Nomi couldn’t hold on. Her wings dropped, heavy as lead.
And Serina fell, screaming, to be swallowed by the sea.
Nomi woke in a sea of sweat, her heart pounding. For a split second, she thought she was home, in the room she shared with Serina. But this bed was too soft. Too big. And her sister wasn’t brushing her hair back from her damp forehead, comforting the nightmare away. Across the room, on the small cot by the door, Angeline shifted and sighed in her sleep.
No. This was not home.
Outside the window, Nomi could see the fading stars, the slow, creeping glow of dawn. Was Serina looking out at this same sky? Was she all right?
I let her fall.
Nomi couldn’t shake off the despair of her dream. Serina was in Mount Ruin, living an actual nightmare, because of her.
Even as guilt left her ragged, the siren song of the mysterious book called to her. Someone had left it for her. Why? Was it a trap? A message?
Behind her, Angeline shifted again. Nomi climbed out of bed and grabbed a sundress from the armoire.
She was the first to the terrace for breakfast. She chose a wicker chair near the railing so she could watch the sparkle of the ocean. White puffs of cloud slowly crept up from the horizon. Several servants appeared with bowls of fresh-cut fruit and yogurt. Another carried a basket of warm, flaky rolls.
Behind them, Maris slipped out onto the balcony and claimed the chair next to Nomi.
“Good morning,” she murmured, yawning.
Nomi picked at a small bowl of yogurt topped with a scoop of the colorful fruit, the ache of Serina’s absence gnawing at her.
“Did you enjoy the race?” she asked, glancing at the other girl.
“It was too bloody.” Maris stared at her plate, her expression twisted with disgust. “Those poor horses.”
Cassia glided onto the terrace. “I’ve never seen anything so exciting. Did you see the horse that leapt from the top of the bridge into the canal? I thought for sure he would drown.”
Nomi was happy she’d missed most of the race. She’d heard the men talking about it afterward: how many horses died, how many would need to be killed because of broken legs. A jockey had died too.
“And where did you sneak off to?” Cassia added, wiggling her fingers at Nomi. “Malachi didn’t like having to look for you.”
Nomi’s stomach tightened. “I wanted to stay by the finish line to see who won.”
Cassia rolled her eyes. “You really don’t understand how this works, do you? You need to please the Heir, Nomi, not frustrate him.”
Nomi shrugged. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand how to please him. It was that she didn’t want to.
When all the Graces had arrived, Ines gave them the day’s announcement. “There are no evening activities today, so rest up. We’ve a boat party next week to honor a delegation from Gault. The Superior has requested several harpists and one vocalist. I’ll let you know who he’s chosen in the next few days. Please make sure to select your gowns and secure my approval before the end of the week.” She turned her attention to the Heir’s Graces. Nomi tried not to fidget in her chair. “The Superior was not impressed with your appearances last night. Your handmaidens need more practice with your cosmetics. After breakfast, I’d like you all to work on this problem together. Your handmaidens can learn from each other.”
Nomi bit back a sigh.
Maris shook her head, muttering, “I hate makeup.”
They gathered in a dressing area near the bathing room. Delicate tables with gilded mirrors lined the wall, with backless stools to accommodate their wide-skirted gowns.
Angeline appeared with a brush and makeup kit in her hand. Nomi sat down at the vanity next to Maris’s. Maris was staring at herself in the mirror as her handmaiden brushed out her hair. Grief darkened her eyes.
“Those poor horses,” she whispered again.
Angeline placed Nomi’s makeup kit on the vanity and turned to give Maris a sympathetic look. “I’ve always been fascinated by the race, but it’s certainly not without risk.” She put a hand to her heart. “When I was a child, I would lie in bed, the vibrations of hooves pounding in my chest, and pray that the horses would live. I didn’t care so much about the jockeys back then.” She smiled.
Maris smiled back, her face relaxing. “I was more concerned for the horses myself.”
