The memory of those corpse-like thralls kept me up most of the night, and what little sleep I did get was plagued by nightmares. Even now, my hands shake as I set the final vial—lemon balm, mint, and fennel—down on Mother Wenla’s desk.
“Well done,” Mother Wenla says approvingly. “Now, show me how you would prepare a sedative to be mixed into a goblet of wine.”
The lesson continues until, finally, Mother Wenla returns our materials to their respective cabinets. She sits behind her desk once more and gives me a nod of dismissal. When I don’t move, she raises her eyebrows.
“Is there something you wish to tell me, child?”
I tuck my hands into the folds of my pants. “Yes, Mother.”
“Speak, then.” Mother Wenla rises and beckons me closer. “Come, sit here.”
I join her on a low couch and wring my hands, suddenly unsure of what I want to say. Mother Wenla waits beside me, serene as always. Though she says nothing, the warmth of her Gift washes over me and eases the tension in my shoulders.
“I saw something yesterday,” I say finally.
“Something troubling?”
“Very.” The story of the abused thralls spills out of me, the words tumbling over each other in my hurry. When I’m done, I meet Mother Wenla’s eyes. “I know you’re doing everything you can, but what about me? Can’t I do something to help? I’m just waiting around, eating Luca’s food and sleeping in his bed and spending his money. Shouldn’t I—”
“No.” The word is quiet, but definitive. Mother Wenla takes my hands and squeezes them almost too hard for comfort. “Listen to me, Sasha. You aren’t just ‘waiting around,’ as you put it. You are working extremely hard—perhaps even too hard—to regain your strength. You’ll need that strength if you are to survive the Pall long enough to see it removed.”
I look down. “I just feel so useless. Everyone is doing things for me, and I can’t do anything for anyone.”
“You don’t have to,” she says bluntly. “Not yet. Your task right now is to keep yourself healthy and to prepare yourself for what is to come. Until the Pall is removed, that is your only task. There will be plenty of time and plenty of ways to contribute to our efforts once you are free of the Pall.” She smiles, deepening the laugh lines around her eyes. “I am confident that you will prove an asset to the Bird’s Path.”
I smile back, but, inwardly, I flinch. She knows I’m going home, doesn’t she? For me, there will be no ‘after.’ I’m going home to Emily and James and the life I was meant for. I have to believe that.
And I do believe it…but that trust suddenly isn’t as comforting as it should be. Sadra’s face flashes before my eyes, then Luca’s and Kirit’s, and, finally, the empty, gaunt faces of thralls shivering in the rain. But I can’t think of them now. Mother Wenla is right: I need to keep my eyes on the prize.
I’m going home.
Retiré
The day of the Chalice Festival dawns bright and clear. According to Luca, the City of Roses rarely sees snow, despite the mountainous terrain, but in winter a frigid wind cuts through the alleys and steals the very breath from the lips of unwary pedestrians. To save me from that fate, Luca wakes me up at dawn with a huge smile and an even huger pile of clothes, which he dumps unceremoniously on the bed.
“You’re supposed to wrap Chalice presents,” he says. “Or hide them, sometimes. But I’m terrible at both, so…here.”
I take the proffered bundle and gasp as I shake out the butter-soft fabric. I’m not sure if it’s a very long tunic or a shorter dress, but, either way, I love it. The top is simple—just a thin tracery of gold embroidery around the cuffs—but the fabric is a rich, dark blue like a deepening night sky. It flows through my fingers like water, so finely woven I can’t see the threads.
“These go with it,” Luca says, holding up a pair of matching trousers. When he lowers them, I can see the anxious wrinkle between his brows. “I took the measurements from your other clothes, but the seamstress is ready to make any adjustments in time for the celebrations tonight. There are other colors and options here, too, and warm layers to go underneath. You pick out whatever you like, and if you don’t like any of them, we can—”
I stop him with a firm kiss on his cheek. “I love it. Thank you, Luca.”
