Girls of Paper and Fire

by Natasha Ngan

It takes me a moment to realize he means me.

  “But—you could have arrested her. You didn’t have to… to kill her.”

  “Guards are permitted to execute Paper castes on the spot.” The leathery skin of his forehead wrinkles. “Is that all, Mistress?”

  The tone of his voice makes me stiffen. He says it so easily, so bluntly, as though it weren’t anything at all.

  “Mistress?” he repeats at my silence. “Is that all?”

  I go to nod, then change it to a shake at the memory of the searing look in her eyes. “The woman, she—she called me something. Dzarja. What does it mean?”

  He scowls. “It is an ugly expression.”

  “For what?”

  “‘Traitor,’” he says, and lowers his hand, ducking his head out of the carriage, the ribbons fluttering back into place.

  Dzarja. The word haunts me as our procession starts back up. How easily the guard took the woman’s life, just the arc of a muscled arm. She wasn’t that much older than my mother when she was stolen, and I get a flash of a Paper caste face—Mama’s this time—mouth wide with terror as she is pinned down by a demon guard. I’ve been so focused on the thought that all she needed was to survive the journey here that I didn’t consider how difficult it might be for her to survive once she arrived.

  Ten minutes later, my stomach is still churning when we pass through a set of tall gates into a barren plaza. A single road cuts down the center. Ahead looms a grand fortress, carved from flecked rock dark as a raven’s coat. Banners marked with the King’s bull-skull symbol snap in the wind. On every balcony and along the base of the building, guards stand watch, weapons at the ready. The quiet is uneasy, and the hoof-fall of the oryx demons echoes through the desolate square, my own pulse matching the rhythm and even their weight, each beat so heavy and terse it’s like my heart is clamping around a stone.

  As we make our approach, I flex my fingers, trying to bring blood back to them. My muscles are as frozen as the rock of the royal palace looks.

  Our procession comes to a stop at the bottom of a grand set of marble stairs leading up to a high, vaulted entranceway. At first everything is still. Then a band of gold unfurls itself from the entranceway. In one luxurious sweep, it rolls down the staircase, viscous and fluid, like some kind of charmed waterfall, and sure enough, I pick up the telltale vibration of magic in the air.

  The door of my carriage swings open. “Mistress Lei-zhi,” greets a servant, holding out a hand to help me down.

  The golden spill has painted the ground around the carriages in a shimmering metallic carpet. As my feet meet the floor, I look down to see ripples flowing out around me. But despite the beauty of it, I’m still reeling from what just happened on the bridge, and I follow the rest of the girls up the stairs, eyes trained on my feet to avoid the stares of the guards.

  The world seems to grow even quieter when we enter the palace, though maybe I’m imagining it, the hush that sinks over us, reverent almost. As we march, I take in our surroundings in silent awe. There are echoing halls and narrow corridors. Indoor gardens with magical ceilings that mimic the night sky. Long staircases that wind steeply from floor to floor. Everything is carved out of the same black stone as the exterior, and though undeniably beautiful, it gives the place a clammy, imposing feel, like a mausoleum.

  I think of the Paper Girls who came before me. The dreams of theirs that might have died within these very walls.

  We have been walking for over twenty minutes when we are finally told to stop. A vaulted archway looms before us, the room beyond hidden by a heavy black curtain.

  We’re still in a line ordered by our names. In front of me, Chenna’s thick hair falls down in its usual braid, though tonight it has been threaded with tiny silver flowers that make it look as if she’d been dancing between the galaxies, catching stars. Her shoulders rise and drop with shallow breaths. I’m about to step forward, offer some words of comfort, when there’s a groan behind me.

  “Oh, gods,” Mariko moans. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  I pivot round to find her doubled over, her face white.

  “Take a deep inhale,” I say, laying a hand on her arm, but she shoves me away.

  “I don’t need the help of a peasant!” she snaps.

  I draw back. “Fine, then.” I’m about to turn away when, over Mariko’s bowed head, Wren catches my gaze.

