Chapter 2

On my first day of my eighth year, the entire household descended into complete chaos as Mama readied us to go into Rouxbouillet for the spectacle of the king's holy pilgrimage.

In truth, we rarely thought of the royal family—King Marnaigne, Queen Aurélie, Princess Bellatrice, and Crown Prince Leopold—in our workaday lives. Fists were occasionally shaken as farmers railed against some new edict or unjust taxation called down from on high by "that man," but for the most part, we went about our business giving very little consideration to the crowned elite who made the sprawling palace in Chatellerault their home.

But every few years, as the last vestiges of winter tipped to spring, the royal family went on progress, visiting every temple and monastery in Martissienes as they prayed to the gods for good weather, healthy livestock, and an abundant harvest in the growing season to come.

Mama spent the morning tutting over the state of our clothing, our faces, and the entirety of our manners and temperaments, fretting over the poor impressions we were bound to make.

"You really think Queen Aurélie is going to give you a second glance?" Papa scoffed, sneaking a quick nip of spirits from his flask as he commanded our wagon down the winding road to the valley below. "You'll be lucky to get even a first, you daft woman."

"I'll have you know, I've held a private audience with her before," Mama began, laying into Papa with a story we all knew by heart.

When Mama had been a young woman, looking so different from now—beautiful and carefree and not yet saddled with a husband or children—she'd caught the eye of the queen—then princess—and it had been the most glorious day of her life.

The holy pilgrimage had looked different then too. The royal family had comprised the old king and queen—now both dead—Crown Prince René and his new bride, and the prince's older brother, Baudouin, the bastard. The younger royals were seen everywhere together then, sharing carriages and meals and smiles with one another as if to prove that all the swirling rumors about strife and conflict within the Marnaigne family were patently false.

Their carriage had stopped along the street where Mama had been stationed, waiting, hoping for a glimpse of the famed trio. While the king and queen visited the temples, the younger royals were meant to be handing out coins in the villages, little acts of charity prescribed by reverents of the Holy First. The princess, reaching Mama's spot in the crowd, pressed a few bits of copper into her hand, murmuring some rote blessing and wishes for a prosperous year. Then she'd said she liked Mama's hat.

Mama had never forgotten the encounter.

Papa always assured her that the princess had.

"Do you suppose you'll see her today, Mama?" Mathilde asked, raising her voice to be heard over the clatter of the wheels.

Mama didn't even bother to look into the back of the wagon, where we were squashed together like sardines in a tin. "I expect so," she responded with a regal tilt of her hat. Its velvet trim was nothing but tatters, and the swoop of plumage arcing over the brim was more air than actual feathers, but she wore it each pilgrimage, hoping the royal memory was strong. "If we ever make it there, that is," she added snippily. "By the time Joseph gets us to town, the royal family will be long gone and the snow will have begun to fly."

Papa snorted, working up his protest, but one look from Mama made him swallow it back, and he clicked instead at our beleaguered mules.

When we arrived in Rouxbouillet, the streets were already teeming with onlookers, and Mama insisted we be dropped off before Papa took the wagon to the blacksmith so that we might find the best vantage points to begin her scheme.

"Now remember," she instructed us all, hastily passing out the armful of colorful caps and bonnets she'd borrowed from our nearest neighbors. "They'll go down the streets slowly, handing out their alms. Make sure to change at least your hat as you move ahead ofthem."

My siblings nodded, familiar with the routine. Last pilgrimage, Didier had managed to get coins from Bellatrice, her aunt, and her nursemaid, by changing vests, hats, and even his gait, staggering toward the tiny princess with a painful-looking limp.

I'd never brought home a coin. I'd been five during the king's last holy progress and had been so scared of being trampled by the throngs of people pressing about the carriages that I'd not even tried.

"Hurry now," Mama said, shooing us away like a flock of sparrows. "They're already the next side street over!"

We scattered, each choosing our own spot to await the Marnaignes' arrival.

Bertie grabbed my hand and tugged me toward an apothecary shop farther up the road, saying he was certain one of the family would stop there.