He blushes, and so do I. He really is the sweetest man. Which reminds me…
“I have a present for you, too,” I tell him. “I’ve been working on it for weeks.”
His smile lights up his whole face. “Oh? What is it?”
“It’s a secret,” I say, and push him from the bed with my foot. “Go look for it while I get dressed.”
Kirit hops off the bed and trots to the door, his tail swishing in excitement behind him.
“No cheating,” I call after them as they disappear.
I reach for my clothes and yank them on. There’s no way I’m letting Kirit ruin my surprise by sniffing it out too quickly. I spent weeks learning how to cook using the brick oven in the kitchen, and all afternoon yesterday making the little jam-filled cakes Luca loves. They might be a little lumpy and the jam will probably spill out on the first bite, but I think they’ll still taste alright.
Downstairs, I find Luca and Kirit seated at and under the table, respectively, with identical too-innocent expressions on their faces. My shoulders slump.
“You found them,” I say glumly.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Luca declares, his mouth twitching.
I give him a sour look and cross to the cupboard to extract the cakes, which I’d hidden behind a sack of oats. The icing has solidified into a nice crust, hopefully protecting the dough from drying out too much. I replace the bowl I’d been using to cover the plate and turn slowly, suddenly shy. Luca has given me safety, shelter, friendship…and these lumpy, possibly dry cakes are the best I have to offer him in return.
I mean to say something heartfelt and deep, something that could give him some pale hint at how much I appreciate him, not just everything he’s done for me, but all that comes out is,
“I tried.”
I shove the platter into his hands and busy myself with the kettle. Luca’s better at the delicate art of making tea—it’s one of his only culinary skills—but my gift to him seems suddenly silly and small and completely inadequate. Not that tea will do much to change that, but I can’t bear to look at him just now.
“Sasha.”
I don’t turn. There’s something in his voice that makes my stomach twist. Is it pity? Amusement at my sad, childish attempt at impressing him?
“Sasha, look at me. Please.”
“The tea,” I mumble, pretending to fuss over the leaves.
A strong arm snakes around my waist, and I find myself pulled back against Luca’s body. A few sticky crumbs fall onto my shoulder as Luca leans down to press his cheek against mine.
“I love it. Thank you, Sasha.”
I smile to hear my own words offered back to me and turn in his arms.
“Really? I thought they came out alright, but—”
“Really,” he says with a smile. “They’re delicious. Have one.”
He holds a cake to my lips. If it weren’t for the little glob of jam clinging to his nose, the gesture would be unbearably romantic.
Thank God for that blob of jam. Instead of melting into a puddle of desire, I have to laugh. I take a bite of the cake but also take a rag and scrub it over his face.
“Oh!” I cover my mouth to hide a jam-toothed smile. “It is good!”
“I told you,” Luca said with a grin. “Now, come on. It’s time to celebrate.”
* * *
The City, always bursting at the seams with color and music even on an ordinary day, is positively frothing with festivity. The moment we walk out the door, Luca and I are bombarded with showers of coin and small gifts. We respond in kind, tossing coins and toys from our own collection to the swarms of small children dashing up and down the streets. Revelers spill out
of taverns, embracing anyone who stands still long enough and dragging unsuspecting passers-by inside for a drink. Luca, thankfully, shields me from any physical interference and fields the many invitations with astonishing grace and diplomacy.
Or perhaps not so astonishing. Luca is the son of a king, after all, though he rarely acts like it. This new version of Luca is unfamiliar and more than a little odd—but also attractive.
Most days, I remember that Luca is and can only ever be my friend, that it would be not only stupid but unfair to both of us to let our friendship grow into anything more. But today isn’t most days. Today garlands of bells and ribbon stretch from balcony to balcony. Music flows through the streets like a river, turning whole city blocks into choirs.
I sing every song, laugh at every joke, eat and drink everything that crosses my path. And I dance. I dance with the blushing city guard in the Temple courtyard, with a little girl in the square, by myself atop a tavern table…I dance with Luca, pressed against his body in the city gardens.
