by Lucy Tempest
After long minutes of pure, suffocating hopelessness, I finally brought myself under control. Soon enough, we were back below the shaft leading up to the false tile below Cherine’s bed. My heart squeezed again at Cyrus’s absence as his earlier promise to lift me up reverberated in my ears.
Ayman said he’d help me instead after he got Cherine up, but I stopped him as he started climbing. “Are you going to be at the test today?”
He adjusted Cherine over his shoulder as he looked down at me. “I can’t. Cyrus might be there if he gets out in time and can find work around the hall.”
“When I get disqualified—” I stopped, sniffling, even when my burning eyes had run out of tears. “—can you sneak me out again? Keep me with you?”
“For what purpose? To find your teapot?”
“Lamp.”
He rolled his peculiar eyes. “Even more pointless.”
“Can you or can’t you?”
“I can’t. We can’t.”
“Why?”
“You haven’t given us a good enough reason. You’d need to have something all-important for me to risk harboring you beyond your elimination. That and you’re not like me. You’re a lady. You can’t disappear without causing an uproar. The last thing I need is for some nobleman to think I ate his daughter.”
Our eyes flicked to Cherine.
I let out a ragged breath. “What do I do then?”
“Not fail today’s test?” he suggested unhelpfully.
“Ayman, I have no quality of any value to offer in that stupid talent show today.”
He said nothing as he climbed up nimbly even without a single foothold up to the halfway point of the deep shaft. It was only when he moved the loose marble slab, revealing the bottom of Cherine’s bed that he looked down at me and said, “Then it’s been nice knowing you.”
His nonchalance made my temperature shoot up until I almost felt steam blowing out of my ears. If I’d had anything at hand, I would have hurled it at him.
But then…he’d already risked so much for me, and he’d owed me nothing to begin with.
After he got Cherine out, he climbed down, jumped the rest of the way to my side, and helped me up until I latched onto the first step. Using all my skills in climbing walls, I hauled myself up, then all the way out. He effortlessly came up after me and slipped quietly out of the hole in the floor. He carefully dragged Cherine from under the bed and set her back on it. He tucked her in, and before he walked away, he brushed her hair out of her eyes. My throat closed again at the sheer sweetness of his gesture.
Tearing my eyes away, I got into my bed. By the time I drew my canopy closed, he was gone without a sound. Just as he’d always done.
Closing my eyes, I wished I were like Ayman. Able to disappear, to roam freely in the dark with no fear of ever getting caught.
Getting caught. That had always been my worst fear as a small-time thief. I’d just thought if it ever came to pass, it would involve being caught in the act of stealing my loot, not in a failed attempt to find it.
But that was what would probably happen when I was forced to search for the lamp tomorrow, without Cyrus’s and Ayman’s help.
Which meant these might be my last hours of freedom.
Chapter Eighteen
Keeping a cool exterior proved to be harder to pull off when I was perpetually on the verge of hyperventilating.
Cyrus was nowhere to be seen.
All I had was Ayman’s word, or rather, his opinion, that he was fine. I had no idea if he was or not. And it was driving me insane with worry.
On top of that, fifteen girls were going home today.
I was going to be among them.
But though I felt like the world was ending, it went on unconcerned, with a spectacular day outside. Despite the approaching summer, it was a calm, balmy morning with thick, cottony clouds gliding on the tranquil breeze against a brilliant-blue backdrop, with exotic birds bathing in fountains or twittering a medley of joy in hedges and trees. All in all, the view of the palace gardens from above the pavilion was nothing short of breathtaking.
Or it would have been if I had much breath left to take.
This was where the talent show of day twenty was being held.
A marble-paved stage was in the center of the hedges and a few feet beneath it was the judges’ table. The forty of us stood in a line that winded up the balcony steps and down the side of the pavilion. One after another the girls were being called down to demonstrate their quality, or whatever made them valuable.
Our Blue Opal group was seventh in line. This gave me more chance to watch the demonstrations…and to sink deeper into despair.
Some girls sang, some played instruments and some danced, while others claimed to have created their own songs, pieces or routines to one-up the others. A few recited difficult poems, some flubbing their order of stanzas or forgetting the words entirely. A couple presented handmade objects and explained their design and process in detail, just in case the judges suspected they had commissioned work to pass off as theirs.
Even if their handiwork was inferior to any professionally made counterpart, it was far superior to what I had, which was nothing.
And I was the only one with nothing to offer. Behind me, Cora had her contribution balanced on her head, the sugar cane wicker basket. She had used melted resin to bind it and filled it with fruit she’d picked from the orchard. Before me, Cherine went through the steps of her dance, humming the tune of her accompanying music as she warmed up. Fairuza was wearing another flowing gown today, so her presentation didn’t involve a dance.
“What are you going to do?” Cora asked me as our line moved down the pavilion steps.
I winced. “Weep and hope they take pity on me?”
“That would certainly be something different.”
“How much leeway do you think I can have with different?” I groaned. “Think I can flail around and pass it off as an interpretive dance? Or just rant and call it freeform poetry?”
“What’s freeform poetry?” she asked.
