The Girl King Page 5

  “Yes?”

  “Carmine’s father is throwing us an engagement party next moon,” she blurted. “It would be nice if you could come.”

  “A party …?” He paused, shook his head. “Wait, did you say ‘engagement’?”

  She nodded.

  “Con-congratulations,” he said. His voice was still weak and hoarse, and it made him sound less than enthusiastic. He cleared his throat. “Congratulations.”

  “So, will you come, then?” she asked with a hopeful smile. “To the party?”

  Nok wrinkled his nose. “In the Ellandaise sector? They’ll kick me out before I got two steps in.”

  Adé laughed. “No, they won’t. Just tell them you’re looking for the Anglimn residence—they’ll know where it is.”

  “Why do you want me to come?”

  “It’s going to be full of strangers, and rich pink people, and—”

  “Perfect for me,” he quipped. She poked him in the side.

  “And,” she pressed on, “it would be nice if I had a friend there.”

  “You have other friends.”

  “Not,” she said, “like you.”

  A trio of Ring girls traipsed into the alley, a flurry of arms joined at the elbows and excited chatter. Nok and Adé stood to give them room to pass. As they did, one of them flitted a glance toward Nok, then whispered something to her friends. The three of them dissolved into giggles before hurrying away toward the harbor.

  “What are they looking at?” Nok frowned. People his age were always laughing. It made him nervous.

  “They’re looking at you, dummy,” Adé told him, crossing to the opposite wall of the alley, facing him.

  “Why would they look at me?” he asked stupidly.

  “They … well, you know …”

  Nok looked at her, uncomprehending.

  “They like what they see,” she said, exasperated.

  The color rose in his cheeks, uninvited and most unwelcome. Reflexively, he made to rub his scarred palms together, but he forced them back down. “They wouldn’t look if they knew what I was really like,” he muttered, looking at the ground.

  “True,” Adé retorted. She produced an apple from the folds of her robe and flung it at his chest, giggling as he scrabbled to catch it. “I can barely stand you myself.”

  He rolled his eyes, lobbing the apple back to her. “It’s so charitable of you to leave your job in the middle of the day to spend time with me, then.”

  “I,” she said loftily, “am the picture of charity.” Then she threw the apple to him in an underhanded arc high in the air. Her aim was poor; Nok was forced to lunge forward to catch it, nearly colliding with her. Instinctively, he reached a hand forward to brace her around the middle with one hand as the apple fell neatly into the other. He caught the scent of vanilla and cedar in her hair as he pulled away.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled, releasing her waist and making to hand the apple back over. As he placed it in her palm, though, she closed her other hand over his, pulling him even closer.

  “I’m not,” she said. And when he looked up she kissed him.

  It was soft and dry. Chaste, as far as kisses went. At least, Nok assumed it was. He didn’t know much about kisses; this was his first. He wondered for a fleeting moment if he should kiss her back. What trouble it would mean if he did. A part of him wanted to, regardless.

  He pulled away. As he did so, the apple slipped from their hands and rolled down the street, coming to a rest in a wagon rut. Nok watched it go, guilt over the wasted food rising in him. Adé was still looking at him.

  Someone else with Adé’s past, someone who had once been so intimate with starvation that it was like a sister, a lover, might never be so careless with food. But that was how Adé had always been, he knew. Even in the throes of her family’s troubles, even staring death in its gaunt, hungry face, she’d been distracted, looking expectantly for some brighter future that was inevitably around the next corner with those eager brown eyes. Not like him.

  “You’re angry,” she said. It sounded like she was chewing her lip; he couldn’t look at her to say for certain.

  His hand was still in hers, a holdfast. For a dumb, animal moment, he felt a jolt of pleasure at the warm contact. When had he last been touched without violent intent? With gentleness and love? It had only been Omair, tending his wounds four years ago, and Adé—always Adé. She’d been holding his hand when he awoke that first morning in Omair’s home, so far from the desert, and all he’d known.