The setting sun casts long, cold shadows across the grassy paths and streaks of pale gold across Luca’s face. For once, I allow myself to really look at him. His lashes are the thickest I’ve ever seen on anyone, much less a man. They’re not effeminate—they simply emphasize the mischievous glint that I’ve seen there so many times before. But now, I find that I can’t look away.
I don’t know why I should be so captivated. Though not ugly by any means, Luca isn’t exactly handsome. His is a beauty born of warmth and energy and good humor, a beauty of the spirit rather than of the flesh. His features are angular, almost feral, too sharp for beauty in the traditional sense, and the animal-like directness of his gaze is so often at odds with the gentleness of his smile. The contradictions in his face and his manner are unsettling, entrancing…and dangerous.
“Luca,” I whisper. “I…”
His lips quirk. “Yes?”
“I…I don’t know.” I give a small, breathless laugh and lower my eyes. “I don’t know what to say—how to thank you. For this dance, for today, for everything.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” he says, his grin widening. “We still have all night. Speaking of which, we need to get back to the house.”
If I shiver, it’s because the sun has gathered up its last scraps of warmth and disappeared behind the cliffs. The warmth in my belly has nothing to do with vague, heated ideas of what we might get up to in the dark confines of his—our—house. Nothing at all.
I clear my throat. “The way everyone’s been acting, I would have thought the party would go on all night.”
“Oh, it will. But first there’s the Contemplation.” He takes my hand and calls for Kirit, who has been chasing something small and squeaky through the bushes. “Come on.”
No matter how much I pester him, Luca refuses to say anything more as he leads me back to the house. The streets are dark, lit only by the occasional candle glowing in a window. We’re not the only ones hurrying home. The same revelers that were reeling and dancing just an hour before now march along as if on a mission, their faces still joyful but calm, almost somber.
Intrigued, I tug on Luca’s sleeve. “Luca, what is going on?”
“You’ll see,” he says. “I don’t want to spoil the surprise.”
When we reach the house, Luca waves me toward the kitchen and disappears upstairs. From the sound of it, he’s taking the stairs two or three at a time. Shaking my head, I light a fire in the hearth and set a kettle to boil. Above me, Luca’s progress is marked by an occasional thump accompanied by a muffled curse. The Contemplation, if that’s what he’s doing, doesn’t sound very contemplative.
The tea has gone cold by the time Luca returns, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He slurps it down and makes another pot while I play with Kirit on the floor.
“So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?” I ask. “Or is it traditional to torture outsiders with suspense?”
“I just want to make it special,” Luca says, giving me a wounded look. “It’s your first time.”
I throw my hands up in exasperation. “First time for what?”
“The Contemplation lasts from sundown to midnight,” Luca explains. “It’s a time to step back from the light and noise of celebration and reflect on what we’re truly celebrating.”
“Which is?” I prompt. “The Chalice is something more than a drinking vessel, I presume.”
“It is,” Luca says seriously. “But that’s part of the surprise.”
I groan.
Three hours later, after numerous attempts to wheedle, trick, or physically force the information out of him, Luca finally relents. My heartbeat quickens in anticipation as he leads me up the stairs by the light of a single candle. Where are we going? Surely not to the bedroom—that certainly doesn’t seem appropriate for Contemplation.
Or maybe it does. I’ve certainly contemplated what we might do in a bedroom often enough.
But Luca bypasses the bedroom and opens a trap door in the ceiling, catching a folding ladder as it slides downward.
“The surprise is in the attic?” I ask, peering up into the darkness.
“On the roof,” he corrects me.
At the top of the ladder, Luca blows out the candle and puts his hands over my eyes. As he guides me into a gust of cold air, I’m suddenly aware of how very warm and broad Luca’s chest is. The surprise, whatever it is, can go hang. I’d rather stay right here in Luca’s arms.
