Queen of All

by Anya Josephs

  “Get up, get up, Elan needs us in the parlor in five minutes!”

  I fight the urge to roll over and go back to sleep. Last night, I couldn’t get any rest without the warm, familiar weight of Sisi in bed next to me. Sleeping under the overturned cart in the dirt by the roadside was easier. At least then I had Sisi next to me, like always.

  Still half-asleep, I stumble through the tasks of getting up, idly combing my long hair with my fingers before pulling my one good dress over my head. I look like a mess, but a hundred hours of dolling myself up wouldn’t do much to improve my looks, as my cousin Merik used to say when he was feeling particularly nasty. And no one cares what I look like, anyway.

  Elan is sitting in the parlor. I, however, am more interested on what is on the table beside him: a breakfast of pastries and sliced breads, cheeses and fresh-churned yellow butter, fruit fresh and dried and preserved in jams. He must notice my hungry look at the treats, because he nods at me.

  “Please, Lady Jeni, help yourself. I took the liberty of having breakfast brought up because time, I fear, is short. We have much to do, and we cannot keep His Highness waiting too long.”

  I’m not sure what exactly the crisis is, but on the subject of breakfast, I don’t need to be told twice. I am polishing off my third plate by the time Aunt Mae and Sisi have both emerged from their rooms. Aunt Mae gives me a sharp look, no doubt a reprimand for either the shabbiness of my dress, the way the pastry is crumbling down my front, or both. She always scolds me for eating too much, even when our stores allow for it, though I don’t see why. Sisi eats like a bird and she’s bigger than me, while the boys, and especially Merik, can eat to bursting and stay as skinny as sapling trees in their first season of sprouting. My body is the way it is, whether or not I like it (I don’t), whether or not I go in for another one of those small pastries with the bittersweet paste on top (I do).

  Perhaps she simply finds my habit of taking whatever treats I can get my hands on impolite, for Aunt Mae and Sisi both seem to have no appetite, or they’re too courteous, or too overwhelmed, to eat much. While they sip politely on their tea, Elan opens a sheaf of papers and begins to explain our schedule for the day. “I have arranged for several of the palace’s seamstresses to call on you this morning, immediately after you finish your repast, if that is acceptable to you. Ladies usually wear gowns to the ball, and we shall have them made to your measure and to your taste, for both the Midwinter Ball and other court functions that may arise. Do you know how to dance?”

  I say “Yes,” at the same time as Sisi says “No.”

  She shoots me a look, like I’m being unbearably stupid again, and explains, though I’m not sure whether it’s for Elan’s benefit or mine, “We know country dancing, not court dances.”

  “Then the King’s own dancing master will see you in the royal ballroom after luncheon. He instructed the Prince and the King themselves when they were boys, as he is widely regarded as the best teacher in the Kingdom.”

  I, personally, am rather excited by this news; I love to dance, and it will be fascinating to meet a man who taught the King himself. Sisi just frowns, of course, but I’d expect nothing else from her.

  The rest of our schedule includes a luncheon with two Numbered ladies who are apparently Sisi’s third cousins twice removed, an afternoon lesson in courtly etiquette, and a consultation with the palace hairdressers.

  “And His Highness sent you this.” Elan holds out a small, black velvet pouch. With trembling hands, Sisi takes it.

  Inside is a shimmering emerald, hung on a gold chain spun so thin I can barely see it. The green jewel is enormous and beautiful, about half the size of my own fist.

  “Give His Highness my thanks. It’s beautiful,” Sisi manages to make herself say.

  It certainly is, but from the way her eyes tighten as she says it, I somehow suspect she does not mean the words with sincerity—though she might indeed be pleased with such a fine gift. If we could just leave now, and sell the necklace, I think we would never have to worry about any of our family going hungry again.

  Something tells me that isn’t going to be an option.

  “I will convey your thanks, of course. Is there any other message for His Highness? I am meeting with him not long after this, and it would be my pleasure—and of course, my duty—to bring him any messages you may have.” Elan looks expectantly at all three of us.

