Assassinate a god. Isn’t that a kick in the pantaloons.
The first part of the plan, obviously, is to visit a fancy hat shop.
“Clear,” Fir says. I step out of the alcove, where I was pretending to admire some decorative metalwork. A pair of blue postulants disappears into the crowd behind us. This fine afternoon, posh Sweetrose Avenue is bursting with the noblesse and their stritches, humans and birds of burden equally festooned with feathers, ribbons, and bright draperies. Tonight is the beginning of Crepuscule, the evening before the Deep Dark. According to Nara, it is during Crepuscule that I will be able to find Mol’s Heart. Now I just have to get onto Roet Island.
Fir, Corvin, and I proceed through the city mist, which is thin and sun brightened at this elevation. The structures here are designed to impress, mimicking the shining swells of the Copper Palace, just visible across the water when the capricious haze affords a momentary view of Roet Island.
Even though the residents of the Under House know my secret—and I theirs—I am still a redwing, and not fit for public consumption. The three of us are dressed to blend in. Corvin seems to enjoy the novelty of his tall hat, while I’ve borrowed a white cap from Nara. We have all donned smart, well-fitting dusters, silk shirts, and high-heeled boots polished like gemstones.
I can’t say I’m enjoying the high heels. Fir and Corvin stride easily down Sweetrose Avenue—the wealthy district suits them—as we weave in and out of the groups of people and stritches. I hold my head up high, but wobble trying to keep up. I wonder if they were nobility once, in another life. Fir exudes health and privilege. And Corvin—I steal a glance as we pause to give way to a group of ladies exiting a high-end tobacco shop—Corvin’s bruises are fading fast, and he looks surprisingly striking, like the son of a nobleman, with his light windswept hair and silver buttons.
He catches me looking at him, and for a moment our eyes meet. My respiratory system apparently doesn’t know what to do with this information, and my throat jerks into a cough. Fir throws me a puzzled look, and I swallow and fall into step as we make our way past a cluster of carts blooming with silk flowers.
I collect my senses. Of course it’s exciting to have a handsome young man look at you. I can understand why Jey enjoys it so much. But seeing Fir and Corvin in their upper-class costumes only reminds me of someone else—a real aristocrat who wears stateliness and leisure with equal ease.
But that evening in the Feather & Scuttle took place in another lifetime. Before Jey left. Before I became a Fog Walker. Would things be different now if I had stayed, admitted everything to Zahi? Would he have protected me and my family from the Onyx Staff?
No. I’ve read enough penny pulps to know the redwing never gets the prince. She gets the sword, or the bullet, or the noose.
Fir stops outside a shop with large, clean windows. “Remember,” she whispers fiercely, leaning into my ear, “do not reveal what you are.” As if I needed to be reminded.
“Tell as much truth as you can,” Corvin says gently. “That makes it easier.”
I stare into the shop window, a rainbow of beads, lace, and feathers adorning carved heads.
Mr. MONTROSE HORRO, HATTER
Fine HATS to Suit Discerning LADIES and GENTLEMEN
For All Occasions
The sign, with its bulbous carvings and garish paint, is as pompous as the fellow who greets us as we step into the airy shop.
“My young friends! What a pleasant surprise.” The shop owner bows low, his starched shirt crackling and the gold chain of his pocket watch dangling flagrantly from his silk waistcoat. The shop smells of leather and stritch feathers, and faintly of soot. Corvin removes his hat.
The dapper little man addresses me. “And what a charming young lady you’ve brought with you.” His voice is wheezy and slippery at the same time. “Monty Horro. Delighted.” He takes my hand and kisses it, lingering a bit long for my taste. Especially since he just referred to me as a “charming young lady,” which feels like it should be a description reserved for children. Then he straightens up and winks theatrically at Corvin, who looks rather horrified.
I’m really going to have to get used to all this social interaction, because I have absolutely no idea what is going on.
“May I present … uh, our friend,” Fir says, an introduction that started off with a touch of showmanship but ended up a bit pathetic.
“Lin,” Corvin says quickly. “Our friend Lin.” I give him a questioning look and he shrugs.
Monty Horro casts a skeptical eye. “Lin, ‘the girl with the blond hair.’ Hmm. I see you’ve left yours at home today.”
Lin. Horro is right—Lins are usually named for their golden hair, the color of linstalks. But after seeing the painting of the lin fields in Nara and Elena’s apartment, a blanket of purple-blue blossoms bending in the spring wind, I know why Corvin chose it for me. My chest tingles. I always thought my eyes were wrong, that they should be dark like Jey’s. But she and I have never been the same on the inside. Maybe my outside isn’t so wrong after all.
Is this … my name, then?
I have a name?
Corvin is looking at me uncertainly, and even as a lump fills my throat, I give him a smile: I like it. He looks away, color flooding his cheeks.
“So you’re here to save the city.” Monty Horro is a man who gets to the point. “It’s time to close up shop anyway, if you’ll excuse me.” He bustles over to the door and throws the bolt, pausing at the window before pulling the shade. “Shame, it’s a fine day, the last sun for a year. But we shall just have to manage, yes? Come with me.”
We follow him into a back room, which is as chaotic as the front room is orderly. He pulls a trunk from below a shelf of half-finished men’s hats and seats himself, gesturing for us to take our seats on the rickety metal folding chairs that seem to designate various workstations around the room. We slide together, and Monty Horro oozes a smile at me.