  A dozen sense memories surged to the surface of their stagnant pool: his mother’s fingertip against his forehead, stroking a loose hank of hair back into place; his cousin Idri playfully scooping him and his sister into a bear hug as they squealed in protest. His little sister Nasan, toddling at his side when she was small, then running across the barren red flats together when her legs shot up and sprawled nearly as long and lanky as his own.

  You could have that, and more. The thought whispered through him like a dry wind, and he knew with certainty that at his word, Adé would leave Carmine. You could court her, marry her, have a family again, the voice in his head insisted. And he could see it, feel it all, the knowledge of a hundred moments elapsed into one: Adé at his side shopping in the market for a supper they will share, Adé reaching a small hand up to cup his face and kiss him, Adé holding him close at night …

  Adé knowing his secrets.

  What would she think if she knew what he really was? Would she still want to kiss him? She was the best person he knew—and yet, he couldn’t say for certain. He’d seen too much evil to trust the immutability of good in anyone.

  I would only put her in danger, anyway.

  He shook his hand free.

  “Carmine is a good match for you,” he said.

  “I know,” she nodded vigorously. “I know that. And I—he’s a good person. He’s kind to me, and he makes me laugh. I don’t mean to … I just always thought that you and I would be, you know, when we were kids. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t at least ask.” She paused, frowning. “Did you ever—?”

  “No,” he said, cutting her short. “I don’t think about the future.”

  “Oh.”

  Nok rubbed his palms together.

  Adé brushed one slippered foot over the other. “Does this mean you won’t come to my engagement party?”

  “I’ll think on it,” he said. He stepped away, not meeting her eyes. “I should get going.”

  Adé frowned. “Back to Ansana already?”

  “Omair needs me,” he told her lightly. “I’ve lingered long enough as it is.”

  “Do you want me to walk you to the Northern Gatehead at least?” Adé asked hopefully.

  “No, it’s all right,” he said, forcing a tight smile. “I know the way.”

  He left quickly, before there could be any other objections. If she watched him go, he did not turn around to see.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Small Princess

  The unknown woman reached toward Minyi, tender as a mother.

  She could not see her face, but Min felt she recognized her nevertheless. Deeply, down to her bones. She closed her eyes in the warmth of the stranger’s arms. The woman’s white silks were soft against her fingers. She smelled clean, like spring winds—but beneath it, Min sensed something unsettling. Sulfur and burning, like a candle that had just been snuffed out.

  When she looked up, the woman’s face was a chasm of writhing light and fire, horrible to behold.

  Cold fear seized her, but the sensation quickened into an unbearable heat. The woman’s robes turned to living flames, scorching Min’s arms and neck and setting her hair ablaze. She opened her mouth to cry out and the stranger bent over her, sucking the scream out of her with a cruel, searing kiss—

  Min awoke with a start violent enough to chase the nightmare away. Even as she blinked the sleep from her eyes, it seemed to fly from her grasp like a pale gray bird, leaving only a lingering trace
of dread.

  She shivered, feeling both cold and hot.

  Not today. I can’t be ill today of all days. Their mother would be livid if she missed her sister’s Betrothal Ceremony. Min sat up.

  And felt a hot surge between her thighs.

  She cried out at the sensation, already deadening into a cold, heavy wetness.

  Across the room, Butterfly sat up. “Are you all right, Princess?” she asked drowsily. Beside her, Snowdrop’s small feet poked out from beneath the sheets; she smacked her lips in her sleep but did not rouse.

  Min just shook her head wordlessly and stumbled out of bed, grabbing at the silken hem of her nightgown.

  Butterfly was up in an instant, kicking Snowdrop in her haste to assist Min.

  “Princess, what’s the matter? Are you hurt?”

  Min slapped the nuna’s hands away and hiked up her hem to her waist.

  A bright scarlet spot was staining its way through her under wrappings.

  Red. So red.

  She thought of the first flame, no doubt crackling away in the courtyard at that very moment. In her mind’s eye she saw a flash of white silk burst into flame. She blinked; where had she seen that before?

