Page 7 of Grave Flowers
I looked around, bewildered. The grave flowers were back to their normal activities. They sniped and grumbled and bullied each other as they would on any other day. The irrigation system coughed up its irregular bursts of water just as before. The bench was empty.
Inessa was gone.
I tried to collect myself, but I still saw her before me, bones writhing against her skin, beseeching eyes upon me. Had it been a nightmare? Or was I going mad? There was only one acceptable answer: nightmare, because madness in the royal bloodline was a liability. If discovered, Iwould be dealt with, either mercifully by being installed in an enclosed holy order or brutally by having a fatal accident.
“Your Highness?” Helena prompted, waiting.
Whatever had just happened, I must appear nonchalant. Servants gave the corners and keyholes of the palace eyes and ears. Every single one reported to Father. I took a sharp breath and then another, stitching myself back together.
“Of course. Let’s depart.”
The party was feverish.
Faces spun past, planets in a dizzying orbit revolving around me. Usually, I was one with the motion. My heart’s kingdom was the garden, but my official one was the ballroom, where I oversaw the power-hungry courtiers for Father. Or that had been the case, when everyone assumed Inessa was the heir and I was the second princess who’d one day be married off as a reward to a loyal noble.
At the last party before Inessa’s betrothal announcement, I’d been everywhere and nowhere, drawing gossip and secrets out of the sycophantic partiers in the way a bee draws nectar from a flower to take back to the hive. I’d known who I was and what future I faced. And so did everyone else.
But tonight, everything had changed. Older nobles joined the party for once, a certain sign that they resented the betrothal and wished to evaluate the circumstances—and me. Almost everyone wore Radixan green and gold. The musicians, I noted, began the party by playing a traditional folk song, one as old as our kingdom itself. The message was clear: No one was happy about Acus’s impending involvement in our kingdom. And, from the wary looks cutting my way, everyone doubted that I, the weaker Sinet twin, could effectively advocate for us once I was queen.
Overwhelm beset me. Inessa lingered in my mind. Her face hung between me and the court, making it seem like she, the figment of my mind, was the only real thing and everyone else was made of grim, glowering gossamer.
I pushed to the edge of the party. Ropes of black and green sea pearls garlanded the ballroom, strung in loops above our heads. Chandeliers, crafted to be bouquets, twisted beneath the ceiling, which was painted in an expansive scene of sword-wielding armored knights being devoured by ferocious flowers, some of which were transforming into dragons. The mural was dulled with time and dust, its livid greens and mysterious blacks turned into insipid pastels. It was old and trenched in cracks from some ruinous event long ago. The knights’ anguished expressions gave face to my own inner torment. I stepped around stacks of timber, sacks of plaster, and bales of hay. Last year, Father had made grand plans of fixing the palace, but we’d run out of money, along with places to store the materials.
A window was open to offset the heat created by so many bodies. I headed for it. Tonight, the air was extra heavy with moisture and saline. I needed its bracing effects. As I moved, bodies followed, my shadow split into multiples. Overly sugary voices flooded my ears, and ingratiating smiles, plastered beneath angry eyes, surrounded me.
A bit of it was the same nonsense as always:
“Taffeta, Princess Madalina? I thought you didn’t like taffeta, so I ripped up my taffeta gowns. Do you like taffeta? Are you going to wear it often now?”
“I pine for you! Your Highness, I know I said the same about your sister, but her betrothal made me realize I truly love you.”
But more sinister sentiments mixed in with them:
“Is the king unwell? No? How odd. I thought perhaps he might have gout or sweating sickness or some such ailment because he hasn’t met once with his council since announcing the betrothal. Not once.”
“The treasurer says there’s no coin left. It’s been spent on building materials, yet crates of nails sit everywhere and not a new shingle has been laid … perhaps all King Sinet cares about is funds from Acus to make his palace grander?”
“I was just telling a terror tale to my daughter at bedtime—oh, what was it? The one about outside monarchs turning into flower nectar if they look at our throne. Only, I think there’s a terribly charming version where a Radixan king offered to subjugate us for resources during the Second Great Sick, and, well, he dissolved into flower nectar as well. An interesting twist to the tale, isn’t it? And then there’s the one about the lost flower crown summoning the ghosts of ancient Radixan monarchs to unseat any kings who don’t have Radix’s best interests at heart. Hmm, I haven’t thought of this before, but perhaps the same might apply to heirs? Especially if they do nothing to stop the threat?”
I tried to outpace the questions, but they pursued me across the ballroom. Unable to get to the window, I reached for wine. Three servants surged forward at once, each desperate to be the one to give it to me. I snatched the nearest goblet. It was a heavy thing crafted from pewter and glass and filled with our signature Radixan wine, which was tangy and sour with a hint of dark floral musk.
Pain struck.
White-hot agony filled my hand. Its origin was clarified: my scar. The loud clank of heavy iron striking metal rang out, and fine shards of glass exploded at my feet. A golden puddle of wine splattered the marble.
“Your Highness! Are you all right?”
“Blood! She’s been cut!”
“Quick—someone tell the king that his new heir is hurt.”
Turning around, I lifted my chin, assuming the Sinet ruthlessness. My gaze might as well have been a torch. Those nearest to me stumbled back as though they might be burned. Terror dashed through their eyes as they snapped their attention to the tips of their shoes and hems oftheir gowns. Little did they know I was as afraid. Afraid of their discontent and afraid that I might be going mad. I hid my hand in my skirt.
“Who pushed me?”
Silence swept in and spread through the ballroom, a contagion borne on the air. Those nearest to me inhaled it first. It passed through the crowd in glares and nudges, spreading onto the dance floor. Guests jerked to awkward stops midstep, the women’s skirts fluttering as though their dresses still wished to waltz. Lastly, it reached the musicians. Jarring notes of bows scraping off strings and breath turning whistly in flutes rang out and then promptly died. The ballroom was full of people yet empty of sound.
“Someone pushed me and made me drop my wine,” I declared, trying to buy myself time as I chose a victim. I needed someone who didn’t have any close ties to the crown, someone others mistrusted and would be happy to see fall from grace. It was an easy decision. Baron Breton had nearly stepped on my heel as he’d loomed close, veiling threats in children’s terror tales to express his disapproval. By Family fortune, Father had mentioned a preposterous plan of Baron Breton’s at supper a few months back.