“So you’re going to a ball tonight, Miss Lin? Straight out of a fairy tale. Does it make your heart flutter?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say.
He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. As long as you beautiful young people keep lining up to do these rascals’ dirty work for them.”
“I hardly think—” Fir starts, but Horro waves dismissively. Corvin is silent, but I see a pulse going at the side of his jaw.
Monty Horro leans forward, speaking to me in a low, raspy voice. “All right, Miss Lin, how much do you know?”
I blink. “I … uh—”
“She knows the basics,” Fir cuts in. “We just need any new information you have regarding the mission.”
Horro sits back and shrugs. “The mission is the mission. Mol’s Heart is somewhere on Roet Island, and we need to find it and destroy it before Bet-Nef’s melt-brained followers awaken the volcano and sizzle us all. That’s it.”
His manner indicates I should know exactly what I’m supposed to do. But I’m done with delicacy. “Mol’s Heart?” I cross my arms. “I have no idea where Mol’s Heart is, how to destroy it, or what in wet hell it looks like.”
Monty Horro’s eyes narrow. “Trust me, you’ll know it when you see it, my girl. It’s protected by something that has killed everyone else who’s been sent to find it.”
I stiffen, forcing myself not to react outwardly to his words. There is something familiar about his voice. Could I have met him before? Unlikely; I haven’t met many people. Still, the way his breath wheezes like a bellows with a hole—it’s distinct, and it tickles my memory.
Fir curls her head back. “Surely our contact there has learned something.”
Horro’s face darkens. “In my opinion, she’s gotten too close to the situation. But apparently, she has made progress. I am to meet with her when we arrive.”
My memory snaps into focus. The voices I overheard from under the dodder bush in the Empress’s private garden—one of them was Monty Horro’s. My spine sparks as I look at him, this round little hatmaker who exudes an almost comical self-importance. I remember the fear in the young woman’s voice when he threatened her.
“What about the Black Thorn?” Corvin asks. “He’ll be protecting the Heart, as well.”
“I’ll say it again,” Horro snaps. “He doesn’t exist. And if he does exist, he’s a man. No more.”
Corvin nods, but his expression is troubled. Who or what is the Black Thorn? I want to ask, but Horro’s tone on the matter was quite final.
“Someone knows,” Fir says. “Someone on that island knows where the Heart is.” She sighs her frustration.
Monty Horro turns his attention to me. “You’ll come with me, as my assistant. You’ll have to wear what you have on, I suppose. Not very festive, really.” He looks me up and down. “But you need to lose that scarf, my dear. Collars are being worn unbuttoned to the clavicle at present. You want that sensuous little neck of yours peeking through.”
“Sorry,” I say, putting a hand to my throat. “This has to stay on.”
Horro frowns. “Well, can we at least change the color? Black makes you look like an assassin.”
I give him what I hope is a mysterious look. “I could be an assassin.”
He chuckles and taps my nose with a bejeweled finger. “So could I. And guess which one of us they won’t see coming?”
I swallow, and the gash on my neck twinges.
“Lin isn’t going after a target,” Corvin says. “She’s there for the Heart, nothing more.”
Horro huffs. “She’s there to do her job, whatever that entails.” He looks at me again. “I think your best shot at this point is to hope either the Commandant or one of his sons has a penchant for brunettes, my dear.”
“No.” Corvin’s voice is edged now. “We’re not asking her to do anything she doesn’t want to do.”
“You’ve seen the Admirable Zahi Zan.” Horro’s tone is light, and he smirks. “Of course she wants to.” He winks mischievously at me, which makes my stomach squirm.
“I thought Zahi Zan was studying at the Temple of Rasus?” I hope my face doesn’t look as ashen as it feels.
“You see?” Horro waves a finger at Corvin. “She’s very informed.”
“He’ll be at Crepuscule,” Fir says. “All the nobility will be there.”
Of course he will. “The plan won’t work,” I say. “I can’t go to Crepuscule if Zahi Zan will be there. He—he knows me.”
The other three turn to me, and I feel as if even the carved heads that dot the room are staring. “What in blazes do you mean?” Horro asks.
Corvin puts a hand on my forearm. Tell as much truth as you can. “I—I sometimes dust the peonies on Restlight. My father is one of the master gardeners on Roet Island.”
Horro gives me a fiery look. “Is your father sympathetic to our cause?”
I pause. I hadn’t thought about whether Papa would approve of my killing a god. A plant, no. But a god? I’m not sure. “He’s away,” I say. “Tending to the wheat blight in the east.” I sense a subtle release of tension from Corvin and Fir.
“That’s just as well,” Horro says. “Now, what is this nonsense about knowing the Empress’s son? Will he recognize you?”
I avoid the others’ eyes. “Yes.”
Horro frowns. “Are you absolutely—?”
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Fir says. “Your identities will be concealed, after all.”
Horro eyes her, but nods. “It’s risky, but you’re right. Although it would be much simpler to bring along an unknown. Or send that idiot layabout, Sunny.”
“It must be Lin,” Corvin says. “She has the training.”
Horro shrugs. “I just do what Nara says.” He rises, and we follow suit. “Let’s do something extraordinarily foolish, shall we? I’ll have my carriage brought around. I just need to collect our disguises.” He turns to me. “I’ll be back for you in a moment, my dear.”