"Why are you so sure?" I asked, feeling disagreeable. The streets were packed, and the early-spring sun beat down with surprising vigor. I could feel my freckles doubling, tripling their count under its rays.

My brother pointed to the painted mark above the shop's door.

"The Divided Ones' eyes," he intoned with as much solemnity as a nine-year-old boy could muster. "They'll want to make sure the gods see all their good works."

I peered up at the disjointed eyes. They pointed in opposite directions, as if keeping the entire square under their watchful gaze. Their unblinking stare set my flesh to shivers, even in the heat.

"I hope I can get even one coin this year," I fretted. "Mama will give me such a lashing if I come back with nothing again."

"She won't," Bertie said, as if it was a given. He'd brought home two coins last time. "Besides, it's your birthday."

I snorted. In all the haste to leave the house that morning, not a single person had stopped to wish me happy returns. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"No one can be mad at someone on their birthday," he reasoned blithely. "Yesterday I accidentally knocked over the last of the milk." He shrugged. "Nothing happened. It was my birthday."

"Of course something happened, you great idiot," I muttered, straining my neck to peer down the street as a wave of cheering grew. A spangled carriage was turning the corner, sparkling in the midday sun. "I went without milk!"

"Did you?"

I could hear the surprise in his voice. Had he really not noticed? His obliviousness pinched at me.

Mama and Papa often told my brothers and sisters the story of my godfather and the terrible fix he'd put them all in. My siblings were never bothered when dinner was a portion short and I went without. They didn't tighten ranks to make space for me in their beds. It was all right if my hand-me-downs were too long, too big, and worn to the point of falling apart. I wasn't supposed to have stayed with them for as long as I had, so how could I possibly ask for anything more?

The carriage fully rounded the corner, a dazzling show of gilded wheels and stately black satin cushions. The family sigil, a charging bull, was emblazoned in sharp relief across the horses' ceremonial bridles, giving the midnight-colored stallions the odd appearance of having two faces. Chips of rubies winked in the bulls' eyes, and I marveled that a single horse could be adorned with furnishings costlier than my family would see in our lives.

"Should we head up that way, to get closer?" I asked, fretting. I picked at a hangnail, anxious. Both Mama and Papa were in such foul moods this morning; I could not afford to fail this year.

Bertie shook his head. "They're going to stop here," he insisted. "I can feel it. The eyes are too big to be ignored."

Sure enough, the carriage continued past the crowds at the beginning of the street, its passengers rolling by with a series of tired waves and half-formed smiles. Rouxbouillet was one of their final stops of the pilgrimage. I couldn't begin to imagine how exhausted they all must be.

"It's the prince and princess!" I exclaimed, spotting the two smaller figures pressed to the windows. "And the queen?"

Bertie shook his head. "A governess, or great-aunt, or someone, I reckon. The queen goes with the king to the temples. They have to be sure to make nice with all the priests and prophets and whoever." He waved his hand with a roll of his eyes, as if he couldn't be bothered to keep all of the religions' hierarchies in order.

My family wasn't particularly devoted to any of the Exalted. Time was money, according to my mother, and she said we had little enough of either to squander in a temple four times a week. She did drag us into town for the festivals and feast days, though, never wanting to miss the opportunity for a free meal or monetary blessing.

"Look at that!" Bertie went on, pointing at the carriage as it slowed to a halt in front of us. "I told you!"

Once the horses had settled into comfortable stances, the footman hurried down from his perch and opened the coach's door.

The older woman stepped out first and made broad sweeping gestures with her hands, driving back the clamoring throng as she tried to make space enough for the royal children to emerge. Heavy bracelets clustered with onyx gems clacked around her wrist, and her flaxen dress was as bright as the noon sun. This was no governess.

"Come on, then," she said to the pair still inside, and after the sounds of a quick squabble, Princess Bellatrice came out.

