The Puppet Queen: A Tale of the Sleeping Beauty

by Mira Zamin

Auralia and I spoke little after that meeting and my gloom now enveloped her as well. Although I wanted to say something, share our grief now that everything had been revealed, she managed to rise earlier than me, but come to bed later. If I ever made an effort to speak to her in the dark, as we usually did each night before bed, I would only be answered by her steady breaths. Without Auralia, I passed much of my time sneaking into taverns under the amused eye of my brothers or embroidering and gossiping with my older sisters, or cavorting with Gieneve. I did what I could to surmount my depression, to stymie the black fog that threatened to engulf my mind. Every time I turned a corner and saw a familiar face, I could not but wish that I could flee from this guilt, leave this world behind where I had single-handedly destroyed thousands of futures.

  Despite this veritable circus of siblings, my days still felt empty without Auralia. This distance certainly dampened our sixteenth birthday festivities. Sixteenth birthdays were special since they announced for both young men and women that they were ready to wed. Four hundred years ago, Felisizia the Great had pushed the age of marriage of all Ghalainis to sixteen. She herself had been wed at twelve to a much-older groom and the marriage had been a famously unhappy one. Most Ghalainis still become betrothed long before that.

  For me, this birthday came packaged as a ticking countdown. Whenever anyone congratulated me on my upcoming birthday, my mind could not help but click through the numbers and produce that ever lessening figure: two years and growing closer every day.

  In spite of Auralia’s avoidance, I thought I would finally have a chance to properly speak with her the evening of our birthday ball.

  We dismissed our maids and helped each other dress, something we had done since we were ten. However, Auralia’s fingers were stiff and unnatural as she helped me button my silver gown with its belled sleeves—she had a matching one of gold—and my attempts to draw her into conversation were met with short formality.

  “Are you excited for the ball, Rory?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think of these new dresses?”

  “Lovely.”

  Irritated by her rebuffs, I stopped trying to make conversation. When she slipped me a shyly apologetic smile a few minutes later, with a flash of heady anger, I looked her square in the eye and after a moment, looked away with disinterest. I wanted to take it back as soon as I had done it. After all, what right did I have to throw any kind of attitude around with anyone and especially with Auralia?

  The air between us grew stonier, cold, like a hard permafrost that breaks spades with its refusal to yield.

  Our feet pounded an angry rhythm down the stairs. When we met our escorts at the bottom, I was extremely disappointed to see that Ferdas was waiting for Auralia, while I was saddled with Gwydion, one of the numerous sons of lords my mother had been trying to prospect. He was not bad looking, with a halo of gold surrounding his tan face, apple green eyes, and charm to spare. Despite this personable demeanor, or maybe even because of it, I could not bring myself to fully like him. Who knew what he hid behind his bewitching grin? It did not occur to me until much later that perhaps he had rankled me so much because we were so very alike.

  The aforementioned was now snaking his arm around my waist, and I was hard pressed not to extract my painted fan and thwack him across his smarmy face. The boys appeared entirely oblivious to the tension between Auralia and myself, in that way only teenage boys can manage. They provided enough jovial banter between them to compensate for our silence. I was unable to pay even cursory attention. How could I, what with Auralia leaning on Ferdas, as if for support but actually doing so to irritate me? His foolish grin at her sweet smiles was enough to chip at my heart.

  I was so concerned with glowering at Auralia that I was briefly blinded as the doors of the Great Hall—the same hall in which Lilianna had cursed us—swung open for our grand entrance, revealing a crowd of nobles, friends, and family. Scents enveloped us: the flowery perfume of ladies of course, but also the savory and spicy aromas of roast chicken and lamb, the fresh, sweet scent of bright cut, cinnamon-sprinkled fruit as vibrant as jewels on their silver platters, all laced with sugary hints of cake and sweets. I drew in a deep breath, exulting in the bouquet. Hearing my breath, Gwydion eyed me strangely. His lips quirked. I flushed.

  Well, I will just have to have a smashing time, I resolved. Determinedly, I avoided the tinny voice in my head that wondered if I deserved this good time, celebrating the sixteenth anniversary of my role as harbinger of Aquia’s curse.

  Despite my unease with Gwydion, he was a more than adequate dinner companion. His anecdotes left me breathless with laughter, and sometimes, when our gazes met, my heart would jolt, my breath stop. My mood lifted, my rumbling conscience and the nastiness with Auralia temporarily shoved beneath the gleam of gifts and cake. Spotting my enjoyment with that canny knack brothers have for teasing, Gareth and Danyal stretched lovelorn faces in my direction. Had my parents not been present, I would have happily lobbed them with potatoes. Considering the circumstances, I satisfied myself with a discreetly made rude hand gesture, which only invited further cackles.

  My father, thankfully not seeing my exchange with my brothers, cocked his head to one side to hear Gwydion finish his story. “Are you enjoying yourself then, Selene?” he inquired, his smile soft. He grasped my hand and beneath the silkiness of my own skin, I could feel the fragile roughness of his palm.

  “Oh, yes Father!” I exclaimed. “This has been so wonderful. Thank you so much for doing this for us.” I reached over and gave him a quick, tight hug, breathing in his Father-y scent of cardamom, clean sweat, and something that carried the power of contentment.