What? Go with him? And did he say “disguises”? I blink my reluctance at Fir, who ignores me. Monty Horro gives a neat, jerky bow, and we take our leave. I am shaken, wobbling on my high heels, and Corvin takes my arm and steers me gently out of the shop.
Back on the busy street, we wait for Horro to return with his carriage. Corvin leans against the shiny iron gate that guards a tidy alleyway. I turn to him. “I’ve had enough of disguises, I’ll have you know.”
Fir laughs. “Not real disguises, princess. Costumes.”
“Costumes!”
Fir smirks. “It’s a costume party.”
“Mol’s cursed firehole!” I lean next to Corvin, the metal warm through my clothes.
“I heard Monty say he got you a fetching little ensemble,” Fir says. “Lady Pink Petals the Unclothed. Not much more than an elaborate wig, I understand. And some … foliage.”
“Why, Fir,” I say lightly, “you’ve acquired a sense of humor. Did you cut someone’s throat for it?”
Fir snorts. “Anyway,” she says, “I hope you’ve bathed recently.”
“I haven’t.” Though I wish I had; the light fog is already dampening my clothes.
A carriage, gleaming yellow in the tilted beams of the low sun, clatters up outside the shop. In front, two cantankerous-looking stritches with festive red satin ribbons around their necks shuffle their clawed feet impatiently.
A carriage. I have read about them, certainly. I have seen them rolling by on the street. But why does this one seem so large and unstable? Fir goes to talk with the driver.
Corvin’s face is grave. “Remember, Horro doesn’t know about you.”
“What I am.”
“Who you are,” he says. “He doesn’t know to protect you from the bonescorch orchis.” He looks into my eyes. “Keep away from it. It will reveal you.”
I grunt in frustration. “I don’t even know where it is!”
He leans against the gate. “Our spy says it is well protected, and will only be brought out to be unveiled by the Empress. Just stay away.”
“I’ll try.”
“Remember what I said before,” he murmurs. “It’s your choice to do this.”
I fold my arms. “Not much of a choice, is it? If it can only be done by a—me. A Lin.”
“I love my sister,” he says quietly, “but she is not always right.”
I can’t make sense of his grim expression. Surely this will be a dangerous undertaking, but there is something else simmering under his surface. “Do you believe in this cult of Bet-Nef?” I ask him. “I mean, are they really up to what Nara says they’re up to?”
He nods. “Certainly they are. We have been spying on them for months. Thanks to you, now we know the executions that have been taking place are orchestrated by the Onyx Staff himself. He has sown fear of redwings into the priests of the Temple.” He studies me. “And you don’t think it was your imagination that almost kicked the life out of me in that alley, do you?”
“No.” I see Fir peering across the street, her shoulders rigid. Always vigilant. “And I’m—sorry about that.”
Corvin gives me a half smile. “I feel more foolish about it than anything. You didn’t need my protection. Not mine nor anyone else’s.”
“That’s not true,” I say softly.
“I just,” he begins, “I feel there is something Nara isn’t telling us.”
I give him a hard look. “You think she’s lying? And I’m going in there to risk my life?”
“No.” I have his full attention now. “No, she’s not lying. There’s just so much we don’t know. So much we can’t know until it’s done.” He touches my arm. “Until it’s done by a Lin.”
I smile. “Thanks for my name, by the way.”
He leans back against the fence, his gaze elsewhere. “You don’t have to keep it.”
“It’s the only one I have,” I say.
“Be careful.” Corvin brings his attention back to me. “Zahi Zan is not to be trusted.”
“Don’t worry.” I put my hands in my pockets. “I can handle Zahi Zan.” The reality settles on my shoulders, and I shiver even in this warm mist. The Copper Palace. The grass. The peonies.
And … a heart?
Fir comes over. “Horro should be back any moment. You’d better get in. Best not stand in the street if you don’t have to.” She opens the door to the carriage, and a metal step unfolds. I peer into the shadowy compartment. After a moment, she asks, “What’s the matter? Have you never ridden in one of these?”
“Not really.”
“Not really?”
“No.”
Corvin puts a hand on the door. “Are you all right?”
This is ridiculous. I’m fine. I’m fine. “I, uh … I guess I just don’t like the idea of not having control over where I’m going.” I’m doing this all backwards. I should be telling myself the truth and lying to them.
Corvin steps into the carriage, which creaks and rocks with his weight. “I understand,” he says, extending a hand. “Look, it’s not going anywhere yet. Come sit inside for a minute. You’ll get used to it.”
I inhale and entwine my fingers with his, and he gives me a reassuring nod. But just as I put a toe onto the metal step, Monty Horro’s voice bark-wheezes through the street.
“Get in, get in! Rasus, we’re running late.” He reaches us, lugging a leather bag and wearing an outfit even more ridiculous than his last one. I have no idea who he is supposed to be dressed as—I can’t imagine that anyone in history or literature has voluntarily sported such a violently golden duster coat and sky-high tendriled collar. “What do you think you’re doing?” the vision says, pointing at Corvin inside the carriage. “Get out of there. This isn’t a taxi service.” He looks at Fir. “You two follow us in. Be aristocrats, all right? But don’t make too much of yourselves. Those invitations were not easy to come by, and they won’t hold up under scrutiny.”
