Leena Likitalo - The Five Daughters of the Moon

“A gift fit for a Daughter of the Moon,” Gagargi Prataslav announces, clearly pleased by the general’s choice. He has his arms clasped before him, but hidden by the voluminous sleeves.

Alina barely glances at the peacock. Her tight smile is one I recognize too well. She’s very afraid of something. But of what, I can’t say, and I can’t ask. For the time has come for the rest of the court to present their gifts to Alina.

“Have you seen Poet Granizol?”

Sibilia pauses munching the éclair only when she wheels around to face me. Beautiful blush covers her round cheeks. Powdered sugar dusts her plump lips. She swallows and pats her mouth in a napkin embroidered with the crescent motif. “Ummm… sorry? But, have you seen the servant with macarons lately?”

Sibilia and her obsession with pastries… Sometimes she’s just as bad as Rafa and Mufu, who continuously beg for treats. I rise to my toes to crane past her into the dance hall, and my dear companions echo the movement.

Inside, Elise swirls from the arms of one handsome young man to those of another. Dressed in a white gown with a high, silver-sequined waistline and a hem so light it follows her every movement, she looks akin to a young swan. Her red-gold hair curls into a crown of its own, the weaves held together by plumes and dove pins. Her laughter chimes even above the court gossip and the waltz the string quartet plays.

“Sixteen,” I whisper under my breath. Our sister is beautiful, carefree, and admired by everyone. “If that is what it’s like to be sixteen…”

“It is!” Sibilia sighs, palms pressed against her heart. Of course she’d be the one to know. She’s but one year away from the magical age. “This year simply can’t pass fast enough.”

We watch, mesmerized, as Elise dances. When the song comes to an end, she curtsies to her current partner, then turns around to choose her next one from amongst a half dozen or so admirers.

“If I were her, I’d pick Count Albusov.” Sibilia nods as if agreeing with herself. “Sure, he might be bald and a bit on the skeletal side, but look at the plenitude of soul beads sewn into his coat. I’ve heard his estate is one of the largest in the whole empire!”

For a moment, it does seem like Elise will favor Count Albusov, though he must be twice her age. But then, a dashing young captain with his copper brown hair tied into an elaborate topknot boldly strides past the count to our sister. He’s muscular in the lean sort of way, and his midnight blue and silver uniform fits him so perfectly that he must be blessed by Papa himself.

“The nerve of him…” Sibilia gasps. Both Rafa and Mufu turn to look at her. I don’t, for then I’d miss the action on the dance floor.

Everyone. Everyone has paused to stare at the scene around our sister. The orchestra, bows hovering above the strings of violins and cellos. The couples with hands wound around each other. The older ladies and lords standing on the sides of the hall, holding drinks raised to their lips or about to spill them. And then there are the very people involved in what is about to turn into a major faux pas. Count Albusov’s bald head positively glows with his shock at this disregard for rank. The young captain completely ignores this, and… he bows at Elise swiftly, but elegantly.

Our sister glances at Count Albusov, then at the young captain. She lifts two fingers to her lips and smiles so radiantly that no matter how she’ll choose, no one can think ill of her. She lowers her hand, brushes her hem in a way that leaves it girlishly swaying. And then, she favors the young captain with the tiniest of nods.

“She can’t!” Sibilia stomps the floor twice, and Rafa and Mufu bounce back to the shelter of my hem. “She simply mustn’t approve of that sort of behavior.”

Too late. Elise has made up her mind. As the young captain offers her his hand, she accepts it. She places her hand on his shoulder, white kid glove against the silver epaulet. He draws her closer, his hand on the small of her back. As if it were in his right to lead a Daughter of the Moon, to demand anything, let alone… intimacy. A violin sings the first note of the waltz, and it’s too late, too late to do anything.

“Oh no…” For quite some time Sibilia is lost in her thoughts, no doubt imagining the chastisements Elise’s disregard for court etiquette will rain upon us. Then she shrugs, and her red-gold eyebrows lift as if she’d just remembered that I still wait for her answer. Her skirts swoosh as she squats down. As she pats my shoulders, her white gloves ooze the scent of honey and chocolate. “Come to think of it, dear Merile, I haven’t seen Poet Granizol since the ceremony.”

I sigh, and Rafa and Mufu sigh with me. But my companions get over their disappointment much faster than I do. Mufu rises to her hind legs, more interested in what might remain of the éclair than my distress. Sibilia shakes her head at my companion. As she pats her head, a red-gold curl escapes from behind her ear. She notices the stain on her glove, shrugs, and lets the curl remain as it is. “And you’re out of luck, too.”

A servant with a tray laden with tiny butter-crust pastries—apples and almonds, by the smell—ambles past us, so overwhelmed by the crowd that he doesn’t notice Sibilia and me. Both Rafa and Mufu, however, turn whip-fast, to stare after him in hopes the man might fall and a blessed avalanche of treats tumble upon them.

“Luck,” I remark, aiming my words at my apparently completely gullible and bribable companions. “We’re all out of luck.”

“Oh, Merile, don’t be sad.” Sibilia, still squatted down, leans toward me, ready to hug me if need be. Her white gown clings to her skin, to her round bosom, to tell the truth. Though she’s already fifteen, she wears a dress more akin to mine than to Elise’s or Celestia’s. Ours have high necklines and long, tight-fitted lace sleeves. I like my dress, but on Sibilia… She’s a woman dressed like a girl.

“I’m not sad,” I say.

“He must be somewhere here…” Sibilia trails off as she spots a servant to our right with a tray full of macarons. The silver reflects the red and green and yellow promises of sweetness. My sister swiftly gets up. She casts one last glance at the dancing Elise, then an equally longing one at the macarons. “Do you want me to help you look for him?”

Sibilia doesn’t ask why I want to find my seed, and I don’t want to tell her. She’s not particularly fond of hers. General Kravakiv has been off fighting for the empire since she was born anyway.

“No,” I reply, and, released by my word, she sails away toward the sugary salvation of macarons.

Grand hall. I can’t find Poet Granizol in the grand hall and neither does he loiter in the hallway leading into the older, colder parts of the palace. But it’s in this hallway that I detect the faintest hint of bitter smoke, and though I shouldn’t wander off alone, I do. Either the guards will shadow me or then they won’t. I’m not worried—no harm can fall on me on the palace grounds, no matter what Nurse Nookes might think.

The crowd thins as I leave behind the rooms where the guests plot and gossip and dance as is the way things have always been here. I pretend not to see people holding hands with the wrong people, stealing kisses, swaying away, locking doors behind them. Rafa and Mufu trot beside me, nails clicking against the plainer floor tiles. They sneeze at the sticky smell of the many perfumes mixed with sweat. I follow the scent of smoke, for I know I will thus find the Poet.

Right turn. Down a narrow corridor. Left turn. The farther away I veer from the grand hall, the more the temperature drops. Coldness seeps through the soles of my slippers. My breathing turns into white clouds.