  I freeze. She looks so astonishing it’s almost unreal, as though she’d slipped out of a painting perfectly formed, a thing of beauty, of art—of bright, vivid life in this cold, still place. The design of her cheongsam is the exact opposite of mine. Where the collar of mine is high, hers runs low, exposing the deep shadow of her cleavage. My dress has a slit up the side; hers is tight all the way down her legs, emphasizing their length and muscled shape. Unlike my sheer fabric, hers is a dark gunmetal silver, dangerous and enticing, evocative of armor.

  Faintly, I remember what Lill said about our dresses representing our personalities. Underneath my wonder at her beauty, curiosity stirs.

  As usual, Wren is the one to break eye contact. But to my surprise, she does so to lean forward to speak into Mariko’s ear. “I don’t know about you,” she murmurs, “but I have never seen a peasant who looked like that.” She looks up at me, a half smile touching her lips. “Now you look ready,” she says, just as a gong sounds from beyond the archway.

  I whip back round to see the curtain floating aside. “Heavenly Master and honorable members of the court,” a magnified voice announces from the room beyond. “Presenting this year’s Paper Girls!”

  In front of me, Chenna straightens, rolling her shoulders back. I follow her resolve, releasing a long exhale to steady myself as best as I can despite the spike of my pulse as, one by one, we step through the archway.

  We emerge into a columned hall, deep and cavernlike, draped with garlands of vermilion silk. The walls look hollowed out of a marble cave. Rows of sheer steps on all sides lead down to a sunken pool. Ink-black water glitters with the reflection of lanterns overhead. From balconies ringing the room, hundreds of demon faces leer down at us. Our steps echo as we fan out in a row at the top of the steps, and I find it difficult to move, as if the expectant hush of the watching crowd had a weight, a solidity that thickens the atmosphere, lends an extra tug to gravity just here in this hall.

  At first I keep my eyes low, trained on the floor. But something soon pulls their attention. Something draws them down the steps, across the pool, and to the podium on the far side. And I know before I see him what—or rather who—it will be.

  The Demon King.

  Lounging, almost, on his marbled gold throne. Or at least, there is something casual in the way he occupies it, some smug, almost irreverent quality to the way he sits, hips sloped a little too low, arms slung over the sides, head tilted back just enough to make it seem as if he were looking down at us even though we are much higher up the steps.

  This is the first thing about him that surprises me. The King’s pose is particularly at odds with the formal, straight-backed stances of the three soldiers flanking him—a gray wolf-man, a huge moss-colored crocodile-man, and a white fox female, all Moon caste.

  Also unexpected is how slender he is. Particularly in comparison with the crocodile demon who towers behind the throne, the King’s muscles are lean, roped, a bull’s strength bound through manlike limbs, and hidden under layered black robes with gold trim. In a fight between him and his crocodile guard, I wouldn’t rate the King’s chances very high… except. There is an energy about him. Coiled and alert, a magnetic pull that commands attention and power. Ice-blue eyes watch from under long lashes. Above his ears, thick horns unwind, etched with grooves inlaid with gold. And as I take in his face from a distance, there is a third thing that surprises me.

  The King is handsome.

  I was expecting an old King. Some weary, war-torn bull. But he looks young, not far past his teens. There’s an elegance to his face. Whereas General Yu’s was an
ugly clash of imposing bull features, the King’s face is long, almost delicate in shape, with a defined jaw and wide, graceful mouth, a cupid’s bow peaking perfectly in its middle.

  A lazy smile sharpens into a grin. The King leans forward, lantern light lending his walnut coat a glossy sheen. “My new Paper Girls,” he drawls. “Welcome.”

  His voice is deep, heavy as night.

  Quickly, we drop to the floor in low bows. The marble is cool against my palms. I feel the King’s gaze upon us like a touch and keep my head down, breathing hard.

  “Presenting Mistress Aoki-zhi of Shomu!” comes the announcer’s voice.

  There’s the sound of Aoki getting to her feet. Her tentative footsteps, then the unmistakable swish of water as she enters the pool. Mistress Eira told us that the water is part of the ritual, symbolic of purifying our bodies before we meet the King. It’s been enchanted so it won’t affect our appearance. A short while later Aoki’s wavering voice rings out with the greeting Mistress Eira taught us.

  “How sweet,” comes the sound of the King’s voice, quieter now but still heavy and deep. “What a cute nose.”