Fir backs out of Horro’s way as Corvin swings open the little door on the other side of the carriage and jumps down. Before I can process what is happening, Monty Horro has pushed me and his bag inside, clambered onto the seat across from me, and called to the driver to get going. We lurch forward and I’m tossed against the backrest. By the time I’ve arranged myself enough to look out the window, we’ve bumped around a corner and Corvin and Fir are no longer in sight.
Nausea hits. I close my eyes. How do people do this on a regular basis?
“Here’s your costume.” Horro throws a bag my way. His gold satin duster gleams dully in the dirty light from the windows.
“Very well.”
He taps his fingers on his knee. “Go on, then.”
My guts wrench as we turn another corner. “Is it safe to change clothes in a moving carriage?”
Horro snorts. “Open the bag, you little fathead.” I do so, and find only a glittering red mask. “We don’t need to win the costume contest,” he says. “We just need you not to be recognized.”
“Ah. Of course.” I slide the mask over my face, pulling the ribbon tight at the back. Stomach flipping, I attempt to smile. “How do I look?”
“Nondescript,” he says, “which is just what we want.” He leans forward. “Remember, this is our last chance. And if Nara says it has to be you, then it has to be you. I don’t question her. She’s all that stands between this city and destruction, so you sure as wet hell better make her proud or I’ll gut you myself. Now, listen, the Onyx Staff will make his move when the star Bel rises. You have until then to find and destroy the Heart. If you fail—well, I happen to enjoy not having my home burned to the ground.”
Having one’s home burn to the ground is certainly not enjoyable, as I well know. But being burn-suffocated by lava is worse. Horro doesn’t even mention the people of this city who wouldn’t be able to get out in time should Mol erupt.
I turn my head. None of this seems real. I am caught up in mythology. But perhaps that is the only reason I exist. I would be impossible in the real world.
“As my assistant, you will accompany me to the salon when we arrive.” Horro adjusts his lace cuffs as we rattle along. “I will be attending to Her Imperial Majesty, and I will send you off on some trivial errand. Follow the stritch path outside the gates to the Pool of the Long Angel. Sunny will meet you there—she assures me she has made progress.” His eyes narrow. “Make sure you get her to open up. Someone at the palace knows where the Heart is. Honestly,” he mutters, “we should just take the Empress’s pretty-boy son and slice the information out of him.”
I watch the gray streets of Caldaras City shudder by, flashes of misty bricks and faceless people. It’s difficult to envision something as fierce and bright as a wave of lava existing here. None of it—the Heart, the cult of Bet-Nef, Mol—even seems possible. The Deep Dark is years, eons away, not hours. But now, with Monty Horro’s callous words still hissing in my ear, my chest burns with a new determination.
No one is going to put their hands on Zahi Zan.
* * *
The servants are dressed in glass-smooth white jumpsuits; there is no need for dusters here, since the ash is kept at bay. They wear their hair short, as their station demands, combed and stiff like dolls’ hair. A man extends a white-gloved hand to assist Monty Horro down from the carriage, which bumps and tosses with his every movement, and a woman pulls the leather bag from under the seat. No one assists me as I clamber awkwardly out of the compartment. It’s just as well.
As I step into low sunlight, I am overwhelmed again by the crispness and color of Roet Island. Green lawns, decadent flowers, a sky more blue than anything real has the right to be. The extravagance of it all is dizzying. Blood blossoms through my heart again and again as I stare, the rhythm of it in my ears, the slosh of its movement buzzing my veins. This is lust, I realize. I lust after this place.
Even though Crepuscule isn’t set to begin for a few hours, the aristocracy has come out to watch the sun set. The lawns, dotted with Zahi’s friends the last time I was here, are already teeming with brightly colored guests of all ages, many of them hiding behind jeweled masks or flaunting feathered collars or wide, shimmering wings. I look down at my silk shirt … adequate.
“Bring my bag.” Monty Horro tosses the order at me before being whisked away by the servants—or whisking the servants away—through an elegant doorway that arches two stories up the gleaming copper façade of the palace. Our driver barks the stritches to action, and they pull the yellow carriage away. I am not sad to see it go.
Horro’s leather bag is cumbersome, but I manage to navigate the large doorway and totter after him.
Despite its age—two centuries at least, if one doesn’t count the modernizations—the Copper Palace doesn’t feel like a relic. The long entrance hall that greets me shimmers with life. The last of this year’s naked sunlight unabashedly pushes itself in through the clear, high windows of the entrance hall, illuminating wide stone flower beds and little trees. In the central fountain, boiling water streams endlessly from the outstretched hands of a woman on the back of what is surely the world’s most amiable-looking stritch. A landscape of fat lilies floats below, and hardy little hot-budges, who don’t mind the steam, sit happily on the fountain’s bulges and edges, tweeting and puffing their feathers.
Past the fountain, Monty Horro and the servants veer left, and I follow them into a high-ceilinged room filled with gilded furniture and a floor extravagantly decorated with pictures of animals, gardens, and stars. The walls are tall mirrors alternating with tall windows. Out of the corner of my eye, I can’t quite tell if my reflection is standing in this room or amid the rainbow of flowers that cluster outside in the setting sun.