“Ranting that you pass off as poetry. Common in pubs.”
Cora nodded, clearly giving up. “Uh-huh.”
Our line moved again and Cherine hopped down the last few steps like an excitable child. “On the topic of different, I had the strangest dream yesterday.”
“We know,” Cora said dully. “You tossed, turned and talked in your sleep for like an hour.”
“Yes, but after that was when the dream got strange. The ghoul was back—”
“So, you admit the ghoul is a nightmare?” Cora smirked at her.
Cherine hopped off the final step with a spin in the air, facing us with her hands on her hips. “No, I’m saying I had a nightmare about the ghoul.”
I didn’t need to look at Cora to know that she was palming her face.
Cherine spun again and skipped ahead of us. “Anyway, the ghoul appeared and attacked me, but someone stopped him and carried me off to safety.”
I stumbled. Did she remember anything else from last night?
“He held me in his arms the entire time. I’ve never felt so secure in my life,” she continued babbling. “I think at one point I had my head in his lap and he talked to me softly as he stroked my hair. Oh, it was just the loveliest dream I’ve ever had.”
That was a relief. If she remembered anything else, it would be part of the dream to her. I wondered how she’d feel if she realized her ghoul and savior were one and the same.
“Do you remember what he looked like?” I pried gently while also looking around for escape routes. This place was too wide open and there weren’t enough people for me to disappear among. I needed to leave right after my turn so I could have time to go back to our chambers and through the tunnel under Cherine’s bed for one last look inside the vault. Perhaps even find the shrines Ayman talked about.
Looking suddenly elated, Cherine jumped abruptly and bumped into Princess Ariane, who shot her a quick glare f
rom over her shoulder and clutched her offering closer to her chest.
“Foreign,” Cherine said, in dreamy fascination. “He was certainly foreign. Very fair, silver-haired, like a prince come alive from a storybook.”
More like from the illustrations of the White Shadow…
Of course! The White Shadow must have been an albino, too. It sure gave some sense to his tragic backstory, since his father, the King of Avesta, left him out to die of exposure as a baby and had his wife killed for bearing him a demon.
Poor Ayman.
It was a good thing I wasn’t actually a part of this land or this royal lifestyle. If I had to deal with a prince, or even a king, I wouldn’t have been able to tolerate their level of entitled superiority. People who were raised to believe they were better than everyone from birth were guaranteed to be insufferable at best, and sociopathic at worst. Fairuza and the prince were going to make quite a pair.
Not that my current situation was any better. Not when I still had to deal with the witch and her murderous obsession with elusive antiques.
Cyrus had mentioned a ring that granted wishes. I could use it right now. Maybe that was what I should be looking for later.
Sure. That sounded simple enough. I’d try on every ring and make demands at it until one told me where Cyrus was, made sure he was okay, undid this whole mess and took us all back home before I was—
“NEXT!”
A girl with shiny, black hair held up in a bun, wearing wooden sandals and a floral pink silk robe, stepped onto the stage with a harp. She introduced herself as Princess Misa of Yukimura Island and sang a tranquil tune as she plucked the harp strings. It was so soothing I started nodding off where I stood.
The judges were less than impressed. Whatever ease Misa’s song gave me evaporated like a splash on a hot stove. If this bored them, then what chance did anyone else have?
“Next!” Loujaïne sighed, not even bothering to feign courteousness or interest.
Another girl was stepping forward when Fairuza cut to the front of the line.
“Hey!” the girl protested. “Go back to your spot.”
Fairuza flapped the bottom of her glittering skirt to smooth out imaginary wrinkles and pretend to be too busy to hear her. She stepped onto the stage and curtsied to the judges with her arms extended to her sides, fingers arranged in a delicate gesture. She sparkled brightly all over, catching whatever rays made it through the clouds on the crystal beads adorning the gossamer overlay of her magnificent turquoise gown and her silver and diamond tiara.
When she straightened up, she hooked the fingers of one hand into those of the other. “I hope you don’t mind me moving things along. I could tell the mediocrity was dampening your moods on such a lovely day.”
The judges traded looks among themselves before facing her.
“Present yourself and show us your quality,” Master Farouk said, his deep voice as expressionless as his face.
She bowed her head slightly. “I am Princess Fairuza of Arbore and since an early age I have delighted all, family, guests and servants alike, with the enchantment of my voice.”
“Proceed,” Farouk ordered, setting his chin in his palm, dark eyes watchful.
Fairuza took a deep breath and opened her mouth. The vibrato that burst out of it filled the whole square and turned every head, blowing the energy back into the judges and nearly knocking me off my feet.
After the impossibly sustained opening note, she smiled broadly, pleased with herself, and continued singing, projecting her voice in a powerful soprano that could crack glass and shake mountains.
This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. She was supposed to prance up, cocky and self-assured, and make a fool of herself. To shriek and bray off-key like every obnoxious girl in a festival talent show who’d thought tackling a temple chorus song was a good idea.
But she didn’t. Fairuza sang assuredly, perfectly in-tune, and far, far better than every celebrated singer I had ever heard.
