Page 66 of Taken By the Alien Killer
“I’m tilting,” I say, letting her tilt me. Fingers skim oil across my collarbones; a brush kisses powder over the split in my lip as if paint can convince it to forgive me. Someone fastens a chain at my throat; it stings cold.
Daddy pokes his head in, beard a little too neat, vest trying to pretend it isn’t losing to his belly. “Starling,” he says, voice softening on the last half of my name. “You look…” He tries for a word and ends up with a noise. “Your mother’s going to cry.”
Mama flicks him with a handkerchief without looking. “I’ll cry later. We have timelines.”
“Timelines,” I echo, letting Irene pour water over my hair. It sheets down my back, hot as a warning. My face stays serene—trained, easy. Inside, my heart is trying to claw its way out through my ribs.
Sneed materializes at the threshold like a polite hinge. He doesn’t cross into the room, because women and steam scare him more than pirates. “My Lady,” he says, slate tucked against his ribs. “We are on schedule. The Feldspar matriarch arrived with minimal incident. The IHC delegation is seated. The minister would like to confirm the order of readings.”
“Tell the minister I will read mine in a language only dogs can hear,” I say.
“I will… soften that,” Sneed says, not missing a beat. His gaze flicks over my face, my shoulders, the line of the dress still in its protective shroud. Assessment—always. “You look…” He fails to supply a noun, which is how I know he’s worried.
“Alive,” I supply. “We’ll try to keep it that way.”
“An excellent plan,” he says, and vanishes.
“Okay,” CynJyn says, stepping in to steal a grape and put her forehead against mine for a second. “You are a feral miracle. Repeat after me: I am not a sacrificial goat.”
“I am not a sacrificial goat,” I say, trying not to smile.
“Baaaa,” she whispers, and I laugh, and the laughter hurts in a place that feels like it’s been held too long.
They dress me. The gown is the color of moon milk and bad ideas redeemed, silk layered until it remembers architecture. The corset exhales when it meets me, then inhales and refuses to let me do the same. Elise’s pins dance; the skirt sighs across the floor like a tide learning manners. Gloves slide up my forearms, cool and tight, whispering secrets to my skin. The veil waits on its stand like a domesticated cloud.
“Don’t you dare,” I tell the veil.
“Later,” Mama says. “We’ll see how she behaves.”
A page appears with a box. Inside, resting on dark velvet, is a tiara that once sat on my grandmother’s hair while she told an empire to sit up straight. I look at it and it looks back.
“No,” I say.
“Just for walking,” Mama negotiates.
“Fine,” I say, because I can lose small battles while choosing a larger war.
Before the processional, there’s a room with cold air and too many mirrors. The orchestra’s warm-up bleeds in from the sky courtyard—strings testing high, brasses muttering, a percussionist tapping the rim as if to ask if time is ready. Daddy takes my hands. His are warm and dry and trembling.
“Baby,” he says. “If you want to?—”
“Shh,” Mama says sharply, stepping on his sentence like a snake. She looks at me, eyes bright and unswimmable. “If you faint, aim for a soft noble. Lady Mercia is mostly padding.”
“I won’t faint,” I say.
“That’s my girl,” she replies, and kisses my forehead, and the imprint of her mouth is an iron brand and a blessing both.
Kaspian’s mother glides in to scold a flower arrangement into submission and say nothing to me at all. Kaspian himself appears in the doorway long enough to meet my eyes, fail, and settle for my shoulder. “Ready?” he asks gently.
“I am a professional,” I answer.
“That you are,” he says, and there’s a kindness in it that feels like a hand hovering near a falling glass.
“Places,” Sneed intones from somewhere, and the world obediently becomes a stage.
The doors open on the sky courtyard and the light that lives there—white and gold and forgiving. The orchestra lifts their instruments and the first note blooms like a white peony opening too fast. I put my hand on Daddy’s arm and we step into the script.
Sound swells. The audience rises, a coordinated rustle of fabric and approval. The scent of a thousand flowers stands up and shouts at my nose—jasmine, peony, citrus blossom, a hint of basil from the herb beds like someone snuck irreverence in on a tray. The floor under my feet is glass and marble, polished until it has opinions. Above us the sky is a shallow bowl of blue; hovering discs cradle the musicians like celestial lily pads; cameras hang at the periphery like very polite vultures.