“Over here, over here,” Horro says impatiently, beckoning me. I set the leather bag between the front legs of a purple lion painted on the floor next to him. He waves the two servants away and points. “I need my things. Get my things out. The Empress will be here any moment for her mask.” I click open the bag and pull out a silk-wrapped box. “There, there!” Horro points to a delicate side table, and I set the box down and start removing the bag’s other contents—sewing supplies, a pot of glue, a pair of sharp scissors.
A few minutes later, we are joined by a group of people who emerge from an elaborate mirrored doorway. The procession reminds me of the priest-at-the-altar flower that lords over a particularly splendid corner of the Dome. But instead of a brilliant, pollen-laden stalk, a woman rises at the center of this botanical tableau, the satin of her pale lavender sleeves lustrous in the mirrored sunset. Surrounding her, an assemblage of white-clad attendants has gathered, their bodies curved like the flower’s broad ivory petals.
The lavender woman is tall, with thick dark eyebrows and a nose whose bridge juts out at the top and descends in a nearly vertical line. She walks with the casual confidence of the very powerful. The Empress.
Monty Horro bustles over to her, fingers steepled and lips jutting with self-importance.
“Welcome, Mr. Horro,” the Empress says. “Thank you for attending to my disguise for the evening.”
“Your Imperial Majesty,” Horro wheezes. “It is an honor to see you again. I hope you will be pleased with the quality and appearance of the mask I have designed for this momentous event.”
The Empress turns a bland smile; then her gaze finds me. I don’t have to recall the chapters I’ve read on etiquette; under that authoritative gaze, my arms straighten and my body bends at the waist out of sheer instinct.
She is still watching me when I come out of my bow. “We haven’t been introduced, have we?” she says. I shudder. Eyes again, so many eyes out here in the world.
Monty Horro gestures. “This is my assistant, Lin.”
I smile politely, concentrating on appearing normal.
“I see you have already donned your disguise for the festivities,” the Empress says, and I involuntarily put a hand to my glittering red mask. I sense Horro stiffen, but the Empress offers no further comment and turns her attention to the silk-covered box on the gilded end table.
“We have chosen a lustrous satin, as you will see,” Monty Horro starts, undoing the box’s fussy ribbon. “And before we begin”—he shoots me a look—“perhaps I might ask my assistant to go and fetch—” He cuts off abruptly when the door from the entrance hall opens and a man strides into the salon. He is tall and worm thin, with reddish, curly hair that hangs from the bald dome of his head like water weeds clinging to a stone. His bearing is that of nobility, but he wears a shade of green that, if it were rolled in dirt and boiled, might resemble the utilitarian green the gardeners wear. This man, then, must be Master Fibbori, the Head Gardener of Roet Island.
Who knows Jey.
I turn away quickly, arranging the pincushion and scissors and measuring tape on a long side table. I keep my back to the Head Gardener, my eyes on the mirror in front of me.
“Ah, Master Fibbori,” the Empress says evenly. “I was expecting you in the Tea Room half an hour ago. I trust nothing is amiss?”
Master Fibbori clears his throat. “I regret, Your Majesty, that…”
“That what?” the Empress asks. “My goodness, you’re distressingly peaked.”
“I apologize, Your Majesty,” Fibbori says. “I— It’s better if I show you.” He turns to the door. “Onna!”
Onna, the girl I taught to dust the peonies. This just keeps getting better. I watch the mirror and keep still. Onna steps through the doorway, a good deal more drawn and miserable than when I last saw her. She clutches a pot containing what looks like a burning twig.
I lean forward, peering into the mirror as Onna moves into the room. What she holds is not a burning twig after all, but the most extraordinary flower I’ve ever seen. Its stem is long and black, with the sheen and texture of coal. Its petals—I squint—its few petals, arranged mostly vertically, are wide and vibrantly orange with shredded edges, and they glow, dancing in the air like flames.
But the main stalk of the plant juts at a severe angle, twisted and unsettling as a broken leg.
I turn around, mesmerized. The structure and the shape of this plant’s leaves are a bit like the common bluebird orchis I have at home, but this one is bigger and wilder, with more audacious curves and curls. The leaves perk up and glow a little more strongly as I look at them.
My muscles go rigid. This is the bonescorch orchis. Instinctively, I grab the scissors and hold them at my side.
“Is this my orchis?” The Empress’s voice is even. I am not well enough acquainted with her to know whether this is dangerous.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Fibbori says, clasping his hands. “There has been an accident.”
“That is plain. What do you plan to do about it?”
I hold my breath. The broken plant gleams weakly, the bulk of its body hanging from the shiny base of the black stalk by mere splinters. No one remarks on the glowing leaves—apparently, even if the legend is true, this bonescorch orchis is too damaged to respond to me much. I am safe, for now, from the plant that would betray me. It is an amazing stroke of luck.
And yet, when the beautiful flame leaves start to flicker as though they know they are dying, my heart grieves.
Onna adjusts the pot, pulling at a strip of burlap and rattling, “It’s a simple matter of mending the stalk, Your Majesty—” She nearly drops the cloth. Master Fibbori’s mouth hardens, but Onna continues blathering, her face flushed. “We apply a strip of quality binding cloth—thusly—and secure it, and—”
“Like a tomato plant,” the Empress says with an undercurrent of disapproval.
Master Fibbori nods, a little muscle in his jaw pulsing. He helps Onna wind the burlap as the orchis crunches and flutters. The Empress watches, silent and expressionless, and Monty Horro looks delightfully scandalized.