  My mother leaned into the conversation. “And no gratitude for me?” she asked, humor sparking in her hazel eyes. I marveled at how calmly they could comport themselves despite the expiration date set on their very way of life—but then again, they had near sixteen years of practice. I followed their example as best I could.

  “You too, Mother,” I said, grinning and lifting her hand to my lips.

  Leaning across the table, disregarding the way her umber gown spilled into the soup tureen, she kissed me on the forehead. Turning to Father, she said, “We have lovely daughters, do we not, Riagan?”

  “The best,” I piped.

  “Now, let’s not get carried away...” Mother said, straightening her spiked golden diadem which had tipped over her eye. With a sudden twinge, the curse curled its tendrils of guilt tighter around me.

  “And you, Gwydion?” asked my father courteously, turning to him “Are you enjoying yourself, my boy?”

  “Yes sir,” Gwydion said, smiling genially. “It has been a delight, spending further time with Princess Selene.”

  “I am a Marquise in my own right,” I primly reminded Gwydion. “Quite independent of my father’s title, thank you.”

  “But aren’t you a Marquise because of your grandmother's estate in Carez?” Gwydion challenged. His knee brushed against my leg. Once, then twice, then held steady. I tried to suppress my flush. “Not for any great service you performed for Ghalain or Aquia,” he continued, a devilish glint in his eye.

  “Touché.” I wondered at how thoroughly Gwydion had researched me. I would be a match of a lifetime for him. While his father was a wealthy lord, I was of an Emirati line and had the chance to one day, possibly, contend for the Bronze Throne.

  Father looked on with pleasure, his imagination no doubt misting with black-haired green-eyed babies or blue-eyed blonde-haired babies. Oh his sad delusions, I thought, world-wise in my newly minted sixteen years. I ignored my blush.

  Standing, Father clapped his hands to draw the attention of the guests. “I would like to thank you for coming and partaking in our joy on this memorable birthday. Let us now proceed to the ballroom and dance in honor of my beautiful daughters, Auralia and Selene.”

  Ladies pulled on their gloves, young men whooped, and the assembly clattered to the ballroom, with its
high arched ceilings, tiled with patterned mosaics and crystal chandeliers imported from Hademer—very expensive but with an exquisiteness well worth the price. (At least, that was how Mother had defended the purchase to Father.) The musicians strummed their lyres and beat out a jolly tune with their drums. Extending a hand to me and another to Auralia, my father led us into the hall. Once on the smooth marble floor, he dropped Auralia’s hand, and began twirling me around. I did not miss Auralia’s glare as she partnered with sandy-haired Necolai.

  “Oh, my Selene,” Father said, his grin sparkling.

  “Oh, my Father.”

  He roared with laughter. “You’ve always been the cheeky one, haven’t you?” His voice grew soft. “I want you to know that I admire you for the strong and intelligent young woman you have grown into—especially in these last few days.”

  My heart welling, I surreptitiously wiped a stray tear with a gloved finger. “I love you, Father.” I am sorry, Father.

  We applauded politely for the musicians as the song ended. He bowed formally to me before taking Auralia’s hand. Briefly, I wondered what he would say to her, whether he would admire her for being strong and intelligent. Probably more like proper, polite, and decorous.

  I was not left idle for long. Gwydion approached me. Casting a hopeful look at Ferdas, who had already wound his arms around a buxom brunette in periwinkle, I unenthusiastically took Gwydion’s proffered hand. He was not a bad dancer and I even felt graceful in his arms, until Auralia shot me another baleful glare and I stumbled against him.

  He laughed huskily and I could feel the sound rumble from his chest. “Easy, milady. Please do not try to take my virtue in front of this whole audience. I could never resist such a fearsome suitor as you and my honor could not survive the scandal!”

  “Shut up.”

  The night wore on and as the candlelight waxed low against the golden stone walls, couples began departing. While I once more danced with Gwydion, my ear caught a familiar low chuckle. I whipped my head around just in time to see Auralia leading Ferdas out of the hall. Eyes widening, I excused myself and padded silently behind them, careful not to let my silver heels clack.

  My skin clammy, anxiety churned in my gut. I should turn back, I thought. No happiness can come of this. Yet, I stubbornly persisted until I stumbled upon them behind a tapestry door. Auralia leaned close to Ferdas, her golden hair tumbling around her shoulders, her fingers locked around his neck. His thumb traced her collarbone and whatever she whispered in his ear made him grin. I gasped. Auralia’s unreadable gaze met mine through the small sliver of space between the tapestry and wall. Ferdas, of course, noticed none of it. I backed away.

  Listlessly, I wandered through the palace halls, occasionally bumping into departing guests and busily tidying servants. I lowered my head and ignored their greetings and well-wishes. Walking to the garden, I drew my arms around me against the chill. I could understand her anger. After all, it was me. It was me. I had done this. I had been born and lightning had struck the First Tree and the Pari had cursed us all for it.

  Moonlight cast the neat hedges and rosebushes in silver. Sitting on a marble bench, the fountain dripping steadily, I kicked the snow-white pebbles at my feet. I needed to make this right—but how?

  Chapter Four