She owned the stage and the rapt attention of everyone who watched her. In that moment, eyes closed with immersion in the aria, cheeks flushed with effort and pleasure, she was passionate, mesmerizing and truly beautiful.
I felt my eyes and throat burn. Not just with anxiety but with unwilling admiration, and mounting anger. I hated this. I hated her. I hated myself for feeling so useless and inferior.
Why was I even here? I should just walk out of the line and save myself the time.
“Overkill much?” Cora deadpanned.
Sure, if you thought being the prime pick for The Fairy Queen in a high-end production overkill. My mother had loved that play and I couldn’t stand it, but now I was nostalgic for it. Springtime theatre productions in our town had been one of the few public activities she’d partaken in, the only thing she’d indulged in. If only she were here to defend her undying love for them and critique Fairuza’s performance. If only she were here at all.
Fairuza finished with a masterful falsetto that she controlled to the last trill and bowed.
The garden erupted in applause from everyone, the judges, the staff and even the other girls. I would have clapped too, but the risk of missing and slapping my own cheeks over and over in despair was too high.
With a flourish, she turned and walked off stage like a true performer, exuding enough confidence to fill a hundred girls. She knew that after that performance, no one had a chance to stand out. Every girl after her would be held to her standard and come up woefully short in the comparison.
That bitch. That magnificent, glamorous, talented, royal bitch.
I wished I was her.
The girl she had cut off went on next and read out a poem she’d written, immensely underwhelming compared to the storm of perfection that had come before her.
After her, Princess Ariane went up and unfolded a tapestry wider than her body. She described in great detail how she’d created it, why she’d picked the subject and how she would weave tapestries of the lives of notable ancestors on both the prince’s and her side to hang in their children’s chambers, to teach them their history and traditions and for inspiration.
Surprisingly, most of the judges were impressed, nodding approvingly or commenting on the artistry of her craftsmanship.
Master Farouk though, made the best comment of the day. “It’s heartening to see someone your age prioritizing a useful talent rather than a superficial one, and thinking how it can affect the future generations. Performance arts are all well and good but practical skills will always trump entertainment and outlive our voices.”
In the sidelines, Fairuza, as well as every girl who sang, looked downright offended.
I felt a bit better. If I had to root for someone in this mess, it would be Ariane. Mostly because she was the only one with enough personal and political clout to knock Fairuza back.
They called for the next one but Cherine didn’t move. She had stiffened up, hands clasped tightly, shoulders narrowed and heaving with her labored breathing.
I poked her. “Move.”
“I can’t,” she whimpered.
If this were any other day, I would empathize with her cold feet. But today, regardless of how she did, Cherine was still a nobleman’s daughter heading towards a cushy future in a mansion, to have another nobleman’s daughters. My trajectory involved no such safety nets, only the sharp rocks of capricious fate to bust my head on.
“Between the two of us,” I hissed at her. “I’m the one who should be paralyzed with dread. So move it already.”
She didn’t budge. I shoved her but only made her glide along the floor on the heels of her dance shoes.
“Now is not the time to lose all your obnoxiousness,” I snapped. “In fact, this is the best time for you to be as loud and attention-seeking as possible.”
“But Fairuza—”
“Screamed at us for five minutes, big whoop. But you keep saying the competition would come down to the two of you. Prove it. Prove you’re the only one b
esides her who’s worth all this fuss.”
She looked up at me in wonder. “You may be poor and uncouth, but you sometimes say the best things.”
I huffed. “Thanks. Now dance your little feet off!”
She stood up straight, steadying herself for one last moment before she scuttled to the center of the stage and made an exaggerated curtsey that looked more like a sideways lunge.
After Cherine introduced herself, Mistress Asena, the elite in charge of the White Opal group, and the only blonde at the table, asked, “How will you present your quality to us today?”
“I will present to you a dance I choreographed myself combining the traditional dances of our ancestors and the classical dance of Anbur.” Cherine snapped her fingers at the orchestral section and struck a pose.
The music, a vivacious blend of string arrangements and tribal drumbeats rolled into a blood-firing intro. After the first few beats, a dramatic drumroll introduced the main melody and Cherine sprung into a dizzying, spectacular dance that combined swift, complex movements with smooth transitions in between spins and mid-air pirouettes.
I gaped at her, wondering how anyone could be so agile, how she didn’t slip and break a limb. I bet anyone else would have. I could tell Fairuza was thinking it too, her expression hovering between burning envy and malicious anticipation.
But Cherine built her routine in difficulty instead, until she was spinning round and round, smoothly, masterfully, like a perfect, glittering top as the music built to a crescendo. Then in the same beat it came to a sudden, towering end, she abruptly fell into a pause, recreating the tranquil pose she’d started with, panting, face and arms shiny with sweat.
Applause as loud as what Fairuza had garnered thundered, turning Cherine’s reserved smile into a massive, smug grin. She skipped off the stage, swinging the sides of her skirt as she bounced past both princesses to take her spot in the line of those who’d finished performing.
“What was that about?” Cora asked me.
I blinked at her. “Which part?”
“You egging her on like you’re her instructor. She’s competition, remember?” she said, even though it didn’t sound like she meant her own statements. Not where she was concerned.