But I feel sick. The flame leaves of this stunning plant are almost dark. The sound of the broken halves of the black stalk being ground against each other as the burlap forces them into place sets my nerves on edge. I may not know this bonescorch well, but I know orchises, and they are nothing like tomato plants.
I once vowed to find this orchis and pull it out by its traitorous roots. Now, it is dying, and all I need to do is let it. But everything in me cries out in protest. Every inch of my soul scratches under my skin; my legs and fingers ache to do something. My father wouldn’t let them do this horrific, lethal surgery on an orchis as noble as this. And I can’t stand by and watch, either.
Clutching the scissors, I slip past everyone and hurry to the fountain in the entryway. A good dip in the boiling water, and the blades come out shining and sanitary. No one notices me as I stride back. Master Fibbori and Onna are too busy wrestling with fear and dirty burlap, Monty Horro is too busy watching them with amusement, and Her Majesty and her flock of servants are too busy sitting in judgment.
I slide over to the pot, and in one quick movement, I thrust the shears forward and cut the plant off at its base. The two halves of black stem and a riot of curving, nearly dark leaves fall unceremoniously to the floor, leaving only a tiny nub protruding from the soil.
Silence descends. Horro and Onna gape at me. Fibbori says nothing, but his beady eyes flash.
The Empress turns to me, frowning. “Who did you say you were?”
There is something familiar about her regard—that serene self-assurance that emanates from those who have a great deal of power. I saw it in Zahi Zan, and in the Onyx Staff as well.
I drop my hands to my sides, the shears bumping my leg. “My name is Lin, Your Majesty.” The people around me are hardly breathing. Through the eerie quiet, I can hear faint birdsong and moving water from the entrance hall.
The Empress looks at the tattered remains of the plant at my feet. “I would be interested in hearing, Miss Lin, why you have chosen to cut down, before my very eyes, a rare example of the most valuable botanical species in Caldaras, especially given the fact that the Commandant and I were expecting it to be the centerpiece of tonight’s once-in-a-millennium celebration.”
To his credit, Monty Horro steps forward. “Your Majesty, I take full responsibility for this. Lin is my apprentice. Her destruction of the orchis is on my head.” His voice drips danger.
The Empress regards him briefly, then returns her focus to me but doesn’t speak.
An unconvincing throat clearing disturbs the atmosphere, and we all look at Master Fibbori, who is frowning at me. “Actually, Your Majesty”—he turns to her—“the orchis is not destroyed.”
The Empress raises a dark eyebrow.
“Upon further consideration,” Fibbori continues, “I believe cutting it off at the base may be its best hope of recovery.” There is distaste in his tone. “You see, the bonescorch—all orchises—are susceptible to infection when they are damaged. If the injury is severe enough, a sterile severing as close to the roots as possible is the wisest course of action.”
“I see.” The Empress gives me a thoughtful look. “In that case—well done, Miss Lin. It is a shame not to have the orchis to unveil at Crepuscule, but at least we have not lost it altogether.” She purses her lips. “You might consider employment working with plants instead of hats.” She unbuttons a lavender fan from her waist, flips it open, and says, “Now, Mr. Horro, tell me about the new beading technique you mentioned.”
“Certainly, Your Majesty,” Horro says, giving her a quick, deferential nod. “Miss Lin, would you mind very much gathering just a few fresh bluelet blossoms? If you can find any, that is. Go on.” He shoos me, and at last I am free to meet Sunny by the Long Angel Pool.
“Miss Lin,” a commanding voice says as I reach the door. I turn around. “I wonder,” the Empress goes on, “if, while you are out, you could let my son Zahi know that Mr. Horro has arrived with a disguise for him? I believe you will find him in the hedge maze. Thank you.”
I nod and hurry from the room as my blood turns icy. Damn. I can’t disobey the Empress. I can only hope the twilight and my mask will hide my identity from Zahi Zan. But what will I say if he recognizes me? What will I do if he doesn’t?
The entrance hall is bustling now as guests make their way into what I suspect is some kind of grand ballroom at the other end. I catch a glimpse of it—bright, cavernous, draped in copper fabric and golden flowers.
A hand touches my shoulder. Master Fibbori has followed me from the room, and now stands in the shadow of a tall flower bed, holding the orchis pot. He gives me an inscrutable look. “Miss … Lin, is it? Funny, you remind me very strongly of one of my less talented undergardeners.”
I stick out my chin. “You’re not going to scold me for saving that plant, are you?”
He considers me for a moment. “No,” he says. “But I must ask you a question. How certain were you that you were doing the right thing?”
I shrug. “I’ve got a bluebird orchis at home. That’s what I would have done for it.”
He nods. “Logical. Tell me, what do you know about the bonescorch?” He gestures to the severed stalk and withered leaves like dead birds lying on the pot’s soil.
“Truly, not very much.”
“Well,” he says, “the specimen you saved today is the only one that has ever been found. It is more valuable than the whole of the Copper Palace. More valuable than all the treasures of Rasus.”
I inhale. “I … that makes sense, I suppose.”
“Yes,” Fibbori says. “And if you had dared harm it in front of Her Imperial Majesty, your punishment would have been instant death.”
“Boiling?” I ask hopefully.
“Hanging,” he says.
“Rasus’s rotten teeth,” I mutter before I can stop myself. “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t kill it.”
