The Five Daughters of the Moon

by Leena Likitalo

  “Hush.” Celestia nudges Elise, who proceeds to nudge Sibilia.

  I feel bad for Alina only. Rafa must sense it, for she rubs her head against my knee. Since the most important part of the ceremony is over, and since I’m only eleven and hence allowed some leeway, I pick my companion up and clutch her against my chest. Mama should have summoned General Rasvatan to the court. She could have done so. Why didn’t she?

  Alina’s small hands shake as she holds the box, though it’s only the size of a thick book. Whatever the box holds, it’s bound to be immeasurably valuable. Though it can’t contain anything living. I press a kiss on Rafa’s forehead and inhale the lovely scent of her fur. My seed gave me the best name day gift possible—my dear companions!

  “I can’t wait to see what she gets,” Elise whispers to Sibilia, though we’re not supposed to prattle during the ceremony.

  Hesitantly. Unaware of our curiosity, Alina lifts the lid slowly, almost hesitantly. She holds the box so that only she and those standing right behind her can see what it contains. Elise strains her neck. Celestia elbows her once more. I hold my posture. There’s a limit to what I can get away with before Nurse Nookes is forced to reprimand me.

  “Oh!” Alina lowers the box as an intense blue glow escapes from inside it. Her mousy gray hair lights up in shades of indigo. Her pallid skin turns even more so. “It’s . . .”

  Mama steps to her side. Slowly and regally, she picks up the object from inside the box. General Rasvatan’s gift is a blue-and-green-enameled miniature peacock. Its feathers are crafted to lifelike perfection, but where its belly and chest should be gleams brightness in a cage of gold-netted glass.

  “Is that a . . .” I whisper under my breath, hoping one of my sisters can impede my curiosity. Rafa shivers against my chest, but Mufu, rather uncharacteristically the braver of the two, lifts her forepaw. She’ll go and investigate if I give her the permission to do so. I don’t.

  “It’s a soul-automaton,” Sibilia replies without moving her lips. She must fear Celestia’s elbows, though there’s no way our sister could reach her without making a scene. And that’s something someone as serene as Celestia would never do in public.

  The attendant in midnight blue retrieves the box from Alina. She sighs in what can only be relief. Next to her, Mama turns the tiny golden screw under the peacock’s tail. Alina stands very still as the automaton comes to life, and I can’t help thinking that it’s as if my sister doesn’t realize that the spell is already fueled by the peacock soul, that she thinks that she must cease to be for the bird to be!

  The mechanical peacock sings a chiming, vibrating tune. Alina trembles. She’ll soon burst into tears. Elise must have reached the same conclusion, for she rushes to embrace our sister from behind. Mama’s brows lift, but she nods at Elise as if her presence were indeed required by the ceremony.

  “A gift fit for a Daughter of the Moon,” Gagargi Prataslav announces, clearly pleased by the general’s choice. He has his arms clasped before him, but hidden by the voluminous sleeves.

  Alina barely glances at the peacock. Her tight smile is one I recognize too well. She’s very afraid of something. But of what, I can’t say, and I can’t ask. For the time has come for the rest of the court to present their gifts to Alina.

  * * *

  “Have you seen Poet Granizol?”

  Sibilia pauses munching the éclair only when she wheels around to face me. Beautiful blush covers her round cheeks. Powdered sugar dusts her plump lips. She swallows and pats her mouth in a napkin embroidered with the crescent motif. “Ummm . . . sorry? But, have you seen the servant with macarons lately?”

  Sibilia and her obsession with pastries . . . Sometimes she’s just as bad as Rafa and Mufu, who continuously beg for treats. I rise to my toes to crane past her into the dance hall, and my dear companions echo the movement.

  Inside, Elise swirls from the arms of one handsome young man to those of another. Dressed in a white gown with a high, silver-sequined waistline and a hem so light it follows her every movement, she looks akin to a young swan. Her red-gold hair curls into a crown of its own, the weaves held together by plumes and dove pins. Her laughter chimes even above the court gossip and the waltz the string quartet plays.

  “Sixteen,” I whisper under my breath. Our sister is beautiful, carefree, and admired by everyone. “If that is what it’s like to be sixteen . . .”