Nomi turned her attention to her own reflection. The dim light and twisted filigree surrounding the mirror gave her skin a golden cast. Before coming to the palace, she’d never had the time or desire to look at herself; now it seemed to be all she did. She wondered if her eyes would always appear so haunted.
The handmaidens tried different techniques on their Graces, until Nomi’s skin felt tight and her eyelids heavy. As soon as Ines approved of Angeline’s work, Nomi stood up.
“Angeline, I’m still tired from last night,” she murmured. “I think I’ll go lie down.”
“Of course,” Angeline said. “Enjoy the rest.”
Nomi headed for her room. She closed the door and leaned against it, staring at the stark white sheets of her bed, the small cot Serina had slept on that first night, precious now in Nomi’s memory. Outside, the fluffy white clouds had grown thick and dark, obscuring the blue of the sky.
How long did she have before Ines sought her out for more training? Before Angeline returned?
Did she dare?
Nomi slid her hand under the mattress, reaching until her fingers touched a hard corner. She drew the book out and sprawled on the bed. She cradled the soft leather in her hands.
A Brief History of Viridia.
She already knew the history of Viridia. A king had ruled the country before the Floods wiped out most of the land. When the waters receded, much of the population had perished, along with the royal family. A new government had to rise. The first Superior had been one of the king’s closest advisors. He took over and rebuilt Viridia.
Nomi opened the book anyway.
Viridia’s past is long and storied, from the moment the first settlers arrived in ancient times.…
Nomi relished the words, rolling them in her mouth without voicing them, letting them quiet the questions in her head. If she was reading, she wasn’t thinking about Serina.
She was living in the language set black and stark against the page. She flipped page after page.
The settlers gave way to the rise of a religious government, led by Cardinal Bellaqua. Renzo had learned a lot about Bellaqua at school. He was seen as a heroic but tragic figure, overthrown by the mercenary King Vaccaro.
Cardinal Bellaqua’s long and illustrious reign came to a stunning end when he was seduced—seduced? Nomi’s brow furrowed—and poisoned by a female warrior from Azura. Claiming the throne for herself, the warrior became Queen Vaccaro, holding the country by force—
Nomi’s whole body tensed. Queen Vaccaro? This wasn’t the history she knew. The world tipped sickeningly on its axis.
—despite attempts to overthrow her, for nearly thirty years. She clung to power, and her daughter and granddaughter after her, but the resistance grew.
Nomi read faster and faster, disbelieving. But there it was. All the history she thought she knew of her country was recast.
And in a last shock, the book laid out the root of the Floods—Nomi had always been told the Floods were a natural disaster, affecting the whole world. But A Brief History of Viridia stated that in fact, infrastructure throughout the country was tampered with, expressly to cause a disaster that would threaten the monarchy. The orchestrators? The queen’s senior advisors, who then rose to power in the aftermath.
The heroes of Viridia, the historian claimed.
The first Superior took the queen and her two daughters as his first Graces and limited the rights and activities of women in the country, for fear of a threat to his rule similar to that which Cardinal Bellaqua suffered. The powerful approach was successful, ensuring the Superior and his Heirs kept a secure and unquestion
ed grip on the country. Today, the tradition of the Graces is the most revered in all of Viridia.
The first Superior’s Grace was the queen. All the laws in this country, all the ways women were kept ignorant and powerless… it was because the new rulers didn’t want history to repeat itself.
The Superior’s great-great-great-grandfather destroyed Viridia, Nomi realized. On purpose.
Nomi stared out the window at a bank of clouds building along the horizon. Fury filled her up, heavy and hot and enduring. The kind she wouldn’t be able to will away.
In Viridia, women were oppressed because men were afraid of them.
Women had ruled this country. And history had denigrated them. Erased them. Nomi was certain this wasn’t what Renzo had been taught. He would have told her.
But the Superior knew. Whoever had given her this book knew.
And now she did too.
NINETEEN
SERINA
SERINA HANDED JACANA half of a hard roll. After Petrel’s loss, there wasn’t enough bread left for everyone to have her own piece. A boar roasted on a spit over the fire, dripping fat that popped and hissed in the flames. The scent of fresh meat made Serina’s mouth water. But it was only lunchtime—the boar wouldn’t be ready until dinner.