I'd never seen her this close before and was surprised to find she was so young, probably eleven or twelve, like my sisters Jeanne and Annette. She wore an enormous hoop skirt and jacket in the pale green of new celery shoots. It was edged in swags of pink rosettes and dozens of yards of chiffon ribbon. Her hair was jet-black and left long and loose, a shimmering curtain reaching down her back.

She gave the crowds a worried glance before opening her bag of coins and was instantly swarmed by a dozen children and some adults, all reaching out their hands, ostensibly for a blessing, though everyone knew it was the coins we'd gathered for.

"Leopold!" the older woman hissed, rapping her knuckles against the coach's side.

The prince slunk out with his jacket unbuttoned and askew, heaving the most forlorn sigh I'd ever heard. His suit was made to look just like one of a highly decorated military captain, with a sash, fringed epaulettes, embroidered bands, and more medals than he could possibly hope to be awarded in this life or the next. His hair was lighter than his sister's, a burnished gold, and his blue eyes gazed over the assembled without interest.

"I don't want that," he said, chiding the older woman as she tried to hand him a black velvet bag.

"Leopold," she snapped, her voice dark with warning.

"I don't want that," he said flatly. "You're fifth in line, Aunt Manon. You can't make me do that."

Crown Prince or not, the boy found himself yanked to the side with a force so sudden, I winced in knowing commiseration. I couldn't hear exactly how his aunt berated him, but when she loosened her grip, he buttoned his suit jacket and begrudgingly began giving out coins.

"Remember," Bertie instructed as he led me closer. "You don't want to catch their eye. Don't give them reason to recognize you attheir next stop."

I nodded determinedly.

This was it: I would get a coin of my own.

I could already imagine presenting Mama with it—no, not it but them, multiples, a whole handful, so many they'd tumble from her grasp, spilling to the ground with a cacophony of merry jingles.

Bertie approached Bellatrice first, holding out his hands in a subservient scoop, keeping his eyes downcast and appropriately humble.

"I wish such blessings and such joys upon you," the princess intoned, giving away a single copper. Her hands were covered in lace gloves the same shade of pink as the trim of her dress, and I wondered if she wore them as a stylish accessory or as a precautionary guard against accidentally touching any of us gathered around her.

"Good blessing to you, milady," Bertie mumbled, then bumped me forward.

"I wish such blessings and such joys upon you," she repeated, already sounding entirely bored with her sacred endeavors. Though she faced me, she fixed her green eyes on a space somewhere over my left shoulder, unwilling to meet my gaze. Then she reached into the reticule—the same green satin as her skirts—and removed another coin. I wanted to crow as she dropped it into my cupped hands. It was not a twin to Bertie's copper. Mine was silver and weighed more than any money I'd ever had cause to handle before.

"Bertie!" I squealed with excitement before remembering my manners. "Thank you, Princess. Many blessings to you."

She'd already moved on to the next person, reciting her platitude, her eyes never quite meeting theirs either.

Bertie elbowed me in the ribs. "There's the prince," he whispered, nodding to the right. "Let's try him and then head down the street."

"But we haven't changed yet," I worried.

"None of them are even looking at us. He'll never know."

"But—"

My protest was silenced as Bertie pushed me toward the queue forming before Prince Leopold.

He wasn't much older than me, I realized.

Though the suit fit him well, undoubtedly tailor-made to his exact measurements, he moved oddly within it, as if he were deeply uncomfortable. It was strange to see a boy so stilted, so encumbered, and I had a sudden vision of him running free in a field, playing pétanque or jeu de la barbichette. In my imagination, Leopold was not dressed as a prince but wore simpler clothes and had the most enormous smile stretched over his face. And when he laughed—

"You've already been to my sister," he snapped, jarring me from the daydream as quickly as a dunk in the ice-cold bucket of water Mama had forced upon us earlier that morning.

"I…What?" I fumbled, acutely feeling the uncertainty of my position.

"You were just with my sister. She gave you a silver coin, if I'm not mistaken. And now you've come to me, wanting more."

I could feel the weight of everyone around us staring at me.

