Page 86 of Her Radiant Curse

“I’ll treasure it more if there’s only one.”

Our tradition began when she was five, when I first took her to the pond and showed her the flowers there. Since then, for twelve birthdays, I’ve scoured the jungle with Sundau’s snakes for the most perfect moon orchid in bloom—and brought it to Vanna. For twelve years, one entire cycle through Tambu’s calendar of animals, the tradition has gone unbroken.

As we enter Prince Rongyo’s palace, surrounded by statues of guardian dragons and pillars of protection, it’s all I can think about: that I’ve forgotten to bring her an orchid today.

How fitting that it is the year of the tiger.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Rain leaks from the clouds. A few drops at first, then in drenching sheets, like water flowing from a jug.

An umbrella blooms over my sister, just wide enough to cover me too. Hand in hand, Vanna and I disembark from the carriage and enter the royal garden. I keep my head bowed, watching the rain drown the hibiscus petals that the servant girls toss at Prince Rongyo’s slippered feet. He’s rushing toward us. His headdress, even taller than Vanna’s, is sliding off his head in a very unprincely manner. It makes me like him more than I want to.

“Are you harmed?” he asks, sounding genuinely concerned. “I heard a commotion.”

The adoring way Rongyo looks at my sister reminds me of a lamb. There is little depth to his affection, but it’s innocent and free of malice. I have no doubt he’d be good to her. But no lamb can protect her from a tiger.

“No commotion,” Vanna replies. “Only Channi’s arrival.”

He shifts his attention to me. The sight of my unmasked face makes him blink, but he’s polite enough to smile. “Welcome back, Channari,” he greets me. “Now that you’ve returned, this truly will be the happiest day of Vanna’s life.”

Vanna beams as she links arms with the prince. I’ve gone so stiff I cannot even bow. She hardly knows him, yet she’s acting like they’ve been in love for years.

I know it isn’t real. Like me, Vanna has grown up wearing a mask, only hers conceals not her face but her heart. I worry she has gotten so good at pretending that she can fool even herself.

“Have Lady Channari dressed,” Rongyo commands one of the servants. “When she is ready, we’ll reconvene for the banquet.”

“I don’t need to—”

“Go with them,” Vanna says, cupping my cheek in her hand. “Rest, and enjoy what the palace has to offer, Channi. You deserve it.” Her voice becomes swathed in power again. “I’ll see you once you are bathed and changed.”

Caught in the spell of her words, I obey.

Vanna and her prince vanish into one of the outdoor galleries, leaving me alone with two servants around my age. The way their faces pale at my appearance is a familiar sight, and I know I’ll be the subject of cruel gossip later on. But it doesn’t hurt, not anymore. I bet all three of us would rather be anywhere but here.

In silence they escort me through a torment of galleries and gardens, and I am aware of every minute wasted before we arrive at my apartments. The instant we enter, I dismiss them.

The taller girl protests. “But His Highness requested that you be bathed and—”

“I can bathe myself,” I tell her. “Now go.”

They bow hastily and scuttle out of view, and I confront my surroundings alone. Gilded bedposts, an excess of silken drapery—it’s a generous space, befitting a princess’s sister. I immediately dislike it. The walls are too white, and the air too sweet. No lizards crawl up the chair legs, every tree in its pot is pruned to the leaf, and I can’t help but feel guilty about the dirt my sandals leave on the floors.

As I wander toward the bath, I spy a table with a wooden bowl full of fresh fruit. The bowl is wide and heavy, and the smallest smile touches my lips.

Vanna sleeps with a bowl just like this one over her heart, so that her own radiance won’t wake her in the middle of the night. It was my idea, long ago when we were children.

“Back again?” I ask when little Vanna peeks into my room. It’s late, and even the snakes are asleep. But not me. I always know if my sister is awake.

She fidgets with the blanket wrapped over her chest and rubs at her eyes. “I can’t sleep. Can I have spindlebeard?”

“I wish I’d never told you about that. No. You might end up sleeping forever.” I glance about the kitchen, seeking inspiration. I grab the big bowl I keep by the stove. It’s made of walnut, a dense, dark wood, and I often use it to put out small fires. “Try this.”

“Don’t be silly. I’m not wearing a bowl to bed.”

“It’ll be like a shield,” I say. “Let’s try.” I lay her down on my cot and place the bowl over her chest. Sure enough, it captures most of her light. And its weight calms her restless heart.

Her eyelids grow heavy, and I tease her: “Still silly?”

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