. She watches me intently, her eyes so green that I am certain the first spring must have erupted from them centuries ago.

The rest of the room, all its noise and its people, falls awayas if we’ve broken free from this realm and slipped into one entirely our own. My breath catches in my throat, and my legs tremble beneath the large circumference of my skirt. The only sound is the pounding of my heart.

A single loose curl, the color of raven wings, the color of shadow, falls free from the rest of the hair pinned behind her neck. It spills over the gentle slope of her shoulder onto a crimson gown. Her lips have been painted the same smoldering shade of carmine, and the contrast against her porcelain skin is breathtaking. I haven’t seen anything so lovely in thousands of years, but is it truly her? Or is this a trick being played on me by the gods?

I make myself a promise: If she’s merely an illusion meant to harm me, I won’t give them the satisfaction. It seems impossible, but only now do I realize how the years watered down my memory of Proserpina’s beauty, waves slowly erasing footprints in the sand until they’re lost to time forever. Except now time has given them back. To see her again like this in full relief, flesh and blood, as a woman, no longer a girl bathed in moonlight—my throat tightens, and tears threaten to spill over my cheeks. I blink them back furiously. No, if this is a trick, I’ll be grateful for the chance to stand in her radiance once more, to remember what it feels like to be a flower in the light of her sun.

I search her face for signs of recognition, but her expression is unreadable. She makes no move to look away, and those blood-red lips part briefly before snapping closed again. There’s a distance between us, but of course there is—we’ve lived a thousand lives since we last saw each other, and though it will hurt, I want to hear about every one of hers. My mouth falls open to speak, to call to her, to beg her forgiveness, and to confess my devotion, still, after all this time—

3

Before

Our first decades banished on Scopuli are gorged with elaborate designs for liberation. Raidne is the first to attempt to escape. Other lands are visible from our cliffs, and she’s certain she has the strength to reach one. The sky is an infinite and blazing blue, so deep it’s hard to discern on the horizon where the heavens end and the sea begins. Pisinoe and I sit atop Castle’s middle turret and watch her fly west. She rises and falls on the currents of wind, a dancer, farther and farther away, closer and closer to salvation. I reach for Pisinoe’s hand to give it a squeeze, confident in our imminent victory.

We’re foolish to think we can best the gods so easily, but we’re still young, each equivalent to less than eighteen mortal years. We hold the arrogance of youth to prove it.

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