The next evening, Una stood by the garden window once more. Though the light was dim, the blossoms appeared untouched by caterpillar or any other devouring insect. Satisfied that the flowers were safe, her mind returned to the events of the previous night and Una found herself wishing the guard would return. He seemed so familiar, as if she knew him somehow.
As night descended, she tended to the plants and bushes in the garden, inhaling their deep aromas, all the while wishing she could find the scent of her mother’s love growing from the soil, too. Her efforts were interrupted when she heard the step of the guard approaching.
Una rushed to the window. “Guard!” she called out.
The guard turned her way. “Is there something wrong, First Daughter? Another caterpillar, perhaps?”
Why hadn’t Una planned what to say? She looked around, grasping for words. Her flowers were safe, nor was she in any danger.
“No, nothing is wrong,” she began, thinking hard. “I—I wanted to thank you for your help yesterday.” Una stumbled over her words.
The guard bowed. “It is my pleasure to do your bidding, First Daughter, if there is ever caterpillar or catastrophe that disturbs you.”
The green scent of the blooms floated mist-like up to Una, rising and ebbing in the breeze. “What is your name?”
The guard bowed once more. “My name is Cassius, First Daughter.”
“Do I know you?”
“We have never spoken until last night.”
She peered into his face. Familiar, so familiar. And his scent . . . it was shadowy. Inky. Almost like . . . hmm. No. She couldn’t place it.
“Are you sure I don’t know you?” His face seemed a reflection of her own.
“Nay, First Daughter, we have not met. But perhaps I remind you of someone you know?”
“That must be it.” Who did she know, though? Ovid? Ruana? Her father? Her mother? Her eyes widened.
The large eyes, the high forehead, the full lips, the pronounced cheekbones . . . that was it.
“My mother,” she whispered.
Cassius smiled. “I was always told that I looked like her.”
“But—” Una stopped. “Who are you?”
“I am Cassius, younger brother of Cassandra, she who was the Magistrix Populi.”
“You are . . . my uncle?”
Cassius held out his hands. “At your service.”
Her uncle? She had so many questions for him. “Why didn’t you tell me right away? Does my father know you’re here?”
The words tumbled out of her mouth, but these questions weren’t the questions in her heart. Her heart wanted to know about her mother, all those stories that her seven-year-old self had never thought to ask, all those details that she wanted to know now—five years later—when it was too late.
Cassius didn’t answer her unspoken questions, though. “I didn’t tell you straight away because it didn’t seem like the right time. And, no, the Magister Populi does not know I am here—or rather, he does not realize who I am.”
Was he really her uncle? Before her heart had a chance to ask for more information about her mother, her mouth popped open once again. “Why?”
Cassius looked at the ground, and his inky scent turned cloudy. “I was very young when your mother left—six years old. She was my favorite sister. Cassandra took care of me, played games with me, and taught me what was important when our mother was busy with other matters.”
Una knew how special that care felt, but it had never occurred to her that she wasn’t the only one to receive it. She felt almost jealous.
Cassius continued, “I never got to say goodbye. I was angry that she wanted to leave to marry, and I hid so she wouldn’t leave. But she left anyway.”
He looked away, but Una could smell his sadness. The cloudy scent conveyed a gloom that she knew only too well.
“I suppose she had to go. The Magister Populi wouldn’t—or couldn’t—change his schedule to suit the whims of a six-year-old boy.” Cassius paused, regret sitting heavily upon his shoulders. “I never saw her again. The journey was too long for chance visits, and I was not allowed to travel the road by myself. As the years passed, I planned to come as soon as I was old enough. I wanted to surprise Cassandra, but by the time I arrived, it was too late. She was already gone.”
The two of them stood together in the quiet, their grief connecting them through the wall.
Cassius spoke into the darkness. “I have been here ever since, trying to come to terms with her death.”
“Why didn’t you make yourself known to my father? If he knew who you were, you would be our guest here, not one of the guards.”
Cassius shook his head. “Our families have never been easy with each other. Theirs was undoubtedly an arranged political marriage. An attempt to make peace between us.”