  “It is!” Sibilia sighs, palms pressed against her heart. Of course she’d be the one to know. She’s but one year away from the magical age. “This year simply can’t pass fast enough.”

  We watch, mesmerized, as Elise dances. When the song comes to an end, she curtsies to her current partner, then turns around to choose her next one from amongst a half dozen or so admirers.

  “If I were her, I’d pick Count Albusov.” Sibilia nods as if agreeing with herself. “Sure, he might be bald and a bit on the skeletal side, but look at the plenitude of soul beads sewn into his coat. I’ve heard his estate is one of the largest in the whole empire!”

  For a moment, it does seem like Elise will favor Count Albusov, though he must be twice her age. But then, a dashing young captain with his copper brown hair tied into an elaborate topknot boldly strides past the count to our sister. He’s muscular in the lean sort of way, and his midnight blue and silver uniform fits him so perfectly that he must be blessed by Papa himself.

  “The nerve of him . . .” Sibilia gasps. Both Rafa and Mufu turn to look at her. I don’t, for then I’d miss the action on the dance floor.

  Everyone. Everyone has paused to stare at the scene around our sister. The orchestra, bows hovering above the strings of violins and cellos. The couples with hands wound around each other. The older ladies and lords standing on the sides of the hall, holding drinks raised to their lips or about to spill them. And then there are the very people involved in what is about to turn into a major faux pas. Count Albusov’s bald head positively glows with his shock at this disregard for rank. The young captain completely ignores this, and . . . he bows at Elise swiftly, but elegantly.

  Our sister glances at Count Albusov, then at the young captain. She lifts two fingers to her lips and smiles so radiantly that no matter how she’ll choose, no one can think ill of her. She lowers her hand, brushes her hem in a way that leaves it girlishly swaying. And then, she favors the young captain with the tiniest of nods.

  “She can’t!” Sibilia stomps the floor twice, and Rafa and Mufu bounce back to the shelter of my hem. “She simply mustn’t approve of that sort of behavior.”

  Too late. Elise has made up her mind. As the young captain offers her his hand, she accepts it. She places her hand on his shoulder, white kid glove against the silver epaulet. He draws her closer, his hand on the small of her back. As if it were in his right to lead a Daughter of the Moon, to demand anything, let alone . . . intimacy. A violin sings the first note of the waltz, and it’s too late, too late to do anything.

  “Oh no . . .” For quite some time Sibilia is lost in her thoughts, no doubt imagining the chastisements Elise’s disregard for court etiquette will rain upon us. Then she shrugs, and her red-gold eyebrows lift as if she’d just remembered that I still wait for her answer. Her skirts swoosh as she squats down. As she pats my shoulders, her white gloves ooze the scent of honey and chocolate. “Come to think of it, dear Merile, I haven’t seen Poet Granizol since the ceremony.”

  I sigh, and Rafa and Mufu sigh with me. But my companions get over their disappointment much faster than I do. Mufu rises to her hind legs, more interested in what might remain of the éclair than my distress. Sibilia shakes her head at my companion. As she pats her head, a red-gold curl escapes from behind her ear. She notices the stain on her glove, shrugs, and lets the curl remain as it is. “And you’re out of luck, too.”

  A servant with a tray laden with tiny butter-crust pastries—apples and almonds, by the smell—ambles past us, so overwhelmed by the crowd that he doesn’t notice Sibilia and me. Both Rafa and M
ufu, however, turn whip-fast, to stare after him in hopes the man might fall and a blessed avalanche of treats tumble upon them.

  “Luck,” I remark, aiming my words at my apparently completely gullible and bribable companions. “We’re all out of luck.”

  “Oh, Merile, don’t be sad.” Sibilia, still squatted down, leans toward me, ready to hug me if need be. Her white gown clings to her skin, to her round bosom, to tell the truth. Though she’s already fifteen, she wears a dress more akin to mine than to Elise’s or Celestia’s. Ours have high necklines and long, tight-fitted lace sleeves. I like my dress, but on Sibilia . . . She’s a woman dressed like a girl.

  “I’m not sad,” I say.

  “He must be somewhere here . . .” Sibilia trails off as she spots a servant to our right with a tray full of macarons. The silver reflects the red and green and yellow promises of sweetness. My sister swiftly gets up. She casts one last glance at the dancing Elise, then an equally longing one at the macarons. “Do you want me to help you look for him?”