But then Luca tilts my head back and releases his hands, revealing a sea of diamonds so impossibly bright, they take my breath away. I blink, so dazzled that I don’t realize at first that the diamonds are stars. Raised in the suburbs as I was, I grew up accustomed to seeing a few scattered stars peeking through the haze of streetlamps. It wasn’t much different in the City, where light—and Light—covered the stars nearly as thoroughly. I never gave them a second thought, never knew what I was missing. Until now, when every light in the City has gone out.
“Bozhe,” I whisper.
“Come on.” Luca pulls me toward a pile of furs and blankets arranged in a sort of nest. Kirit is already there, snuggled so deeply among the folds, all I can see is the glitter of his eyes. “Lie down.”
I lower myself onto the pile and wrap myself in a blanket. “So this is the Contemplation?”
“Well, the star gazing is optional, I suppose,” Luca says, lying down beside me. “But since this is your first Chalice festival, I thought we should.” He points, his cheek so close to mine I can feel his whiskers. “Look there. That’s the Chalice.”
I follow Luca’s finger to a cloudy formation that puts me in mind of pictures I’ve seen of the Milky Way. But instead of a long ribbon, the Chalice looks like an overflowing cup.
“The legends say that in the earliest days, we lived and died in darkness and despair.” Luca’s voice tickles my ear, and, though he drops his hand, he stays close. “Farmers toiled in the fields without respite, never tasting the fruits of their labor. Blacksmiths forged tools and weapons, never toys or lovers’ trinkets. Housewives gave birth to children who grew too quickly into adulthood, never knowing laughter. Soldiers killed and were killed without mercy—without knowing why, even. But for all their toiling and striving, they were pale, listless, fearful beings. There was no beauty or courage in the world, only survival. Only hardship.
“But one day, a young blacksmith dreamed of something better. He dreamed of the three Graces: Joy, Passion…and, shining like a beacon, her arms around the other two, Beauty. When the blacksmith awoke, he wept, for now he knew all that his life lacked. He wept a lifetime of tears that had never been shed, and, when his tears ran dry, he fell to his knees and prayed.
“When the blacksmith rose, he went to his forge and fashioned a chalice from gold—a soft, silly metal that served no useful purpose. So he had been told, and so he had believed until he dreamed of Beauty. When the chalice was completed, he went to the vineyards, where the vintner made vinegar to preserv
e food, clean wounds, quench thirst—useful, practical, necessary tasks, of course. But the blacksmith told the vintner of his dream and showed him the golden chalice, and the vintner in turn showed him what he had discovered: His casks of vinegar, if opened early, produced a liquid with a pleasant taste and even more pleasant warmth.
“The blacksmith and the vintner filled the chalice with wine and offered it to the villagers, who began to laugh and then to sing. When the chief’s suspicious soldiers came to investigate, they, too, drank the wine. One soldier after another faltered in the march, and they began to dance.
“And so the chalice performed its miracles, passing from hand to hand, intoxicating the people not only with drink but with joy and wonder. ‘There is beauty in the world,’ one villager would say. ‘Drink deep.’ ‘Life is sweet,’ the next might say. ‘Drink deep.’ The villagers drank deep from the chalice and began to expect more from life than mere survival. As they sought out beauty and amusement and love, they also found genius and passion for good works, for excellence, for innovation. They found their Gifts.
“The villagers transformed their huts into houses, then villas. The villages grew into towns, then cities, then a kingdom. To this day we gather in the Temple of Graces to seek out the beauty in the world and in ourselves, and every year we celebrate the blacksmith and his Chalice of Gifts.”
Luca falls silent. I blink, still entranced by his story and dazzled by the stars. Finally, I look at him and feel a smile spread across my face.
“I love it,” I tell him, and it feels like something more, something like… I love you.
But that can’t be true. I can’t love him, just like I can’t love this City with all its beauty and songs and stories. This City may be full of beauty, but it’s full of monsters, too.
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