Page 235 of The Poison Daughter
All her practice in front of the mirror paid off. She’s very believable.
She waves a hand in thanks to the crowd. “Not a day goes by that I don’t think of Marc and how much he cared for the people of this city. We could have benefited from such a servant leader as mayor. I honor his memory by continuing to love and protect this city as my family has done for generations. I ask Divine Asher to deliver his soul and all the souls of our departed loved ones safely beyond the veil.”
Her conviction reminds me of the speech she delivered at her first dinner in Mountain Haven. She can be quite a compelling liar when she wants to be, but something about this speech, about the ache in her voice, doesn’t feel fake. Her grief is real, even if Marc is not the true subject of it. Hearing how much she wants her sister back makes me feel the slightest bit better about betraying Holly’s memory.
Harlow raises her hands to the sky. “Divine deliver them.”
The crowd raises their hands toward the dark sky and repeats, “Divine deliver them.”
She turns and descends the stairs, rounding the edge of the stage and tucking her letter into the pyre. One of the men who is charged with managing the fire steps forward and hands Harlow a white candle. She curls her other hand around the flame protectively as she walks toward the pyre and raises her free hand into the sky in a fist.
“I am Divine Stellaria. I have been robbed of my love, and in my agony, I’ve made the world dark and it will remain that way until we are reunited. I am the light and the dark between stars. I share my radiance with all those who share my agony, with those who know what it is to grieve,” she says as she bends to light the pyre.
She moves clockwise around it, lighting what I realize are eight points, one to align with each city gate. The pyre isn’t a cone shape like I thought. The base is a star.
Because my family was always in charge of the celebrations back in Mountain Haven, I only went to two Dark Star Festivals in Lunameade—the last one with Holly and the other before the fort fell, when I was twenty-three years old. The memory returns to me now—me, Carter, and Bryce drinking, gambling, and fucking our way through the three-day festival without a care in the world.
I didn’t notice details like this back then, but I remember watching the woman who played Stellaria—who must have been one of Harlow’s older sisters—call to the crowd and light the pyre. The sight was fascinating then, but it’s arresting now, watching my wife finish lighting the bonfire.
The crowd watches her with the same rapt attention, as struck by her grief and conviction as I am.
Harlow turns and shields her candle from the wind as she makes her way toward the crowd. A woman at the edge of the crowd holds out her own candle, lighting it off of Harlow’s. She lights several more candles along the perimeters and those people turn and light the one next to and behind them.
Slowly, the glowing candlelight spreads through the crowd.
Harlow walks up the stairs and crosses to the center of the stage. “Go in peace to honor those you have lost,” she says, lifting her hands. “Divine deliver us.”
The crowd lifts their hands and repeats after her, then turns and begins to process back toward their homes and parties, a chorus of mourning sounds breaking as they disperse.
She stays there for a long time with her gaze fixed on the bonfire. When the crowd has dwindled to a few stragglers, she finally turns to face me and Kellan.
“How did I do?” she asks.
I don’t know where to even begin because her grief felt so palpable, but Kellan saves me from having to speak.
He places a hand on her shoulder. “Low, you did great, but I thought you would say more at the beginning since our parents couldn’t make it.”
She frowns, and even through her veil I can see the doubt creeping into her eyes. “Was it not?—”
“It was perfect,” I interrupt, casting an irritated look at Kellan as I pull her into a hug. “You were perfect.”
I don’t even realize that hugging isn’t a thing we do until she goes rigid in my arms. Kellan watches the exchange with raised eyebrows.
Harlow extricates herself and snatches her cloak from me. “It was just a performance, Henry. I’m glad you found it moving.” She smiles as she says it, but something in her tone rings false. “Let’s get going. They will be expecting us at the party at home.”
She brushes by me, seemingly unaffected. It’s almost enough for me to fall for it. But when she crosses in front of the still-blazing pyre, I swear I catch the gleam of unshed tears in her eyes.
56
HENRY
Whatever I saw on Harlow’s face earlier must have been an illusion of her veil. Now that the party has begun, she’s smiling, her posture relaxed as she sips a glass of wine and listens to two young women from the high houses of Lunameade telling her a story about the rivalry between two seamstresses in the city.
Naima and Carter are sitting by a heating stone, rolling their eyes as Bryce holds court with several young women. I can’t hear what he’s saying over the many conversations on the patio, but I can tell by the way he’s gesticulating that he must be regaling them with what is likely an unnecessarily overblown tale of his heroism in the Drained Wood.
A group of fiddlers plays soft music, less for dancing than for atmosphere. Harrick and Liza Carrenwell sit at the other end of the patio, calling out requests to the musicians. I know that they’re really keeping their distance so that their influence seems far from what I’m going to say tonight.
The party is beautiful, but my gaze keeps sliding to Harlow in her starlight dress. It shimmers in the truly absurd amount of light flickering from candles on every tabletop. I’m trying not to look at her at all because I can’t think straight with her in that dress, especially with the fresh memory of fucking her in it.