  I grind my teeth. He makes it sound as if she were a toy, a plaything for him to toss aside once he grows bored.

  Which is exactly what she is, I remind myself, pressing my fingertips firmer against the cold stone.

  What we all are.

  The King takes more time with Blue, who is called next, and with Chenna, until all too soon, the announcer sings, “Presenting Mistress Lei-zhi of Xienzo!”

  I get to my feet, awkward in this ridiculous dress, my right shoulder still stiff from where it bashed into the carriage wall earlier. The chamber is deafeningly quiet. The silence seems to spool around me, catlike, coaxing my nerves. I walk forward, trying to mimic Mistress Eira’s light way of moving. But my steps are heavy. Like in the carriage, the whole situation has a dreamlike tint to it, and my heart surges with the hopeless desire for that to be all this is.

  I’ve learned how to live with nightmares. I could cope with one more.

  Though I keep my eyes firmly tracked on the stairs I’m making my way down—it’s all I can do not to trip over in this ridiculous dress—I sense the eyes of the crowd following me. Dzarja. The word bounds into my head. Is that what I am? Is that what the demons see, a girl who is a traitor to her own people?

  When I reach the bottom of the steps, I let out a relieved puff of air—just as I take my first step into the pool and stand on the hem of my dress.

  The crowd gasps as I lurch forward. My arms fling out inelegantly, and I grimace as I hit the surface of the water with a smack. It’s cold, a fist of ice. I expect to choke, but the water is like viscous air, and I wrestle my panic down, regaining my composure. Or at least, whatever passes for composure when you’ve lost all traces of dignity. I scramble up and stride on, the dark liquid of the enchanted pool flowing around me like smoke. I do my best at getting out the other side somewhat gracefully. When I climb onto the podium, I drop to my knees at the King’s feet without daring to look at him.

  “I—I am honored to serve you, Heavenly Master,” I recite into the shocked silence.

  More silence.

  And then the room erupts with the King’s laughter.

  “Look at the poor thing!” he cries, his sonorous voice echoing off the cavernous walls. “Dressed like a queen when she cannot even walk a straight line. How much liquor did you ply her with to calm her nerves, Madam Himura?” he jokes, and the crowd joins in, the hall reverberating with demon laughter as a servant darts forward to hurry me on, and I stumble away, face burning.

  ELEVEN

  MARIKO ALMOST THREW UP ON HIS FEET.”

  “But she didn’t.”

  “I think Zhen bowed wrong. It looked funny from where I was, anyway.”

  “Aoki, I fell flat on my face. In front of the entire court.”

  She sighs. “You’re right,” she admits. “It was a complete disaster.”

  I break a smile, and she nudges me with her shoulder, green eyes glittering.

  It’s early the next morning. The two of us are sitting on the steps to the bathing courtyard, wrapped in gray light and predawn hush. The calm is at odds with the busyness of the house yesterday, and I’m glad for this moment with Aoki before the day, our first as official Paper Girls, begins.

  Last night, all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball of embarrassment after my display at the ceremony. Not just because of how humiliating it was, falling over in front of the whole court, but because of how it made me look to the King. Before last night, I thought I didn’t care what he’d think of me.

  And then he laughed at me. Laughed, like I was a joke. And I want him—need him—to know that I am not.

  To know that I am strong.

  To know that whatever happens, whatever the official position says, I do not belong to him.

  But as soon as we got back to Paper House, Madam Himura rounded on me, so incensed she could barely get a word out. “You didn’t just shame yourself, you shamed us! You shamed me!” she cried, before sending me to my room, Lill hurrying behind me, her cheeks as red as mine.

  “Maybe it was a blessing in disguise,” I say now to Aoki. I sit straighter, scraping back the hair from my brow. “Now he definitely won’t call me first. Maybe he’ll never call me at all.”

  She tilts to the side so she can look at me. “You don’t want him to?”

  “No!” I say it a little too forcefully, and I steal a glance over my shoulder, as though Madam Himura could have snuck up behind us. Voice lowered, I ask, “Do you?”

  “Of course!” she answers, also a little too hard. She takes a breath. “I mean… I’m not sure. I—I think so. He’s the King, Lei. It’s a privilege.” This part at least sounds like she believes it.