A few feet away, Tremor, one of the women from the hunting party, groaned. A deep gash ran the length of her forearm, courtesy of the boar’s sharp tusk. Each crew had a small stash of medical supplies—bandages, a salve to stave off infection, needle and thread—but they were limited in what they could heal without doctors. Mirror was trying to sew up the injured woman’s arm, but Tremor kept flinching each time the needle punctured skin, and the stitches were clumsy and uneven.
Tremor groaned again, and Mirror’s face blanched beneath her blanket of freckles. Serina couldn’t stop staring. The stitches were so spread out that parts of the wound were still open. It would likely get infected. The salve could only do so much.
She couldn’t handle it any longer.
Serina handed the rest of the bread to Jacana and stepped through the group to reach the injured woman’s side. “Give me the needle,” she said, crouching by Mirror. “You’re messing up her arm.”
Mirror looked up, eyes wide. “Excuse me? I’m doing fine.”
Serina pulled the needle from her fingers. “You’re not. Now move over. I can do better.”
At least, she thought she could. If it were a length of fabric and embroidery yarn, she would be certain. She’d never tried to sew up skin before.
Serina looked into the injured woman’s ashen face. “Okay, Tremor,” she said, trying to sound calm and reassuring. “I’m going to fix up your arm, okay?”
“Fine,” she growled. “Just get it done.”
Serina nodded. Mirror moved out of the way, mouth pinched into a frown. Serina focused on the wound. It had been cleaned but was still oozing blood. About a third of the gash had been stitched. She began at that end, adding tiny stitches to fill the places where the skin still gapped. After the first, she forgot everything but the movement of her hands, the snick and pinch of needle, the quick tie-off of thread. Skin became fabric, thread became embroidery yarn, and in minutes, Tremor had a line of tiny, neat stitches closing her wound. Serina tied off the last and then picked up the pot of salve and covered the ridge of thread.
“There,” she said. “All done.”
The woman looked down at her arm. “You were so fast,” she said wonderingly.
Ember bumped Serina in the shoulder. Her strip of red hair had been freshly cut, making her look especially fierce. “Good work, Grace.”
Mirror squeezed Serina’s arm. Some of her color had come back. “You were right. Your stitches are better. Next time, I’ll come get you.”
Serina stood up and, for the first time, noticed the blood coating her hands. Sweat beaded on the back of her neck, and her fingers trembled. She rushed for the tunnel. Outside, the heat of the afternoon pressed down on her. She plunged her hands into the trickle of stream that fed the orange trees. Then she scrubbed, over and over, long after all vestiges of blood were gone.
She’d pierced skin, sewn someone up with barely a thought. What was this place turning her into?
A little later, she heard footsteps from within the cave. Jacana came up beside her. “Ember said we should be training.”
Mutely, Serina followed the smaller girl down through the trees. When they reached the training grounds, Gia, Oracle, and a handful of others were already fighting. The new freshie still looked blank with terror. Serina had only been here a few weeks, but somehow she was adapting. All that training she did to become a Grace, the endless lessons and forced neglect of her own needs, served her well here. Instead of dancing, she fought. Instead of playing the harp, she foraged for food. Instead of embroidering a pillow, she sewed up skin. And instead of pleasing the Heir, she tried to please her crew.
If Serina thought about it like that, if she focused on her purpose, she didn’t mourn so much the things she might have wanted for her life. Or the people she missed.
“Grace, you’re up!” Oracle shouted from within the circle.
Serina steeled herself and headed for the older women. She was getting better at fighting, but she still hated it.
When she’d reached a clear space in the trampled grass, Oracle faced off with her. Serina’s eyes widened. She glanced at Gia, who was facing the freshie. “I thought I’d be fighting—” she started.
