Chapter 10

71

Chapter 10

Oriane's father did not come the next day, or the one after that.

She had been disappointed to learn from Terault that Marcel had delivered no written response to her message, only a verbal one: her father would be on his way soon. Her disappointment turned to worry as time drew on and still there was no sign of him.

‘He should be here,' she murmured on her fifth morning, as Andala helped her dress before her dawnsong. Had something gone wrong on his journey? Her heart lurched to even think of it.

‘How did you leave things with him?'

Oriane turned around. ‘What do you mean?'

‘I can't imagine he knew you intended to come here. Or, if he did, that he would have let you come alone.' Andala's dark eyes bored into hers, shrewd, unreadable, until Oriane tore herself away and moved to the window. She stared out into the darkness, as if hoping to spot her father in the lantern-lit gardens.

‘He knew that I wanted to. I had told him I just wanted to see it – the city, the people, perhaps the palace from a distance. He … he asked me not to go.' She swallowed. ‘I did it anyway.'

Could that be the reason her father had not come? Was he so hurt, so betrayed, so angry with his disobliging daughter that he had ignored the king's invitation? The possibility had hovered in the back 72 of her mind these past days, quiet, insidious. She had ignored it then. She found she couldn't do so now.

‘Don't feel bad.' Andala had joined her by the window, looking down into the gardens as if she, too, were waiting for someone to arrive. ‘We aren't beholden to our parents forever. We all deserve a chance to choose our own lives and live them.' A pause, barely the length of a breath. ‘Sometimes it's better if they let us go.'

Oriane studied her profile. She wondered if it was her own parents Andala thought of as she spoke. Would it be too familiar to ask?

‘Good morrow, my lady,' Andala said, before she could. With a curt nod she was gone.

Oriane sighed. When she turned back to the window, she could no longer see the gardens below, only her reflection, insubstantial and strangely foreign, staring back at her from the glass.

Five days turned into six, which turned into ten. Don't feel bad, Andala had said. And, consciously or not, Oriane found herself taking the advice.

Each morning she sang her dawnsong, and each morning more people witnessed it. The king was always there; Hana, Kitt and Terault, too. The seneschal seemed to have taken on the duty of presiding over her ‘performances', bringing a few more guests to each one. The slowly growing crowd made Oriane nervous.

It also excited her.

Sharing her song was a joy. There was no other word for it. The atmosphere in the room as she did so – she had never experienced its like. The rapture, the reverence on people's faces … It was energising. Galvanising. There was an alchemy to having an audience, as if all 73 she had needed to turn her transformations from ritual to gift was a handful of people to share them with.

Still, she had not quite learned how to interact with these people. One woman, clad in a grey gown tied with a sash of sky blue, had fallen prostrate before Oriane, tears visible in her eyes before she lowered her face to the marble floor. ‘I thought the day would never come,' she said. ‘The day when a goddess would walk among us.'

Goddess . The word echoed strangely through the room. Was that what they thought she was?

‘I hope our guests' fervency does not make you uneasy, my lady,' Terault said later, after the spectators had been ushered away.

‘It does, a little,' she confessed. ‘Not that I am not grateful for their kindness. I just … I am not used to this sort of …'

‘Veneration?'

Oriane nodded. ‘That word the woman in grey used,' she said hesitantly. ‘ Goddess . I am not sure I deserve such a title. I don't wish to deceive anyone about what I am.'

The seneschal pinned her with his pale grey eyes. ‘You have been what you are all along, my lady. It is not you who has been deceptive.'

Before she could ask what he meant, Terault changed the subject.

‘I am sorry your father still has not arrived.' His voice was gentler than usual, and rich with sympathy. ‘I can imagine that he might find it difficult, to share his only child with the world, to deviate from the plan he must have had for your life.'

The plan.

Her father had made a plan, hadn't he? He'd told her about it himself. To keep you away from those who might do you harm .

Or from those who might love me, Oriane had replied. 74

She had been thinking of a certain kind of love, then. But perhaps that wasn't the only kind she might have been missing. What about the love between friends, between citizens of a community?

What about the love between a people and their goddess?