  I search my suddenly blank brain, looking for any way I can make myself find the words to address the King’s brother, even if it’s indirectly.

  “Please thank His Highness for his hospitality,” Aunt Mae replies.

  That’s what I should have said! But I didn’t think of it in time, and now Elan is bowing and leaving the room.

  Ah, well. It’s not like anything I would have had to say would have mattered enough to be noticed—I’m just here to tag along behind Sisi, the way I’ve always done. In a way, I’m grateful for it. I’ve been jealous of Sisi and the attention she gets plenty of times in my life, but I wouldn’t want to have to be the one taking the lead in this new place.

  As soon as the great double doors shut behind Elan, Sisi goes to drop the emerald on the ground as though it’s nothing more than trash, but then catches herself. Instead, she hands it to Aunt Mae. “Will you keep this for me, Auntie? Put it somewhere safe.”

  Aunt Mae looks a little queasy at holding something so precious, but she hesitantly takes it from Sisi and goes into her own sleeping chamber. I suppose that answers my question about Sisi’s feelings about the gift of jewelry, then.

  It does seem an incredibly intimate sort of present to give someone. Back home, no one can afford jewels, of course, but boys give chains of handwoven flowers to girls they’re courting, and married couples exchange metal bands that they wear around their wrists to mark their bond to each other. Maybe things are just that different among the Numbered. I wouldn’t know, but I have to imagine that there’s some symbolism to giving someone jewelry.

  Sisi has turned away a lot of presents over the years: bottles of wine, freshly picked flowers, carefully baked sweets—all from admirers whose interest she did not return. I suppose this is simply more of the same to her, in spite of the worth of the gem and the prestige of its giver.

  Or maybe even because of both of those things. Maybe it’s the fact that this is no different than how Sisi has been treated by everyone outside the family since she first began to grow into maidenhood that gives her the courage to treat a royal gift with such nonchalance.

  Just another man she doesn’t want, giving her things she didn’t ask for, as if she’ll trade herself away for trinkets.

  I don’t have time to voice that theory to Sisi, though, as we’re soon joined by Mari, who introduces herself as the palace’s head seamstress, and number Three Hundred and Seventy-Six Thousand, Eight Hundred and Twelve in the Kingdom. I wonder if everyone around here does that—so far it seems like even the servants are obsessed with knowing and sharing their Numbers. The only person who hasn’t done so was Elan, and, as a pahyati, he obviously wouldn’t be able to trace his descent from the First King and Queen. I wonder if I’m going to stick out too terribly without a Number of my own, or if it’s time to start counting out generations on my fingers until I can figure out that I’m number eight million and sixty-four bazillion in line for the throne, or some such thing.

  In spite of her Number, Mari seems almost familiar to me—not because I’ve ever met her before, but because I’ve spent my life around women like her. Aunt Mae, for one, who takes to her at first sight. Mari is soon ordering both Sisi and I around with the ease of any of our aunts. Arms up, arms back, sit down, now turn, touch your toes, back up again.

  “You’re both fine, healthy girls,” Mari remarks approvingly. “There’s been a cursed fad for skinniness in the palace lately. I say a lady with no flesh on her won’t look well in any gown, no matter how it’s tailored. Now, the two of you will be a pleasure to outfit. Though Mistress Jeni, you’ve y
et to grow into your looks.”

  Of course. What would a conversation be without an unsolicited insult about my appearance? I’d hardly know what to do with myself.

  “Still, you have the right round features and the perfect coloring for a maiden on the verge of flowering. Never fear, we’ll make you up to look the part. A little corsetry, a bit of my work, and we’ll give you the curves you’re still waiting for, suck you in a bit about the middle. You could look as lovely as your cousin here.”

  Only the certainty of incurring Aunt Mae’s fiercest displeasure stops me from rolling my eyes at that. I’ll never be as beautiful as Sisi. They can do whatever they want to make my chubby body look as shapely as hers—just because we’re both big girls doesn’t mean we’ll ever look alike—but they can’t fix my face.