  But the thought vanished as her body gave another involuntary contraction and yet more blood spilled forth.

  She screamed.

  Amma Ruxin rushed into the room, followed by the rest of her nunas.

  “What’s happened?” demanded the amma.

  “It’s all right. She has her first blood.” It was Butterfly who answered. Who understood, even before Min herself.

  Relief flooded Min’s body, quickly chased by hot, diffuse embarrassment. She wasn’t dying—only stupid.

  Amma Ruxin was clucking at the nunas to refill Min’s tub and fetch clean undergarments. “Hurry,” the older woman snapped.

  They did their best to tidy Min—scrubbing her thighs raw in the bath, then swathing her up in clean, lightly perfumed white wrappings, as though her body were a wound. Even when they’d finished, she felt ill.

  Of all days to let this happen, she thought miserably, tears welling up in her eyes. Bad enough that she should embarrass herself looking a sweaty, repulsive mess in front of the whole assembled court, let alone in front of her cousin Set and his Hana entourage, too.

  “It’s all right, Small Princess,” said Amma Ruxin, laying a firm hand upon her shoulder. “No tears,” she added, wiping at Min’s face with a handkerchief produced from deep inside the sleeves of her robes. “You’re a woman now.”

  The empress was having her long black hair styled for the Betrothal Ceremony when Min shuffled into her quarters. Her mother’s ammas flitted about her like hummingbirds around a trumpet flower. She was a beautiful woman: tall and graceful, with a stately elegance wrought through good breeding and years of practice. Today she looked especially striking in robes of deep cerulean embroidered with gold thread, and makeup that accentuated her high cheekbones, full lips, and gray Hana eyes.

  Min curtsied as best she could in her stiff new robes.

  “Mother,” she said.

  The empress cocked her head slightly to one side—no easy feat given the weight of her hair, dripping with jeweled pins and topped with a gold diadem. There was apprehension in her face—disappointment perhaps? Is it the robes? Min fretted, feeling the cold prickle of panic. It’s not fair. She’s the one who picked the lilac …

  Min herself had favored a bolt of malachite green silk, but the empress had quickly dismissed it, reminding Min of how badly dark colors washed out her already pale face.

  Her mother was correct, of course. Min did have a pale face—soft and round and bland as an uncooked dumpling. Her sister Lu could wear bold colors to striking effect, the jeweled tones intensifying her sharp, lively eyes and quick grin. But then, it seemed Lu could do anything she wanted.

  Except be emperor, a little singsong voice inside Min whispered. Her gut clenched at the cruelty in it. Where had that thought come from?

  Her mother held out a hand. “Come here, my sweet.” When Min stepped forward, the empress enveloped her in a brief, perfumed embrace. The sharp smell of mandarin blossoms lingered in the air, and Min breathed in deeply to savor it.

  “Amma Ruxin tells me you are a woman now,” said the empress. She cocked her head, and the faint lilt of a smile strained her lips. Her face went soft like love. Just for a moment. “You look pretty. All grown up.”

  In spite of herself, Min felt a bloom of pleasure and relief in her chest. She indulged it for a cautious moment before forcing it back down. The empress was in a good mood this morning.

  Her mother turned back to her mirrors. She frowned slightly at her reflection, touching a loose loop of hair. “This is out of place,” she informed Amma Inga, a reedy woman whose head reminded Min of a lumpy turnip.

  The empress cast a sidelong look toward Min as Inga sorted out her hair. “The robes will do. But I daresay you’ve grown since we had them cut—outward, if not upward. A hazard for anyone at your age, I suppose.”

  The relief she’d felt earlier flinched and contracted behind her breastbone. “Yes, Mother,” Min agreed.

  “You should take care to eat less, but don’t worry about it too much,” her mother continued, carefully watching the ammas work in the reflection of her mirrors. “When I was your age I tended toward stoutness myself; it is only a phase. And it means you will be plump in the correct places when you’re a bit older.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  Min secretly wondered if there could be any truth to the empress’s words. All her life she had been told she would be beautiful one day—one day, one day—and all her life it had never happened.