This time, instead of a twinge of discomfort at the thought of the word, Oriane felt a strange flare of warmth.

‘I want to go into the city.'

Kitt blinked at her over the rim of his cup. They were drinking tea in the gardens, chatting amiably, Kitt asking her the occasional question about her transformations. Andala stood nearby, making Oriane uncomfortable. She had refused Oriane's offer to sit down with them. Kitt had tried to persuade her as well, to no end. Andala might have been his friend ( Is she mine too? Oriane found herself wondering), but she was still a servant, she said, and that meant staying within the bounds of propriety. Kitt had muttered something about propriety not usually being one of her primary concerns, but she had levelled a look at him and taken up her position nearby, quiet and serene as a sculpture.

‘Of course,' Kitt said. ‘I do have to pick up a few supplies for a project this afternoon. And now that you mention it, Andala did suggest that I take you with me, next time I went.'

‘She did?'

‘She thought it might stop you from worrying, while you wait for your father.'

Oriane glanced over at where Andala stood, hands clasped neatly behind her back. ‘That was … kind of her.'

More than that, it was thoughtful. Was this what friends did? Thought about things that might make each other's lives better? 75 A mixture of feelings swirled within Oriane, each a different paint on a palette, not all of their colours familiar.

‘Will you come too?' she called to Andala impulsively. ‘To the city?'

Andala's statuesque pose faltered as her head snapped in Oriane's direction. She opened her mouth, closed it again. She seemed to be debating something with herself.

‘If you'd like an attendant to join you, I'd be happy to oblige,' she said eventually.

That hadn't quite been what Oriane was asking, but she was pleased nonetheless. She turned back to Kitt with a grin.

He glanced between them, one corner of his mouth quirked slightly upwards. ‘It's settled, then. Off to Aubrille we go.'

Stepping into the city was like entering another world.

Aubrille lay at the foot of the hill upon which the palace stood: a sprawl of buildings gathered like children at a storyteller's skirts. They made their way down from the palace in a small carriage. Oriane felt rather silly about it – walking down would have been perfectly fine – but Kitt had insisted. So she had pressed her face to the window, excitement fizzing within her like the sparkling wine she'd been drinking at the palace dinners. And when they had at last exited the carriage and passed through the city gates, she felt as if that golden liquid were running through her veins again.

There were people everywhere, ten times as many as she'd seen in the palace so far – a riot of colour, like a living portrait that surged and moved around her. The smell of the summertime city was almost overwhelming: perfume and flowers and baking bread and roasting 76 meat, but also sweat, and dirt, and several other scents Oriane preferred not to identify. And the noise … Shouts, laughter, music drifting along the street from an instrument she didn't recognise. It was a cacophony – a symphony.

Eventually she looked to Kitt and Andala, standing beside her on the cobblestone street. To her surprise, they weren't watching the city like she was; they were watching her. Kitt wore a wide grin, and Andala's face was softer somehow, as if she were a statue slowly coming to life.

‘You look like you've seen the heavens themselves,' Kitt told her.

She laughed. ‘Have I not? Look at this!'

Andala's nose wrinkled. ‘If this is what the heavens smell like, send me below when I die.' But the hint of a smile remained.

They made their way along the main street, Oriane trailing like a child, distracted by every new sound or sight. Kitt patiently identified each establishment for her: dressmakers and apothecaries, perfumers and silversmiths, public houses and gambling halls and pleasure dens. At the last, Oriane felt her cheeks growing warm. She hadn't minded feeling like a child before, but she was excruciatingly aware now of just how unworldly she was.

‘What's your preference, love?' called a boldly dressed woman who leaned against the wall of one establishment. ‘Men or women?'

Oriane froze, mortified. But to her surprise, Andala saved her from the agony of a response.

‘You don't have to answer that,' she muttered, rolling her eyes at the stranger and taking Oriane's arm to steer her down the street. The woman's throaty laughter followed them along. Too humiliated to speak, Oriane gave Andala a weak, grateful smile. Andala merely dropped her arm and nodded.