  Sibilia doesn’t ask why I want to find my seed, and I don’t want to tell her. She’s not particularly fond of hers. General Kravakiv has been off fighting for the empire since she was born anyway.

  “No,” I reply, and, released by my word, she sails away toward the sugary salvation of macarons.

  Grand hall. I can’t find Poet Granizol in the grand hall and neither does he loiter in the hallway leading into the older, colder parts of the palace. But it’s in this hallway that I detect the faintest hint of bitter smoke, and though I shouldn’t wander off alone, I do. Either the guards will shadow me or then they won’t. I’m not worried—no harm can fall on me on the palace grounds, no matter what Nurse Nookes might think.

  The crowd thins as I leave behind the rooms where the guests plot and gossip and dance as is the way things have always been here. I pretend not to see people holding hands with the wrong people, stealing kisses, swaying away, locking doors behind them. Rafa and Mufu trot beside me, nails clicking against the plainer floor tiles. They sneeze at the sticky smell of the many perfumes mixed with sweat. I follow the scent of smoke, for I know I will thus find the Poet.

  Right turn. Down a narrow corridor. Left turn. The farther away I veer from the grand hall, the more the temperature drops. Coldness seeps through the soles of my slippers. My breathing turns into white clouds.

  “Children are not tarnished by personal pursuits or the other faults that come with a name.”

  Anywhere. The voice is faint, and yet I’d recognize it anywhere. I stumble to a halt. Rafa and Mufu bump into my legs, tangling into my hem. What is Gagargi Prataslav doing here, so far away from the center of the party?

  I’ve never liked the gagargi—something I share with Alina—and I’m not particularly keen on seeing him now. But I do want to know with whom he’s talking, for I suspect he might be up to something.

  Gagargi Prataslav’s Great Thinking Machine devours human souls, though no one wants to believe it. That is, Elise laughed at me when I told her what I’d seen, and cautioned me that if I were to make such a joke before anyone else I’d soon find myself sipping Nurse Nookes’s potions. After that, I didn’t have the courage to mention what I’d seen to anyone else, and the next day I learned that Mama had rebuked the gagargi’s plan, thank the Moon!

  But now, Gagargi Prataslav might have other plans. I sneak farther down the corridor lit by duck-soul lamps.

  “I knew upon first seeing you that I could place my trust in you. You are wise beyond your years. Many times wiser than those who have made so many unfortunate decisions in the past.” A pause. Someone must have replied to the gagargi. “Indeed, what those who criticize progress don’t see, what you saw straightaway, is that the Great Thinking Machine is a gift sent by the Moon himself.”

  Closed door. The gagargi’s voice comes from the room at the corridor’s end, from behind a closed blue-paneled door. My fingers tingle with excitement and . . . I glance over my shoulder, wishing that a guard had indeed trailed after me. There’s no one around but Rafa and Mufu. Yet my curiosity is stronger than my current uneasiness. I tiptoe to the door, my companions right behind me, nails scratching the tiles until they halt with me. After a moment of hesitation, I peek through the brass keyhole. Surely if the gagargi can’t see me, he won’t know I’m listening.

  “We teeter on the edge of two ages.” There’s no mistaking Gagargi Prataslav, with his thick, oiled braid resting against his back. However, I’m more curious as to whom he’s talking to than what he’s preaching about. Unfortunately, the gagargi’s figure blocks the view, and I only catch a glimpse of a white gown. That’s not helpful at all, for most ladies honor Papa tonight by wearing the shades of the Moon. “The time has come to decide whether we want to be a part of the new age or fade away with the old one.”

  I tilt and turn my head to better see, my eye so close to the brass that its cold surface stings my cheek. To no avail. Rafa nudges me, sensing my frustration.

  “The Great Thinking Machine has crunched through the numbers. The Crescent Empire has reached the optimal borders. There is no need to expand upon what is enough to provide for all those who have worked so hard for the good of the empire. Let there be no more pointless campaigns, young men yanked from their bright futures, good women and children starving to provide for useless military excursions.”