I licked my lips, struggling to come up with a coherent thought, one explanation that would get me out of this mess and let me escape unscathed.

"I—well. No. Well," I stammered at last.

My cheeks burned.

"Do you think me a fool?" he went on, taking a step closer. The gathered crowd shuffled back, suddenly eager to be away from this indignant Marnaigne, however small he might be. Even Bertie seemed to have deserted me. I could no longer sense him at my back and had never felt so thoroughly and miserably on my own.

"No! No, of course not, Leopold." Sharp breaths were drawn at my mistake. "Your Majesty. Your Highness? Sir." Oh, what was the title I was supposed to use?

He narrowed his eyes. "What do you need all these coins for, anyway? It doesn't cost much money to look as poor as you."

His voice held such a lofty, imperious lilt that fiery prickles of anger licked up my spine.

"What do you need them for?" I threw back before I could think better of it. "You live in grand palaces and are fed and clothed with the very best of everything. We don't have even a fraction of what you've been blessed with. But your father asks more and more from us, taxing and taking and never giving back until he feels like the gods are watching, and then you come and offer out a single coin?"

Leopold's mouth fell open. He looked at a loss for words, a sensation I guessed he was unfamiliar with. The moment drew out long, and as the silence grew, so too did the crowd's expectation for an answer. Two dots of hot red stained his cheeks.

Finally, he reached into his bag and withdrew a whole fistful of money. "You want coins?" he asked, all but snarling as he held them out. "Here's one for every freckle on your face!"

Leopold threw the money at me, and it was as if he'd tossed a match upon piles of dry kindling. Everyone leapt forward, eager to retrieve the coins, which had fallen to the cobblestones and were now rolling down the street.

I was pushed to the side by an older boy twice both my age and size, and I tumbled to the ground. I tried to stop the fall but only scraped the palms of my hands raw. Someone stepped on my foot and I had to roll out of the way to avoid being trampled.

Palace guards, hidden somewhere along the procession route, raced forward and swept all three of the Marnaignes back into the coach. The driver cracked the whip, urging the stallions into motion, but there were too many people swarming the carriage. One horse reared on its hind legs, screaming a whinny into the sky.

"Get them out of the way!" the driver shouted at the guards.

They began tossing people to the side without care, acting as if we were nothing more than obstacles to be removed. I saw an older woman fall on the cobblestones and grab her hip, howling. The royal coach raced by her without bothering to stop.

Good blessings and joys indeed.

I felt my shoulders dip; I was disappointed to not have gotten in a final volley of words with the prince. They burned at the back of my mouth, wanting to be spat out at someone in excoriating fury. I swallowed the words down but could feel their heat all the way to my belly. I wondered if they would always remain there, forever unsaid, left to fester and grow.

Somehow, Bertie found me in the madness and helped me to my feet. He all but dragged me into an alleyway. "Are you all right?"

I could feel blood trickling down my leg and knew my stockings, my best pair, had been torn in the fall. In truth, they were now made more of darning than actual knit wool, but they were soft and sagged only a bit in the knees and were the prettiest shade of dove-gray. I thought they'd been pink once, when Annette had first worn them, but I loved them still. And now they were in shreds.

Even worse, my silver coin was gone, somehow snatched in the chaos.

Mama was going to be so mad.

"Why did you make me talk to him?" I wailed, fighting the urge to smack my older brother. "We were supposed to change hats. He wasn't supposed to recognize me! Mama is going to give me such a beating!"

"I'll tell her it was my fault," he offered.

"It was !" I said, swatting at his ridiculous magnanimous gesture.

We walked up the next street, listening for the royal coach even though it would have been impossible to beg for blessings now. I kept my eyes on the ground, hoping against all hope that I might find a coin caught between cobblestones, abandoned and forgotten.

Shadows began to grow long and turn as purple as a bruise.

"Bertie! Hazel! Where are you?" We both turned to see Etienne jogging down the street.

"Mama says you're to come back now!"