Kitt soon stopped at a market stall, where he purchased three apples mounted on sticks and dipped in a sweet, sticky golden liquid. 77 ‘They're called sugar suns,' he explained, offering one to Oriane with a wink. ‘A suitable delicacy for you.'

Oriane took a bite as they continued to stroll. ‘This might be the most delicious food in the world,' she remarked, and Kitt chuckled.

‘They are good, aren't they? They've always been Hana's favourite.'

Oriane turned to him. ‘The princess? How do you know that?'

‘Yes, how do you know that, Kitt?' Andala put in, eyes wide and tone curious.

For some reason Oriane couldn't make out, Kitt rolled his eyes at Andala. ‘It's just something I know,' he said, and spoke no more on the subject. Instead, he straightened his jacket, suddenly businesslike. ‘Right. I must be off to see the alchemist. Andala, why not take Oriane for tea at Madame Mil's while you wait? I'll meet you there in an hour or so.'

Andala glanced at her sidelong. ‘Is that all right with you, Oriane?'

Oriane , not my lady.

She nodded, and Kitt clapped his hands together brightly.

‘Excellent. I shall see you soon, ladies.'

Andala and Oriane walked for a while without speaking, the sounds of the city swirling around them. Oriane felt strangely nervous. She cast around for a subject to fill the silence between them.

‘Are Kitt and Hana friends?' she asked Andala. ‘Like the two of you are?'

‘Not really. Well, I mean … she's his friend, yes, but not exactly like I'm his friend.' Andala paused, seeming to consider something. ‘I don't think he'd mind me telling you. He's in love with Hana. Has been ever since he came here. It isn't really a secret – pretty much everybody knows, except her.' 78

Oriane thought back, wondering if she'd ever seen any signs that gave Kitt's feelings for Hana away. She supposed she would not have recognised them if she had.

‘Why has he not told her how he feels?'

Andala contemplated this. ‘How much do you know about the princess?'

Oriane thought back to her first night in the palace: her conversation with Hana, the moon reflected silver in the princess's tired eyes. ‘Not much at all.'

Andala nodded. ‘Not many people do. Hana is … She's not very well. She developed some sort of illness, and after the queen died, it just kept getting worse. Kitt … I think Kitt doesn't want to burden her. He hasn't said as much, but I think he worries that if she doesn't return his affections, she'll feel bad about it, on top of everything else she has to deal with.'

‘Do you think she does? Return his affections?'

‘I'm not sure. I don't know her, but I get the impression that she can be … hard to read, at times.'

So can you, Oriane thought, but said nothing.

Even so, this was the most Andala had ever spoken to her. Usually she remained quiet as she helped Oriane dress or brought water for her bath. But whatever guard Andala had in place – for it was a guard, Oriane was sure – appeared to be lowered a little today.

The thought made her suddenly bold.

‘Will you tell me about yourself?' she asked, before shyness could still her tongue. ‘Your family, how you came to work at the palace?'

There was another brief silence. Andala's focus remained on the cobblestones beneath them.

‘There really isn't much to tell,' she said eventually. ‘I was born in a little village not too far from here. My family still lives there.' 79

‘Do you see them often?'

‘No.'

Oriane wanted to ask why, but stopped herself. ‘And the palace?' she said instead.

‘I've been there for about five years.'

Oriane waited, but no further insight was forthcoming. ‘That isn't much to go on, for someone who's trying to get to know you,' she said lightly, trying to match the faint teasing tone she'd heard Kitt and Andala use with each other.

‘As I said,' Andala replied, her gaze still averted. ‘There isn't much to tell.'

Oriane's face grew warm, a stark contrast to the coolness of Andala's tone. She, too, dropped her eyes to the cobblestones. The sight of the city, of the woman beside her, was suddenly overwhelming.

They turned into a narrow alleyway. The city's soundscape was quieter down here – apart from the echoing voice of a short older man standing by the wall up ahead. He wore a plain black doublet bisected by a sky-blue sash, and he was waving a stack of papers, calling out to everyone who walked past. The passers-by were all doing their best to ignore him. Oriane couldn't quite make out what he was saying.

Andala stopped short at the sight of the man.