“Rasus’s rotten teeth indeed.” Master Fibbori’s voice is stern, but there is a hint of a smile underneath.
I leave the entrance hall’s smells of copper, water, and tidy blooms for the outdoor scents of grass and night flowers. The sun set quickly, though Crepuscule won’t officially begin until the rise of Bel. The brightest object in the night sky, Bel is known as the Queen of the Stars because she will rule for the next year.
As I move away from the Copper Palace, there are few people left on the lawns. The moon is out, and by its light I see a charming hedge maze in a corner of the grounds. The Empress said Zahi would be there.
I’ve never really seen moonlight before—just the weak, diluted stuff that drizzles its way through the clouds Mol spits at us in the lower city. But this moonlight is unfiltered, potent. As I walk among the flowers, it changes the color of my skin and the palace walls and the petals. A little breeze sweeps over the grass and flower beds in playful waves. It strokes my hair, lifting and winding the strands, prickling my scalp.
I know why Mol left his heart here; already this place tugs at my own. I follow the sound of water to the maze. The dark, bluish leaves of the hedges are a deeper blue at night, the walls of a secret magical land straight out of a Mother May story. As I enter the corridors of the maze, the silty ground under my feet as soft as feathers, I half expect to find an Other prince waiting there.
I smile. Maybe I am turning into Jey. My smile fades quickly, however. Jey is done with fairy tales now. Done with me.
My fingers trace the contours of the living walls as I venture farther in. Nearby I hear voices intermingled with the sound of a fountain burbling. My first thought is to turn away. But I pause. I was sent to fetch Zahi Zan. If I do not, it will cause suspicion. And my search for the Heart is more important than anything else; I can’t jeopardize it.
I hold my breath and take a few careful steps closer until I turn a corner to find a large open space—the center of the maze.
Before me, tiny streams of water shoot upward and fall back into a pool ringed by wide stone ledges. The air is misty here, but with water vapor, not ash. Two people sit next to the pool with their backs to me, their shoulders touching, heads close together. Laughter. A young woman turns briefly to toss a flower—a delicate pearl avens, I think—into the pool behind her. Her smile is lovely, her features perfect.
She was wearing butter yellow the day I saw her with Zahi Zan on the lawn.
It is him again, next to her. I know him even from here. His hair is loose. He leans back, draped over the stone with the placid air of ownership, and says something I can’t make out. The Butter Yellow Girl laughs again and rests her head on his shoulder.
I lean against the hedge. “Zahi Zan!”
Two faces turn to me. Zahi squints into the shadows. “Hello?”
“Your mother wants you in the salon! Your mask is here.”
As I turn away, I hear the Butter Yellow Girl say, “Was that a servant?”
My stomach suddenly aching, I make my way back through the hedge maze. I run across the lawn, past a row of stone servants’ huts that look like an enormous, sleeping caterpillar, and past the glass dome of the Empress’s garden. Hope I didn’t know I had gushes away in a torrent. I have lied to myself, haven’t I? Despite the cult of Bet-Nef and the Fog Walkers and knowing that I must destroy Mol’s Heart to save Caldaras City, as I crossed the Jade Bridge this evening in that awful carriage, there was a part of me that only wanted to see Zahi Zan again.
My guts knotted, I reach the curving wall that guards the grounds of the Copper Palace. Carriages arrive one after another down the sandstone road, aristocrats in flamboyant attire alighting, laughing, venturing inside. I look out over the lawns, where the light from the palace can’t reach, and the once-bright memory of Zahi’s face so close to mine, his arms around me, is merely another shadow in this ghostly landscape. Now, when I shut my eyes, I am met with a brighter memory, of rippling water and a wide stone ledge and two heads very close together. I’ve seen him now, haven’t I?
What did I imagine would happen? I should have known as soon as I noticed him for the first time, cutting the grass in his rust-colored waistcoat, a prince disguised as a peasant. As beautiful and expensive as a bonescorch orchis.
I have been whipped, boiled, shot, isolated, and threatened. But it is only now, as I press my face into the carved jade arch that marks the edge of the grounds, that my eyebrows crinkle, the corners of my mouth tense, and tears slither down my cheeks in a ridiculous display of self-pity.
What disdain I used to have for Jey when she would come home with broken heart after broken heart, yet look at me now. I have to save the city from fiery annihilation, and I’m weeping for Zahi Zan.
Balderdash, I say to myself in my best Elena voice.
* * *
The air is wet and thick in the jungle outside the palace walls. Here everything is as messy and untamed as the Empress’s gardens are orderly and manicured. Despite myself, I am swept up in the excitement this wild place carries, gawking at all the strange life—twisting vines in moonlit greens and blues, brazen, ragged flowers, and insects like jewels, engorged with nectar. While the Dome and Copper Palace boast species from all over Caldaras, the jungle of Roet Island is inhabited entirely by native specimens—plants and animals who belong here. It’s strange, but part of me feels like I belong here, too.
I weave in and out of bent trees and broad, slick leaves, following the path Horro said would be there. It ends at a shadowy depression of lumpy black stone that contains stagnant water cool enough to drink. Next to the pool is a toppled, overgrown statue—the Long Angel, one clawed foot sticking out from a generous robe. I seat myself on its mossy hip and wait. All I know about my fellow infiltrator is that she will meet me here.
