“I know where you are the way I know where my own foot is.” Varia picks up a wax-pencil, drawing careful lines on her cheeks.

“What, so I can’t even play hide-and-seek with you? Boo.” I blow hair out of my eyes. “I’ve suddenly decided magic is cheating.”

“You and Gavik have been speaking with each other, haven’t you?”

My spine goes stiff. If she can tell where her Heartless are at all times, then there’s no use denying it.

“We ran into each other and decided to get tea together,” I say.

Varia doesn’t respond, applying her makeup with precision and focus, but even through the strokes, I can see the way her hand trembles. She’s going to die. She’s going to sacrifice herself to stop this war. That’s all I can think. There’s a grand ball gown on her dressing mannequin, a deep crimson with silver stars embroidered into the bust and skirt. There must be some banquet tonight, but the idea of banquets rings hollowly in what I know she plans to do.

She speaks eventually. “I want you gone as soon as possible, Zera.”

the longer you linger, the hunger lilts, the more he risks.

The coldness with which she says it is like the deepest winter ice. I shiver, once, and breathe in to steady myself. I laugh and take a swig of wine.

“This is why I’ve stuck with you, my dearest princess. Partly because I have no conceivable choice in the matter, but mostly because you and I are written on the same page of the same bad book about terrible people.”

17

17

Moonskemp

I was wrong.

I know, shocking. Me, of all people on the two gods’ green Arathess, wrong? But I am—it isn’t a banquet Varia is getting ready for tonight. It’s Moonskemp.

I’d almost forgotten about Moonskemp with all the valkerax and Lucien feelings and war preparations going on. Moonskemp comes the week after Verdance Day. Verdance Day marks the changing of seasons, but Moonskemp marks the mythological day in which long ago the Old God sundered the too-bright single moon—which allowed no one on Arathess to sleep—into three moons. Vetris, of course, has modified the story, in that they celebrate the New God sundering the moons.

I’d been so busy worrying in the carriage this morning that I hadn’t given any thought to the garlands of pale yellow moonflowers being hung about in the city or to the dishes of red-and-blue-dyed sea salt left out on the doorsteps. Usually there’s a midnight feast of thin buckwheat pancakes in which fresh summer fruits and vegetables are wrapped, and a roast red-tailed duck to signify a change for the better, but with the war enacted and rationing already in effect, the only people who can conceivably indulge in the traditional duck are, of course, the nobles.