‘Is something wrong?' Oriane asked.

‘No,' she muttered. ‘Come on – Madame Mil's is just past him. Don't pay him any mind.'

But Oriane couldn't help glancing over at the stranger as she followed Andala's purposeful stride. And the moment she made eye contact, he pounced.

‘Madame,' he cried. ‘Madames, both of you! You look as if you move in high circles – surely you have heard of the king's latest quest?' 80

Oriane frowned, slowing her pace.

The man must have seen the curiosity on her face. ‘Yes, yes! They say he has joined us at last – that he is a believer after all!'

‘A believer in what?' Oriane asked. Several paces ahead, Andala stiffened and turned.

‘In the Order of the Sky, of course!' Eagerly, the man shoved a leaflet into Oriane's hand. ‘In the skysingers! The winged goddesses who make the world turn!'

Oriane's heartbeat seemed to slow. Time slowed with it, until she felt she hung suspended there in the alleyway, quite outside her own body, looking down upon her frozen form, the leaflet stilling in mid-air as it fluttered from her fingers.

‘Come on, Oriane.'

Time caught up to itself at the sound of Andala's voice, the touch of her hand at Oriane's elbow. The short man whirled on her instead as she tried to guide Oriane past.

‘Are you a believer, madame, like King Tomas? Do you know of the legends, the myths? They are all true, and now the king himself knows it! He seeks the nightingale – I have heard it from a palace insider myself. Take one of these – it has all the details of our next meeting—'

He thrust a leaflet towards Andala as well, but she snatched it and threw it to the ground. All Oriane could make out on the paper was some kind of circular design before Andala tightened her grip and guided her forcefully away.

‘We do hope to see you there!' the man called after them, unperturbed by Andala's behaviour. ‘In the meantime, may you feel the guidance of the goddesses' wings!'

Oriane still felt removed from her body. She barely took in their surroundings as they entered the tucked-away teahouse, barely heard 81 the tinkle of the bell above the door, barely smelled the fragrant aroma of tea steeping. It wasn't until Andala had sat her at a tiny table in the corner that she revived somewhat.

‘They know about me,' she whispered, half to herself.

‘No, they don't,' Andala said sharply. Then, to the hale-looking old woman who had appeared beside their table, ‘A pot of jasmine green, please. A large one.'

The woman drifted away, and Andala turned back to Oriane.

‘They don't know about you,' she said, her tone a little softer now. ‘Not you specifically, at least.'

‘Who are they?' Oriane breathed.

Andala fiddled with the lace tablecloth, twisting its edge between her fingers. For a moment, Oriane thought she was not going to answer. But finally she spoke.

‘They call themselves the Order of the Sky. I don't come into the city much, but I've heard other servants talk of them. There must be more of them now. I've never seen them proselytising on street corners like that before.'

‘But what do they believe in? Me? He kept saying goddess – winged goddess … And he said something about the king – that Tomas was seeking the nightingale …?'

The proprietress returned with a large pot and two delicate cups. The tea was the palest golden green, and a delicious scent filled the air as it was poured, helping to settle Oriane's nerves. Andala thanked the woman, who winked at them both in turn and slipped away without a word.

Andala took a slow sip of her tea before she spoke again. ‘He was right about that. The king was seeking the nightingale.'

Oriane paused, her cup halfway to her mouth. What were the exact words he had said? The winged goddesses who make the world turn … 82 Goddesses. More than one. She set her cup down, some of the liquid spilling over into the saucer.

‘The nightingale? Andala … is there someone else like me?'

But Andala was already shaking her head. ‘It's only another part of the legend. The nightingale is supposed to be another bird – well, another woman who can turn into a bird, like you. She is meant to call the night, just as you call the day. But there has never been any evidence that such a person actually exists. The fanatics from the Order think they're two goddesses, who live eternally in service of the skies, or some such. Doubtful, really, when you think about—'

She paused at the look on Oriane's face.

‘Not to say that you aren't … that,' she said hastily. ‘I mean – I didn't mean …'

For the first time since Oriane had met her, Andala seemed flustered. Two points of colour had appeared high on her usually marble-white cheeks.