Una wasn’t sure if he was joking or not, because her parents had truly loved each other. “Really?”
“Your father never told you about the history between our two families?”
“My father hasn’t told me much of anything,” Una said, thinking of all the time he spent in his rooms.
Cassius looked at her with a calculating eye. “Interesting.”
“Will you tell me?”
“I will kindly decline,” he said slowly. “Your father must have his reasons, and I will respect that. I am certain he would not be happy that I am here, especially as one of his guards. Now that I’ve gotten to see a bit of Cassandra in you, I will return home.”
Una’s heart dropped. Just as she was given an uncle, she was losing him. “But there is so much more that I want to know about my mother,” she said. “And you, too. Don’t go.”
Cassius studied her, then said, “Why don’t you come with me? You can meet your grandparents and the rest of your aunts and uncles and cousins.”
Una blinked. Grandparents? Aunts and uncles and cousins? Why hadn’t she realized that she might have more family? Probably because her father had no other family, having lost a sister in childhood and both parents when he was a young man. This was a stunning revelation, almost as stunning as the fact her uncle stood on the other side of her garden window. “Come with you? Could I?”
“You would be most welcome.”
She would ask her father, the Magister Populi, if she could go—at least for a visit. His governing duties kept him so busy, he would never know she was gone. And she would be far from the growing smell of paste. Her wish to fly beyond the walls of the Official Residence was coming true. And she might even have the chance to find her mother’s scent. Find it and breathe it in all the time.
“Thank you . . . Uncle.” Una tried the word to see how it fit. She had never called anyone uncle before. It felt right. After all, he carried her mother’s same mannerisms and expressions, perhaps even bore a bit of the scent of archangels. “I will go.”
He smiled, and Una felt his grief—and her own—lift. She wasn’t carrying the weight of it by herself anymore and the relief surprised her.
“I will need to make some arrangements,” Cassius said.
“Of course. I will ask my father and—”
Cassius interrupted her. “It might be best if you didn’t. Goodbyes are hard. That’s one thing I know very well.”
Una was troubled by his words. She had spent little time with her father over the past five years, but how could she leave on such a journey without at least saying goodbye? He was her father. “I’ll think about it.”
Cassius smiled. “Tomorrow? I should have all the arrangements made by then.”
Una’s enthusiasm faltered. “So soon?”
“My parents are growing old. They won’t want to miss one more minute of your life, seeing as how they’ve missed, what? Twelve years?”
“Almost twelve. My birthday is next month,” Una said.
Cassius nodded. “Tomorrow then.”
Una watched him fade into the darkness and wondered if this was the right thing to do. There was little doubt in her mind that he was her uncle—the resemblance to her mother was too strong. But to leave without asking permission or saying goodbye? Una bit her lip, uncertain.
She hurried through the garden, then called for Ovid.
The old man appeared with a lit candle, his eyes blinking and squinting in the light. “What do you wish, First Daughter?”
“I want to know about my mother.”
Ovid rubbed his eyes. “Your mother would want you to be asleep at this hour—as do I—but seeing how you are not, what do you wish to know? I will tell you if I am able.”
“Did my mother have a brother?” Una asked, though she was certain she knew the answer. Cassius couldn’t be lying. Even his scent seemed related to the scent of her mother, if a bit inkier.
“I do not know of your mother’s family. She did not speak of her home, other than to say it was far—two months’ journey.”
“So she could have had a brother?”
“She could have had ten brothers for all I know. Ten brothers and ten sisters, along with a host of aunts, uncles, and cousins. What I can tell you, my night-blooming flower, is that it would be well for you to sleep now.”
Una let herself be guided to her rooms and settled under the silk sheets on her bed, but she couldn’t sleep. She considered taking out her scent collection, but knew instinctively that it would not be enough to settle her. So Una sat up and let the darkness of the night envelop her like a hug. Great salty tears fell from her eyes, but she wasn’t sure if they sprang from what was lost or what was found.
