I open my palm, heart racing as I stare at the crumpled bit of paper she left in my hand.

I uncurl the edges and attempt to decipher the scribbled word that’s barely legible at all. But I trace each letter carefully, trying to make sense of the shaky handwriting, until I see it.

One word, written in black ink.

Listen.

I shove the note into my pocket and make my way back to the festival, wondering what it’s supposed to mean.

35

RESIDENTS MOVE THROUGH THE GARDEN to the edge of a small lake. They stand at the shoreline, red lanterns in hand, before releasing them into the dark, moonless night.

At once, the sight of glowing red orbs fills the sky like drops of paint on a black canvas. Several Residents dressed in golden robes begin to sing. Their voices are like glass and honey, ringing across the open water as if they’re newborn ghosts on a haunt.

I watch them from one of the small cliffs nearby, thinking of the paper tucked in my pocket but also mesmerized by the beauty of the sky.

The lanterns continue their slow ascent, the flicker of fire in their bellies shifting their hues from crimson to cherry.

The Resident song continues below, everyone’s faces turned up to the skies. I see him in the crowd, with his white furs and silver crown. He looks so starkly out of place beside the rest of them, and not because of his finery. It’s the expression he wears.

He’s a piece that doesn’t belong.

Just like me.

When the song ends, Prince Caelan lifts his palms to the sky, and every lantern is set aflame. Crackling with bright orange embers, the paper snaps and sizzles, flaking away into dust until there’s nothing left of the red lanterns.

And then the moon appears in the sky, round as a coin and red as blood.

It’s as if the world has gone quiet. The water stills, the wind disappears, and not a single Resident moves.

Time doesn’t exist.

The chorus begins once more, and Prince Caelan turns away from the water, stalking back toward the House of Harvest.

I guess he wasn’t kidding when he said he’d rather be alone than at the festival.

I make my way down the cliffside and back through the apple orchards, feeling the soft crunch of autumn leaves under my feet. The air is faintly sweet—a mixture of fruit and the blackberry tartlets that had been passed around after the meal. I’m debating leaving before the next course of food when I spot Prince Caelan beneath one of the biggest apple trees. His furs have been removed, revealing instead the shimmering material of his tunic.

I approach him carefully, making sure to curtsy when I stop beside him.