“You’ll be fighting me,” Oracle interjected. Her mismatched eyes zeroed in on Serina, who suddenly felt horribly exposed. If it was true that Oracle could tell what you were thinking, where you were going to move, just by looking at you, she had to know Serina wished she could run.
But Serina had learned already that running wasn’t an option. Not here.
She raised her fists.
Oracle jabbed her in the stomach before she was even aware they’d begun. Serina grunted. She sidestepped Oracle’s next jab, weight focused on the balls of her feet. She ducked and swerved, throwing her own punch. She didn’t connect, but at least it had a little force behind it. Oracle dropped and twisted, trying to sweep Serina’s legs, but she managed to leap out of the way. Spinning, she used her momentum to push forward and shove Oracle. It was an ugly move, and for once, Oracle didn’t anticipate her. The woman rocked back a few steps, though she didn’t fall.
Serina pushed her advantage, getting in one good punch to Oracle’s stomach. Then she shoved her again. Oracle ran into one of the other girls and tripped over her leg. She fell, but before Serina could reach her, she’d already heaved herself to her feet and rushed forward, catching Serina around the belly. They both went tumbling to the ground, inches from scraping their heads against the rough volcanic rock surrounding the training field.
Serina stared at the sky, gasping, as she waited for the air to return to her lungs. Oracle sat up, rubbing her forearm. “Not bad, Grace,” she said, sounding more sad than impressed. “Shoving can be good for the element of surprise, but don’t do it too often. It leaves your head and the back of your neck exposed.”
Serina sat up slowly, wisps of air finally finding their way to her lungs. It was another minute before she could respond. “I’ll remember that.”
“Keep practicing your footwork. Your dancing skills help, but you’re still moving too slow. Work on your speed, your reaction time.” Her attention turned to the other fighters.
“Why do we do this?” Serina asked. It was a question that had dogged her since her first night on the island. “Why do we let the guards make us fight? If we all just said no, wouldn’t they be forced to feed us instead?” She understood that the rations were limited, but surely it would be better to share what food they had rather than this system.
Oracle’s gaze shifted back to Serina, and without a word, she pulled her to her feet. “Come on,” she ordered, drawing her away from the other fighters.
They walked in silence for a few minutes, until the
y reached a stand of scrubby trees out of sight and hearing of the others. Then Oracle rounded on Serina. “Don’t ever talk about refusing to fight, do you hear me? Never.”
Serina’s eyes widened. “I don’t understand.”
Oracle’s brow furrowed, deep frown lines appearing around her mouth. Her pale, milky eye, a complete contrast to the other, brown one, almost seemed to glow. For a long time, she stared at Serina in silence.
“When I first arrived,” she said at last, “some of the women protested. The champions stood on the stage and refused to fight. They knew no one would get the rations that week. But none of them wanted to be the guards’ pawns any longer.”
Serina took a ragged breath.
“The guards shot them all,” Oracle said, voice flat. “Sprayed bullets into the audience too. Fifteen women died. The guards wouldn’t allow the bodies to be moved. The next week’s champions had to fight around the rotting corpses. That was the week I won for the first time.”
The horror unfolded in Serina’s mind, inescapable.
“We fight because we have to. Got me, Grace?” She started back up the hill.
“The name you gave me,” Serina said, while she had the chance. “I’m not a Grace.”
Oracle stopped. Turned. “But you were trained to become one. I can tell.”
“How?” Serina was covered in filth, as aching and sunburned as the rest of the girls.
“The training, the poise. It’s unmistakable.” Oracle’s hands clenched into fists. “I always knew another Grace would make her way here someday.”
“Another… ?” Serina froze, realization dawning.
Oracle dropped into a slow, graceful curtsy, her hands clasping delicately at invisible skirts. The sun bleached out the brown hair at the crown of her head.
Serina was shocked into silence. She’d seen Oracle fight, delivering nearly surgical blows that left her training opponents on their knees, panting. She’d seen her carry a woman’s body miles up a mountain to commit it to a volcano. Oracle’s sudden grace, her courtliness, was the last thing Serina had ever expected. “How did you end up here?” she asked finally.
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