  “Now, Lady Sisi, you’re perfect as is. Why, we could send you into the ballroom in your traveling clothes, and you’d still be the talk of the land. But of course, we aren’t going to do that! I’m so pleased I get to work on your gown. I think we’ll be able to make a real impression on all the guests—even on His Highness.”

  Sisi doesn’t answer at all, not even a polite dismissal. Mari seems unfazed by her utter rudeness, filling up the silence with pleasant chatter.

  “Well, that’s all I need for today to get started on your gowns for the ball itself. I’ll be back tomorrow with some sketches, to see if you approve of my plans. And I’ll have a few things sent up as soon as I can so that you’ll be properly outfitted in the meantime.”

  No sooner has she departed than more footmen start arriving. They set the table for lunch—fine porcelain plates, real silver cutlery, crystal goblets—and then lead in our guests. Patine and Ransi are apparently both Numbered ladies of the Third Quarter, in town for the winter season. They share a common great-grandmother with Sisi—which appears to be news to her as much as it is to me—and are around our age, which is no doubt why they were selected as our companions.

  The meal is eaten in indescribably awkward silence. The two Numbered girls pay no more attention to Aunt Mae or I than they might to a fly. In fact, they treat us with exactly the same aloof condescension they treat all the other servants, whom they are ignoring just as casually while the meal’s many courses are brought before us and cleared away in elegant succession.

  They do try to engage Sisi in conversation, of course, but she’s even more stubborn than usual. In fact, she’s brought a thick leathern book to the table and is reading it while she absent-mindedly nibbles on her lunch. No doubt if we were at home Aunt Mae would give her the thrashing of her life, but I’m not quite sure that’s allowed here, and apparently neither is Aunt Mae, for she just glares daggers at the top of Sisi’s bent head as Sisi ignores all of us.

  I don’t even know where Sisi got a book. Certainly, we didn’t bring one with us! We’ve never owned such an expensive object.

  At least the lunch is delicious. We’re served a soup of poached chicken and finely minced herbs, followed by fresh river fish in a creamy sauce, all with a loaf of the sort of finely milled white bread I’d never tasted before yesterday. Even Patine and Ransi’s condescension and Sisi’s blatant rudeness can’t erase the pleasure of such a fine meal.

  When the tables have been cleared, and our reluctant and unwelcome guests have excused themselves from the table, it’s time for our dancing lessons.

  I’m excited and nervous in equal measure. I love to dance, but Sisi’s comment this morning has made me think that a fondness for the simple circle dances we used to do on holidays will be of little help at a royal ball. I hate the idea of making a fool of myself, something I feel I’ve done more or less constantly since we arrived here.

  These worries are slightly eased by my excitement about finally getting to see a little bit more of the palace. Dancing would seem to be the one activity we can’t actually do in our chambers, expansive though they may be.

  One of the silent footmen leads us down the corridor, around the corner, and through a solid oaken door into a ballroom. The space is lit with the sun refracted through a thousand crystals. It is undecorated except for the open crystalline wall that overlooks the palace’s gardens, and empty except for a tall, very thin old man leaning against a cane. He has pale, almost see-through skin, and his hair is pure white. Deep wrinkles carve through his face, nearly obscuring his vision. Yet he still bows to each of us with great courtesy and grace. In spite of his age, it’s easy to see how this man must be a dancer.

  “I am Balertius. Ninety-Four Thousand Two Hundred and Third in the Kingdom. I taught the King to dance. I taught the King’s father how to dance. Many lords, many ladies, their parents, their children. Now I teach you.” His voice is heavily accented, though of course I don’t know enough about geography to be able to place it with any kind of confidence.

  He circles around both of us, watching carefully.

  “You are Lady Sisi, no?” he asks my cousin. “The one that was sent for? The famous beauty?”

  “I am Sigranna, sir,” she answers. I hear Aunt Mae sigh at her insistent use of her True Name, even now, even in the palace.

  “Hmm. Reluctant to claim what you are, I see. You do not wish to be called a lady? Nor a great beauty?”

  “I don’t see how that’s relevant to whether or not I can dance,” Sisi bites back.