It’s her footsteps I hear first. No wild creature would be so obvious, swishing its way along the path, rustling the underbrush. I rise, wiping condensation from my face. A cluster of big, rubbery leaves shudders, and my contact emerges.
I freeze.
“You must be Lin,” the Butter Yellow Girl says. “I’m Sunny.”
Of course you are. Up close, she is as beautiful as a wild stardrop, with flawless skin and shiny hair. She looks at me appraisingly as I stammer an unintelligible greeting.
“Where did Monty find you?” she asks, then narrows her eyes. “Have I seen you before?”
“Perhaps,” I say, collecting myself. “And Nara found me, not Monty.”
Her plucked eyebrows arch dramatically at me. “You’re in thick, then.” A conspiratorial smile. “Good for you.”
I nod. “Just another Fog Walker, I guess.”
“You are?” Sunny tilts her head in surprise. “I thought you were an agent. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Fog Walker. Except Fir, who set me up with a nobleman agent who passed me off as his daughter. That was my way onto the island, you see. Most of us are nobility or close to it.” She doesn’t say it with pride. The pride of generations of aristocracy is so thick in her bones, it doesn’t need to creep into her voice.
I change my tune. “Oh, aren’t we official Fog Walkers? I guess I’m confused. But yes, I’m posing as Monty Horro’s assistant.”
Sunny sits on the overturned statue of the Long Angel and I join her. “I know where the Heart is.” She speaks in a low voice, as if the mossy trees might betray us. “But it is well hidden—and protected.”
“So I would imagine,” I say. Will I be able to protect myself? Nara thinks so; she knows what I did to the priests in the alley. She doesn’t know I was utterly useless in the Temple, where my enemies were actually prepared to face me.
Sunny inches closer to me. “I’ve been talking to Zahi—Zahi Zan, you know, the Empress’s second son”—oh, I know—“and it’s taken me a while, but I finally got it out of him. He’s, uh, he’s less guarded when he’s … drowsy.”
She must be drugging him. I’m going to choose to believe she’s drugging him.
“Anyway,” Sunny continues, “I got him talking about the secrets of the island, and he let slip that there’s a hidden underground passage in the Empress’s personal garden. And he told me never to go down there. Quite telling, yes? The perfect hiding place!”
“How revealing,” I say flatly. “Are you sure you weren’t reading a penny pulp?”
Sunny crosses her arms. Roet Island’s impossible moonlight drips green and gold through the leaves onto her face as she studies me. “Look, it’s the best lead we’ve got. Nara’s agents have thoroughly combed this island. We’ve been planted here for months, and nothing. Sometimes I think she should listen to the old legends, try to get help from one of those—things.” She hacks out a bitter laugh. “It’s crazy, isn’t it?”
“I— One of what things? You mean a redwing?” I force a laugh, but the hair on my arms tingles danger. “I’m still surprised people actually believe any exist. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I haven’t exactly seen any Others wandering the streets of Caldaras City.”
Sunny nods, her shoulders relaxing. She flicks a green insect off her forearm. “But if we don’t find the Heart … The Others do exist, you know. Of course you know. What am I saying? That’s why you’re here. I just— It’s vital we find it.”
I don’t know what to do with the silence she wraps around the words that would come next. Her eyes are distant. Jey would prod and peel. But I’m not Jey, so I just wait.
After a few moments of stillness, Sunny says, “Horro doesn’t realize it; he’s bent as an old pipe and twice as mean. But I want you to know—I’m in this entirely.” She takes my hand. “I won’t let everyone down like the others have. You see, I’m—I’m a twin myself. Not an unmarked human twin. I’m one of them.”
Be careful. I grip every nerve in my face to show the correct amount of surprise. I mustn’t appear overeager to talk about it, even though a bright pinprick in my brain screams for answers.
The first words out of my mouth are the wrong ones. “Where is your sister?”
She stiffens. “You mean the beast. It was destroyed, of course, shortly after it was born. By the Other creature who seduced my mother.”
“Your father.”
Sunny looks at me with a new hardness. “He was technically my father, just as that monster was technically my brother.”
Another redwing. A boy who would have been my age. One who didn’t get smuggled into the city in a raptor basket. One who spent most of his short life underwater, dying, rather than under glass. I turn my eyes skyward, focusing on the glittering canopy, willing the moisture in my lower lids to recede back into my body before Sunny notices it.
“It broke my mother’s heart, you know,” she says. “She thought she was prepared. But the damned thing looked so much like a baby.”
I stand, twisting my arms in front of me, behind me, in front of me. “So what is our next step?”
Sunny stands, as well, smoothing bits of bark and leaves from her satiny yellow pants. “I have a date for Crepuscule. I’ll see if I can get anything else out of Zahi, but my suspicion is you’re on your own from here.” She extends a hand, which I take. “Death to Mol, sister,” she says. “Find his burning Heart and squeeze it until it’s black.”
No Save the city? Or Stop the Beautiful Ones? Just—Death to Mol? I stare at her, with what expression I have no idea. Mol may be a god, or he may be only a volcano, but there is no burning heart in Caldaras I would relish extinguishing. I will do it only for the sake of my home and those who live here. As I look into Sunny’s cruel eyes, I finally understand where Nara finds her “agents.” They are from the darkest edges of society—not the garbage-strewn alleys of Caldaras City, but its gilded, curving towers, where hatred is cultivated and prized.