  “And for the time being, at least you have our Hana eyes—no, no!” The empress broke off to scold Amma Inga, yanking the hank of hair from the frightened woman’s hands. “This is atrocious. Ailin, come here and fix this savagery …”

  Min bit back a sigh, sitting at her mother’s dressing table as the ammas hurried forth to tend to the empress. There was a large polished mahogany box atop the vanity, gaping open to reveal a bounty of jeweled hairpins.

  Min selected one and turned it over in her hands. The pin was yellow gold, adorned on one end with a fist-sized lily of mother-of-pearl.

  She looked up and her face gazed back from the mirror. It was true she had the famed gray eyes of the old Hana Family Li—her own vague like vapor, while her mother’s were bright and unyielding as wet stone. Apart from that, Min looked every bit like their father: the same round cheeks and anemic complexion. The full, downturned lips that should have been attractive but somehow lent her an anxious, dour air.

  Not for the first time, Min wondered if her mother so emphasized her Hana eyes because she wished Min looked more like her—as though calling attention to that token similarity could eclipse the chasm of difference between them. Or perhaps it was simply that her eyes were the only feature pretty enough to comment on.

  It was small comfort that Lu had not inherited their mother’s particular beauty, either—she little resembled either of their parents. Instead, she was often described as their first uncle Hwangmun returned from the heavens in the body of a girl.

  Hwangmun had been killed in a rock slide while on a tour of the northern front, along with their second uncle Hyomun, shortly before either Lu or Min were born. But Min had seen the uncanny likeness to her sister in Hwangmun’s gilded portrait in the Hall of the Ancestors. The close resemblance was considered auspicious—their uncle had been a man of legendary grace and intelligence. Min couldn’t think of anybody more graceful or intelligent than her sister.

  Hwangmun had also been—rather unfairly, Min thought—very comely. So Lu possessed not only Hwangmun’s caliber of character but also his lively copper-flecked eyes, canny face, and elegant build.

  “Min!”

  She sat up with such a start she nearly stabbed herself through the palm with the hairpin in her hands.

  “Rise at once! What
are you thinking, sitting in that gown?” Her mother gestured angrily toward her ammas. “Idiots! All of you! Allowing her to crush silk like that.”

  The ammas bobbed in staggered supplication, like flowers in a strong wind. “Your servant deserves death, Empress,” they recited in apology.

  “I am unworthy of your forgiveness, Mother,” Min mumbled. She knew her lines, too.

  The empress closed her eyes tightly as though the light were hurting them. A slight line materialized between her brows—the one mark of age upon her otherwise firm face.

  “Min,” her mother said softly. “You are a woman now. Do you understand what that means?” Before Min could respond, she continued. “You must act in accordance with your duties, and recognize and perceive those duties as they arise, without needing to be told what is expected of you. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mother,” Min said miserably. Stupid, she cursed herself. She’d gone and spoiled the empress’s mood. Tears burned her eyes. But truly, what had she done? It wasn’t her fault; she’d just wanted to sit.

  It’s not fair, another voice hissed, and with it came a flare of anger so strong Min jerked with it.

  “Stand over there,” her mother waved a hand at her, turning back to her mirror. “We can go to Kangmun Hall together once my hair is done.” She frowned as one of the ammas stabbed a braid in place with a silver and jade pin.

  “No, not that one, Wei. Bring the mother-of-pearl lily. That one is from my girlhood and bears craftsmanship local to the Family Li region. The Hana retinue will recognize it, no doubt …”

  Wei went to the dressing table, breezing past Min as though she did not even exist. The amma rooted around gingerly in the pin box. “Empress,” she said with some hesitation. “I do not see it here.”

  “Then look harder,” her mother commanded, her voice taking on a sharp edge.

  But again Wei came up empty-handed. “It is not here, my lady.” She turned to the other ammas. “Have any of you seen it today?”

  The other women shook their heads and Wei returned to the box, digging through it with renewed concern.