Lucky souls who live through the Reckoning must tread timidly at first Sun’s beckoning. For when they wake from a long eve’s bed, thanks to the Night, the canal runs red.
I STIFLE THE scream in my throat and focus on cleaning the blood off my hands by smearing my sticky palms against my skirt.
Not a word and nary a sound exchanges between Poppy and me as, silently, we try to figure out how in Sun’s name blood was spilled on the floor upstairs and, more, who it belongs to.
I risk lighting another match.
Poppy leans in and, of all things, sniffs my hand, then nods knowingly.
Paint, he mouths.
I lift my hands to my nose and instantly recognize the sour, metallic scent. My panic, the buildup of the evening, definitely ran away with my imagination and had me thinking the worst. Poppy doesn’t dare relight the lantern.
Silence saturates the house, the world, until the neighbor’s rooster crows, alerting us that at least he made it through the night. Then the bells ring.
Poppy lights the lantern.
“I’ll go up first,” I say, jumping up off the floor.
But Poppy’s already climbing the ladder. “Wait here, Veda. Please.” He’s sure to make eye contact—he knows I’m less likely to go against him when he does this. Knife at the ready, I don’t dare even a breath.
He unlocks the door, slides it open with a bit of trouble like something’s blocking it, and then vanishes into our house.
I wait. And wait.
It’s too quiet. Too still. And as much as I want to heed Poppy’s warning, I can’t. I take the ladder, two rungs at a time.
I scramble up from the cellar to find a shocked Poppy, staring helplessly from one disaster to the next.
It’s as if our home’s been doused in blood, picked up, turned upside down, and dropped back again. My face flushes with anger, but it isn’t until I see remnants of the altar from my bedroom … a photo of me and Poppy, a scrap of map that belonged to my father, a chunk of rose quartz (my mother’s), a stone from the pond in Nico’s backyard, and the glass fish Dorian gave me only hours ago, that everything hits me.
Walking over, I bend down and pick up the items one by one, setting them in a neat pile to the side, sticking the glass fish in my pocket, so tiny and delicate compared to the others, I worry it’ll be lost for sure. My throat tightens as Poppy’s heavy steps grow closer. I don’t know what to say, but the warmth of his hand on my shoulder says it for both of us.
“Ah! It’s about time!” he says. “That altar needed a good dusting!”
I look back at him, my eyes burning from holding back angry tears.
He runs his finger along the frame of the cross-stitched Sun I made when I was nine, showing a layer of gray dust. “Heh?” Eyebrows raised, his forehead a sea of lines, he waves the frame in the air. “We should thank the Night.” He breathes in. “Thank you! You damn hellions are good for something after all,” Poppy says.
But, too quickly, his expression grows somber. Leaning closer, he stares into my eyes, his dark, always so stoic. “These are just things. Sure, they hold memories, but it could be so much worse. Yes?”
I nod, my forehead nearly touching his. “Yes.”
“Good … Good…” He hands me the cross-stitched Sun and leaves a kiss on the top of my head.
Poppy begins picking things up—a broken chair, a shattered lantern—while I tuck the rest of my altar blessings into a neat pile on the side table that’s mostly still standing.
Unsure of where exactly to start, I glance around our home. It’s stark, a blank canvas of earthen hues. Except in the room where the Night dumped buckets of paint. That spot, our main living area, is the scene of a massacre.
So much red.
THE SUNRISE BREAD is in the oven baking, filling the house with the most delicious, warm aroma, masking the ugly remnants of last night. I’m dipping the mop into a bucket of soapy, bloodred water when Poppy busts through the front door from taking out the first load of trash.
“Medallions!”
I stop dead.
The mop slips from my hands and lands with a loud whack against the floor; paint-soaked water spills across my bare feet like a fresh splattering of blood.
“Why?” I ask as he’s bounding straight for me.
Gripping my shoulders, Poppy stares firmly—lovingly, but firmly. “The Night of Reckoning was the worst yet. The Sun’s not pleased.”
I nod. “When?”
He only shakes his head, a halo of silvery hair atop his speckled brow. “Soon. The Imperi soldier’s been spotted. Just down the way.”
I push a knot of emotion to the back of my throat and take Poppy by the arm. Walking toward the front door, we sit before the Sun altar that greets us each time we enter, and light several candles.
And we wait.
One of us could die today.
Any minute now two gold medallions will drop through the mail slot in our door. If the one with Poppy’s name on it bears the stamped image of the Sun, it’s his time. If not, it’s my time.
If neither shows the Sun, we breathe easy the rest of the day. Well, in theory.
Because no one truly breathes easy on Offering days.
Time passes. No idea how much; there’s no hourglass in the compact entry to our home and I don’t bother glancing at the one round my neck. All I know is time passes slow and fast at once. Dragging but also speeding by more swiftly than I can keep track.
But all time stands still when the purposeful boot steps of an Imperi soldier march up our walkway.
Onto our porch.
There’s a pause and then the hinges on the mail slot squeal.
Large gold medallions drop. One, two.
They hit the floor. One lands flat. The other spins like a top, then slows, teeters, and falls.
Neither of us moves.
Poppy takes my hand. I give his a light squeeze. Then I stand, take a few steps, and bend down, picking up the coins, not looking too closely.
Holding one in each fist behind my back, I return to Poppy, sit before him so our knees are nearly touching.
He points to my left hand.
I give him the one in my right and he lets out a small guffaw.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready.”
“Three, two, one.”
We hold the coins out flat on our palms.
The medallion in my hand reads JAC ADELINE.
In his, VEDA ADELINE.
Neither shows the Sun.
“Blessed be the light,” Poppy whispers.
“Blessed be the light,” I repeat.