  To my surprise, and relief, all that provokes from Balertius in return is a loud laugh. The sound of his laughter echoes in the large, empty room. “You are a clever girl. There is more to you than your looks, I see this. But you do not know very much about how to dance. To dance is to become a great beauty, to embrace the beauty within you, even if you are not beautiful in the face or in the body. I will teach you.”

  At first, we’re not permitted music, or partners. Balertius keeps time by pounding his cane rhythmically against the floor.

  We must look like fools, wrapping our arms against the empty air. Balertius uses the tip of his cane to nudge our arms into the proper position, to straighten our wrists, and then to delicately arrange our fingers in just the right shape. He kicks my feet closer together and Sisi’s wider, and then grabs her hips to pull her upright. It must be a quarter of an hour before he is satisfied with our positions.

  “So, we begin.”

  Begin? I had thought we must be nearly done by now.

  He goes back to tapping the floor with his cane, which is marginally preferable to his tapping us with it, I suppose.

  My arms are aching and my feet are throbbing by the time he finally relents. We’ve learned the first two steps of something called the pavaine. It would be more accurately called the pain, I think. Nor am I pleased to learn that there are two dozen steps in its simplest variation, and that we are likely to be called upon to know a hundred dances by the time of the ball.

  “How is that even possible?” I grumble, shaking out my arms in a vain attempt to get some feeling back into them. “I mean, how can you possibly remember all of that stuff?”

  “Most people start practicing when they are still small. The Prince, the King, they were no more than three when they started. You are too old to learn, but still, I teach you,” Balertius says, and there’s something almost like gentleness in his voice. Then he smacks the cane hard against the smooth stone floor, and Sisi and I both jump at the cracking noise it makes. “Now go! Karili is waiting.”

  In spite of my complaining about Balertius’ harshness and the tedium of the steps, I admit to myself that I’ve almost enjoyed the dance lesson. It’s the closest I’ve come to actually getting to do something since we arrived here. The same cannot be said for our next lesson: etiquette.

  Karili, our instructor, is waiting for us in our chambers. At a glance, I can tell that she is as young, as pretty, and twice as haughty as Patine and Ransi were. Sisi shoots me a wicked look.

  Don’t you dare, I mouth at her. But she only grins at me, and then strides over to Karili, who is sitting on the edge of her chair, legs carefully crossed, hands fo
lded in her lap, gown and hair perfectly arranged. Sisi spits in her hand and sticks it out for Karili to shake.

  “I’m Sigranna. Nice to meet you.”

  Karili rises elegantly to her feet. She must have started her dance lessons at an appropriately early age. “You must forgive me for correcting you so early in our acquaintance, Lady Sisi, but I would be neglecting the role for which His most gracious and royal Highness selected me did I not. Ladies of station do not use their True Names, and we curtsy rather than shaking hands.”

  “Why?” Sisi asks, flopping down onto the chair behind her and kicking her feet up onto the table. Aunt Mae, who took great care to teach us manners as girls, lets out a low groan of despair somewhere behind us.

  Karili is too polite to stare at Sisi, but I’m sure she would if she could. Besides, it’s not like Sisi doesn’t know the reason. Everyone knows girls are given True Names as babies, and everyone knows it’s not done to go around using them. “Why, I…I’m sure I can’t say.”

  “Don’t know, or can’t say?”

  “All the ladies use their by-names. Even the Queen Mother, may she rest in Gaia’s embrace—”

  “Why not the men?” Sisi has actually interrupted her mid-word now, which is a level of rudeness I didn’t expect, even from her.

  “Why, men don’t have True Names and by-names, just names! Is it different in the countryside?” Karili puts on a fairly impressive show of keeping her tone limited to polite curiosity, but it’s obvious that Sisi is hitting her mark. There’s only so long Karili can respond with perfect courtesy to Sisi’s outrageous behavior, and I don’t know what this well-mannered lady will do when she’s run out of polite options.

  I take a tactful step away from the brewing conflict and toward the outskirts of the room. If either one of them explodes, I don’t want to be caught in the middle of it.