I bit my lip, wondering if she'd already heard what had happened. "Is she…is she upset?"

Etienne just shrugged.

"Where are they?" Bertie asked, patting his pocket, reassuring himself of the copper's presence. Of course he still had his coin.

"Papa has the wagon ready, the next street over. They said we're needed at the temple."

"The temple?" Bertie groaned. "Can't we go to the tavern? I got a copper. We could have a meat pie!"

"Mama says we can't dawdle. The temple is expecting us."

My breath caught, and all the day's previous troubles vanished in an instant. "Which temple?" I managed to squeak out.

"Don't know. Not the First's. We were just there. The queen went right by Mama. Didn't even glance her way!" Etienne laughed, unaware of the revelation erupting in my chest.

Bertie's eyes, so surprised and blue, met mine, and I felt pinned in place.

I could tell he'd jumped to the same thought I had, the one making my blood race and my heart pound so heavily I could see my pulse in the corner of my eyes. I was suddenly clammy, damp with fevered chills, and my throat seemed too dry to swallow properly.

"Do you think he finally…?"

"Maybe," I hedged. I didn't need him to finish the thought to know exactly what he meant. Who he meant.

My godfather.

"It is your birthday," Bertie said, and I was touched to hear the trace of sadness in his voice.

I felt stuck in place. I'd spent so much time dreaming of the day my godfather would return that I'd never stopped to consider what would happen the day after he did.

Or the day after that.

Where would he take me? Where would I live?

The temple in Rouxbouillet was his in name only. It was a small courtyard with a solitary monolith that no one had ever taken credit for sculpting. A candle, somehow forever burning, rested in front of the plinth. There was no building, no other structure. It was no place to raise a child, to raise me. As far as I knew, he didn't have even a single postulant. No one, it seemed, wanted to devote their life to the lord of death.

"Mama's going to spit flames if we're late. Come on!" Etienne snapped before turning down the street.

"Come on," Bertie echoed, gentler, and offered his hand to me.

I didn't want to take it.

If I took it, then we'd find Mama, and go to his temple, and he was sure to be there, waiting for me.

My godfather.

In the Holy First's sanctum, there were stained-glass windows on three sides of the hall. At the front, just behind the altar, perfectly situated toward the east to best catch the morning sunlight, was a rendering of the Holy First in all her lustrous beauty. Swirls of iridescent glass were pieced together to make up her veiled but undoubtedly radiant face, her long wavy tresses, and her flowing gown.

To her right were the Divided Ones. Thick leading segmented their face so you could easily tell that though they shared one body, they were made up of many.

And to the left was the Dreaded End. His window was less a portrait and more a mosaic, suggesting at a hint of a being, not a perfectly rendered form. It was made up of various triangles, all in dark grays and rich plums. The glass had been so heavily stained with those bruise-colored dyes that light could barely pass through it. Even on the sunniest of days, the Dreaded End's window was a mottled mess of gloom and gloam.

So when I tried to picture him…the Dreaded End, my godfather…when I tried to picture that, I couldn't do it.

I couldn't see him there, a figure, a being, a person. I could see the window, the dark hues, the swirling mess of fog and mist and grim finality.

I only could see the death, not my life.

"Come on." Bertie beckoned again, jangling the hand in front of me as though the only reason I'd not yet taken it was simply because I hadn't noticed its presence. "If we're really meeting him, if he's really come back, than Mama won't even mind the tear." He beamed at this stroke of unbelievably good fortune. "See? Everything is working out."

Without warning, I threw my arms around Bertie's neck, pulling him against me with a strength that surprised us both. "I'm going to miss you the most," I whispered. I could feel my body trembling as he hugged me back.

"I'm sure he'll let you visit," he said softly. "And I'll write to you every week, I swear it."

"You hate writing," I reminded him. The tears that fell down my cheeks splashed hot and wet.

"I'll learn to like it, just for you," he swore fervently.

My hand found his then. I seized hold of it and clutched him tightly all the way back to the wagon.

But it wasn't my godfather's temple we were headed to.