“Take the repostilary to Matron Shashyl. She’ll instruct you from here.”
“Yes, my Lord.” Dart backed toward the door.
As her fingers touched the door’s latch, Chrism spoke again, only a mumble, still staring out the window. “We must be watchful… all of us.”
“So tell me every bit,” Laurelle said in a rush of breath and silk, sweeping into Dart’s chamber. “Was it terrifying?”
Dart closed the door behind her friend. Laurelle was dressed in a white cotton dress, belted with silver silk, a match to her slippers. Dart had changed out of her own finery and back into a more comfortable shift that fell about her like a sack. She found its plainness a comfort.
Laurelle fled to Dart’s bed and perched on its edge. Her eyes glowed in the last rays of the sun. Beyond her windows, the deeper bowers of the Eldergarden already shone with moonglobes and dancing fireflits.
Dart settled to a spot on the bed beside Laurelle. She took a pillow and hugged it to her belly.
Laurelle fell back to the crimson coverlet, arms flung out. “To see a god cry…” she murmured. “His tears shone like molten silver. I feared collecting them. How my hands shook! The tiny crystal spoon quavered in my grip.”
Dart listened as Laurelle related her own first collection of Chrism’s tears. It was a heady day for both of them. Dart still felt a twinge of unease. Pupp had almost been seen, made solid by the blood of the very god she served. It awakened her own fear of discovery.. not only of her strange ghostly companion, but of her corruption.
Blood… why did she have to be chosen for blood?
“So tell me,” Laurelle finished, sitting back up. “Did his humour glow with Grace? Did you swoon? I’d heard back at the school that some Hands faint away when drawing their first blood.”
Dart glanced to her friend. “Truly?”
Laurelle’s eyes widened. She reached a hand to Dart. “Did you faint?”
Dart shook her head.
“Then what happened? You have a great look of worry upon you.”
Dart stared into her friend’s eyes. Perhaps she could tell all to Laurelle. About Pupp, about the murder in the gardens, about her own defilement. Instead she found herself relating the event in dry tones. She spoke of Chrism’s kindness and patience, of her own nervousness, of the successful draw. Laurelle listened to all with rapt attention.
Dart made no mention of Pupp… nor of Chrism’s final cryptic words. We must be watchful… all of us.
“It all went well, then,” Laurelle stated as Dart finished. “Why the long pout?”
Dart shook her head. “I… I’m just tired. It was trying. See.. seeing the blood and all.”
Laurelle’s fingers squeezed hers. “But you didn’t faint. You should be proud.”
Dart offered a weak smile. It was all she could manage.
Her sour mood dulled the shine from Laurelle but failed to subdue her entirely. “Come,” she said, standing abruptly and drawing Dart up by the hand. “Matron Shashyl has promised us a special feast to celebrate our first day. It’s to be served in the common room. All the Hands will be there.”
Dart now felt a swoon threaten. All the Hands…
The sixth bell rang out in the courtyard. It was answered by a small chime sounding in the High Wing’s hall.
“We must get you dressed,” Laurelle said. “Matron Shashyl sent me in here to fetch you. She said you were suffering a headache and she didn’t want to disturb your rest until now.”
Dart glanced to the cold cup of willow bark tea, untouched. She had feigned illness to escape to her chambers after the bloodletting. Shashyl had seemed to understand, nodding and taking her under her thick arm. She must have suspected, like Laurelle, that Dart had been overcome, perhaps swooned.
A part of Dart felt a stab of irritation. She had performed the bloodletting without mishap. Did they all think so little of her ability? Had she not accomplished her studies with dutiful alacrity?
That bit of fire helped steady Dart’s legs. If she could stab a god, she could face the gathered Hands. Even the black-and-silver-haired Yaellin de Mar. He had given no indication that he recognized her from the gardens. And why should he? She had nothing to fear.
So she allowed Laurelle to tug free her shift, and together they searched her wardrobe for proper attire.
“Not too fine,” Laurelle said. “We mustn’t come off too pompous. But then again, we don’t want to appear as drab either.” Dart soon found herself in a ruffled white dress with a crimson sash. Though only of moderate splendor, it was far better than any of her clothes back at school. She felt like a mushroom masquerading as a flower.
Laurelle gave her one final look, fixing back a few loose curls. “Perfect.”
As if timed, a knock sounded at the door. Matron Shashyl called from the hall, “How are you faring in there? Dinner is being brought up to the commons. Master Pliny will not leave a quail’s wing to split between the two of you if you keep his ample appetite waiting.”
Laurelle hid a giggle behind her fingers. It was a common jest across the High Wing that Master Pliny, the Hand of Chrism’s Sweat, was more a servant of his belly than his god.
Dart and Laurelle crossed to the door. Laurelle took her hand. Dart found comfort in the familiarity and support. Laurelle leaned over and gave Dart a fast peck on the cheek. “As long as we’re together, we’ll always be fine.”
Dinner lasted past the eighth bell. Course after course had been marched into the common room: a soup of roasted butternut squash sprinkled with sweet cheese, a sour stew of boar’s meat and ale, an oven full of gravy pies, platters of spit-turned rabbit and quails, a huge haunch of roasted boeuf seasoned with peppered apples, and lastly, spun confections of sugar and cinnamon shaped into fanciful creatures of lore.
By the end, Dart’s head whirled amid the chatter and flows of wine.
Laurelle kept at her side, bolstering her up. Skilled with a charmed tongue, she had no trouble keeping up conversation. Dart was left mostly to watch, nibble, and sip.
All the Hands were in attendance. It had been many seasons since any new Hands had been brought into the fold. The six other men and women seemed more family than fellow servants. They squabbled, they pointed forks, they laughed, they taunted with jokes that originated in their shared pasts. Dart sensed it would take considerable time to blend in with this bunch.
But Laurelle tried her best. “And when all the illuminaria shattered, the looks on the other girls’ faces were shocked to the point of speechlessness. And Healer Paltry, I had never seen him so shook up.”
Dart had only been half-listening up to this point, having been caught up in a conversation between Master Pliny and Mistress Naff about the price of repostilaries. It seemed the flow of Grace between borders had been slowing of late, due to growing turmoil and odd behavior among some of the realms. Dart had listened intently, only to be drawn back to Laurelle at the sound of her own name.
“Dart looked the sickest of them all though. So green of face that you could barely note the mark of purity on her forehead.”
“I can only imagine Healer Paltry’s countenance,” Master Munchcryden mumbled. The diminutive man, the Hand of Yellow Bile, dabbed the corner of his lips with the edge of his sleeve. “How I would’ve liked to have been in that chamber to see that eternal smile of his break.”
Laurelle turned to Dart. “You know best. You should tell this story.”
Dart felt an icy finger of terror trace her spine. She knew Laurelle was only trying to include them in the table’s talk, to share anecdotes of their own shared past. Everyone knew Healer Paltry here, as he served as the High Wing’s healer and physik. To gently gibe him seemed to please the table.
Dart found one set of eyes falling with studied intent upon her. No amusement shone in Master Yaellin’s dark eyes. He wore a silver shirt with an ebony surcoat over it, adorned with raven feathers stitched into it as shimmering accents. The reminder of ravens unsettled Dart further.
“What reason did Healer Paltry give for the shatter of the illuminaria?” Yaellin asked. The casual manner of his words did not match his eyes.
Dart found all attention upon her. Under such weight, she lowered her gaze, fixing her attention to her wine goblet. “He said such things sometimes happened. That ofttimes the illuminaria would flare brighter with certain testings.” She attempted to punctuate her disinterest with a shrug. She ended up bobbling her wineglass and