‘Look, I used to think both of the birds were a myth. And then you showed up, and you're …' She paused, apparently at a loss as to what, precisely, Oriane was.

‘It's all right.' Oriane forced a smile. Her mind was still whirling, but she couldn't help feeling deflated. Something inside her had leapt with joy at the thought of there being someone else – someone like her. Perhaps there was, despite what Andala said. Perhaps the legends were true.

‘But people are looking,' she said, following the thread of her thoughts aloud. ‘The king is looking for the nightingale?'

‘Was,' Andala corrected. ‘I had heard he was looking for the nightingale … But instead he found you.'

Oriane sat back in her chair, watching faint ribbons of steam twirl up from her tea. Instead he found you . Had the king's guards expected 83 the nightingale the day she'd been discovered? How had the king known she was the skylark instead?

She settled on a different question. ‘Why was he searching for the nightingale in the first place?'

Andala shook her head. ‘That I don't know. All of a sudden, he seemed hellbent on tracking it down. It was supposed to be a secret, but people in the palace talk. That was how I found out. The kitchen gossips said he was sending search parties out everywhere – to the city, to the woods. But no one was ever clear on why, not even Kitt.'

The hairs on Oriane's neck stood on end as a flash of fear shivered through her. What was it the king really wanted? Why she was really here?

For a while, they both sipped in silence, the background chatter of the teahouse fading as Oriane lost herself in her thoughts once more.

‘Why didn't anyone tell me before?' she asked eventually. ‘About the nightingale.'

A crease appeared in Andala's brow. ‘I don't believe many people know about the myth anymore, or think on it very much if they do.'

‘You knew it. You didn't mention anything.'

‘Why should I have?' The frown had taken over Andala's whole face now. ‘I am your maid, Oriane. I am here to see to your dress and turn down your bed in the evenings. Nothing more.'

The words hurt. Oriane could not pretend otherwise. She did not know what she had done to provoke Andala's ire. The woman's abrupt changes of mood confused her, even sparked a flash of indignation. It was exhausting, trying to keep up with who she was from one moment to the next. Oriane finished her tea, her eyes cast downward, frustration and a strange sharp sadness warring in her chest. 84

When she eventually looked up, Andala's face had changed again. She no longer appeared impatient or angry, but as tired as Oriane felt. Her eyes were closed, their long lashes stark against her skin. They fluttered open as if she'd sensed Oriane watching her.

‘I'm sorry,' Andala said, and looked as if she meant it. ‘I'm not—'

‘Ahh, you're finished.'

Kitt had entered the teahouse unnoticed by either of them. He stood beside their table, a large book cradled in one arm, a paper-wrapped parcel balanced atop it.

‘I was hoping you might have saved me a drop,' he said, peering down at their empty teacups, ‘but there's plenty more to see, so we really should move on. Are you ready?'

Nodding numbly, Oriane began to rise, but Andala beat her to it.

‘You two go on without me,' she said, her chair scraping on the flagstone floor as she stood. ‘I really should be getting back – there's work to do before the hour gets too late. I'll be fine without the carriage,' she added, pre-empting Kitt, who had opened his mouth to speak. ‘I don't mind the walk. I'll see you both back at the palace.'

She left, as she so often did, without a backward glance or another word.

With a shrug and an apologetic half-smile, Kitt led the way out of the teashop. Oriane followed in silence. She kept a keen eye out for the man from the Order of the Sky – whether to avoid him or to ask him questions, she wasn't sure. But he was no longer there. The only sign of him that remained was a handful of trodden-on leaflets, littering the lane like petals discarded in a game of forget-me-not.

Kitt resumed his commentary on the features of the city as they made their way through the rest of its streets and laneways. Grateful as she was for his thoughtfulness, Oriane barely heard a word. Her mind was on other things. The man in the alley. The Order 85 of the Sky. Andala's ever-changing demeanour, compelling and unpredictable as the sea. The phrase that kept wheeling around her head: winged goddesses who make the world turn . And the persistent image of another bird, one with a magic song like hers, who transformed, in her mind's eye, into a woman with a featureless face.