  “But even so,” I press, “is this really what you want? What you hoped for of your life?”

  Aoki twines her fingers in her lap, her teeth softly working her bottom lip. “I miss my family so much. I really do. But if I hadn’t been chosen, I would have been stuck in our tiny village for the rest of my life. Maybe I would have been happy there. But look at this, Lei,” she says, sweeping her arm at the empty courtyard, and I know she means not just here but the house, the palace, the beauty and extravagance of it all.

  Unmoved, I mutter, “I’d rather be back in Xienzo.”

  “Even though your family is taken care of now?”

  I open my mouth to retort, stopping myself at the last moment. Aoki’s from a poor village, too. She has also known hunger and struggle, experienced the fierce bite of the cold and the heavy ache of exhaustion after a long day’s work, so deep you feel it in your bones.

  Even so. I was meant to take care of them, my father and Tien. Me. Not the King.

  Dzarja.

  His money is dirty. Blood money.

  “I wonder who he’ll pick first,” Aoki murmurs a few moments later.

  Her question hangs coiled between us.

  I flash her a sideways smirk. “I bet it’s Blue.”

  She groans. “Oh, gods, no! We’d never hear the end of it.”

  As we both snort, a maid hurries into the courtyard from the opposite side, hair still mussed from sleep and her night robe tied messily. She drops to the floor as soon as she spots us. “So sorry, Mistresses!” she stammers. “I—I didn’t know you would be up.”

  “Oh, don’t worry—” I start, getting to my feet, but she darts off before I can finish. I turn to Aoki. “I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that. ‘Mistresses.’ It sounds so…”

  “Old? Formal?” She giggles. “I guess that’s something else the other girls are used to. They were probably called Mistress since they were babies.” She puts on a posh accent, fluting her wrist fancily. “Mistress Blue, would you care for some honey in your mother’s breast milk?”

  We burst into laughter, stopping at the sound of voices from inside the house.

  “We’d better go,” I say. “It’s al
most time to get ready.”

  We walk back to our rooms in silence, and slowly the significance of Aoki’s earlier question settles onto our shoulders, gaining a little more weight with each step. After my performance last night, I’m sure the King won’t choose me first. But still, I pray silently with every fiber of my being that I’m right.

  Paper Girl life, it transpires, consists of a lot of studying—something my old life in Xienzo had barely any of. Mistress Eira warned us we would have a busy schedule of lessons to develop our nu skills, ranging from etiquette classes to calligraphy to music practice to Ikharan history, but I didn’t realize how tiring it would be. Maybe it’s because I never went to school. I was helping my parents with the shop from pretty much the moment I could walk, and as one of my only teachers, Tien would be the first to complain about my attention span. The problem, little nuisance, she’d say, is that you have none.

  By the time we head back to Paper House for lunch, my head is stuffed with four hours’ worth of information from our morning classes. Most of the other girls are busy chatting, but I’m dazed, going over everything our teachers said, hoping to somehow imprint it all into my brain through sheer will. I’m still so focused that when we take our seats around Madam Himura’s table and she says something that causes the other girls to become quiet, it takes me a few moments to register what is happening.

  The King has made his first choice.

  “Who is it?” Blue speaks up immediately, adding a quick, “Madam Himura,” at the eagle-woman’s piercing look.

  I glance at Aoki, but she’s focused hard on Madam Himura, her mouth pressed small. Then my eyes flick to Wren. Unlike the others, she doesn’t seem to be paying much attention to what’s going on. She looks younger than she did last night, when she’d been glossed with makeup and wrapped in that dress, but there’s still a stoic quality to the way she is poised, chin lifted, eyes cast away. Suddenly, I’m certain that it will be her name Madam Himura will announce.

  The way she looked last night, how could it not be?

  “The name of the King’s chosen girl will be delivered by royal messenger on the days he requests company that evening,” Madam Himura explains into the expectant hush. “It goes without saying that if it is you who is summoned, you must obey his call.” With a rustle of feathers, she unwraps a silk-bound package and slides its contents—a small bamboo chip—into the center of the table with one curving talon. Then, the room in absolute silence now, she moves her hand away to reveal the name printed across it.