  Strange. These are strange things that he speaks of. But what do I know of what goes on behind closed doors? Politics are for Mama and Celestia. All that is expected of Elise, Sibilia, me, and Alina is to . . . well, we are the Daughters of the Moon. We can do mostly whatever we want, barring endangering the succession, whatever that might mean in practice.

  “It is not lightly that I have bestowed these words on you.” Gagargi Prataslav strolls toward the lady in white. His movements are smooth, but grim, akin to those of an alley cat approaching a mouse. And he ends up standing too close to her, looming over her. “You will consider my words.”

  A statement. Not a question. I strain my ears to hear the lady’s reply. With each pounding heartbeat, I want to know more dearly who she is. But before she can reply, the gagargi flinches. He angles his head as if he were the one listening now. Then he spins around, to face the door.

  I stumble back, and my companions retreat with me. The gagargi, the holy messenger of Papa himself, possesses knowledge from the world beyond this one, from the realm of shadows. He has many powers, maybe some that I don’t know about. He might have sensed me spying on him!

  “There you are.” A hand that reeks of smoke grasps my shoulder from behind. I stifle a shriek. But Rafa and Mufu yelp in joy. Their tails wag wild. “My darling little Merile.”

  Relief washes over me as I recognize my seed, the Poet Granizol. He’s a big man with what Elise calls a perpetual tan and eyes as black as onyx. She would also call his scarlet, gold-embroidered coat garish. She wouldn’t deign to comment on his green, reptile-leather boots.

  “Here.” I clutch his arm. Rafa and Mufu trot away from the door. They sense my need to flee the scene. And flee I must before the gagargi comes to investigate these sounds. “I was only here looking for you.”

  Poet Granizol sways as I lead him down the corridor, toward a corner and away from the line of sight the gagargi would have from the door. Mufu sneezes. I hold my breath.

  “And now you’ve found me, my shine of a star,” the Poet announces, impervious to my wish to move faster. Loud. He’s so loud! “You shouldn’t have looked for me from so afar!”

  I can hear sounds from the door behind us, a key moving in the lock, the handle turning. I hasten my steps, trying to reach the corner before the door opens. Though a horrible thought occurs to me: if I can hear these sounds, then the gagargi might have heard me talking to the Poet too!

  “I . . .” I try to come up with a lie. But my throat is parched. “I’m thirsty.”

  “But of course.” The Poet’s gait steadies as though his life had a purpose now. “A flower ne
eds water to grow, rain and sunshine to bloom. Come, my little Merile, I know just the room.”

  When we finally turn around the corner, I risk a glance behind us. The door is just about to open. We made it.

  Of course we made it. I’m a Daughter of the Moon. Papa looks after me from the sky.

  * * *

  “I see the seed I sowed in the fertile soil of the empire has taken root well and grown into true beauty. There, I couldn’t have said it better.” The Poet leans back on the plush blue sofa of the smoking room. The corners of his onyx eyes wrinkle, and his wide smile reveals his impeccably white teeth. Handsome. I’ve heard ladies whisper that he’s handsome to look at. I’ve heard with my own ears that he’s a fine speaker. But I’ve also been told by my sisters on numerous occasions that the only sharp object he can wield without being a danger to both himself and others is a pen, and since even his skills with a pen are highly debatable, he would be so useless at the battlefronts that Mama never sends him there.

  The Poet pats a silver-tasseled cushion, and if anything has ever bothered him, there’s no sign of that tonight. “Do sit down here where the velvet whispers.”

  I grin, and Rafa and Mufu grin too, pink tongues peeking out. They rub against my calves, and I no longer worry about the gagargi. Even I had a hard time tracking the turns my seed took as he led us into this room. I take a seat next to him. My companions curl against my feet.

  “Is it the shine of the Moon himself that I see in her innocent eyes?” The Poet waves his hand in a wide arc, golden rings gleaming around every single finger. He stares theatrically at the ceiling, though I doubt he admires the paintings there, as the sickly sweet smoke veils the whole room. Just as we can’t see the other people in the room, the smoke also hides us, and my seed and I are just two shapes occupying one of the many sofas. “I know it without a doubt, she will grow very wise.”

  I giggle at him. Sibilia says the Poet has got his tongue stuck in honey and coated with sugar. She claims the Poet flatters everyone, but I don’t care what she says. She might just be envious. Her seed is always at the battlefronts, never here.