Leena Likitalo: The Five Daughters of the Moon

I giggle at him. Sibilia says the Poet has got his tongue stuck in honey and coated with sugar. She claims the Poet flatters everyone, but I don’t care what she says. She might just be envious. Her seed is always at the battlefronts, never here.

“My gift!” Poet Granizol claps. His rings clink as they meet. Rafa and Mufu stir to this sound. Mufu’s floppy ears perk. Then she sneezes again. “Have you found them to your liking? Or are you disturbed by their occasional licking? Ah, they truly look fine tonight! You must have brushed them with all your might.”

I beam. I did brush my companions myself, and personally chose the collars. The chain of oval diamonds complements the shine of Rafa’s silky hazel fur. The dove pearls shine lovely against Mufu’s dark gray coat. To me, they look more elegant than Elise, who spent the whole evening before her mirrors. Though that I would never say aloud, lest she’d tell Nurse Nookes, and I’d be the one disciplined.

“Fine are the creatures I chose for my seed. Now, where is this one thing I dearly need?”

I watch the Poet pat through his pockets, amused. He has a way with words. Will I have that gift too when I grow up? That would be wonderful. I could put an end to my sisters’ teasing for good.

“Ah, there it was all along. For a moment I thought it truly was gone.” The Poet produces a silver cigarette box from his pocket, a gift from Mama when he was still in her favor, I’ve heard. He flicks the lid open and fumbles to pick up a cigarette. He’s already about to light it when he glances at me, grinning as if he were a scullery boy about to do something forbidden. “You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

The smoke in the salon is already so thick that I can’t see past my own extended hand. Besides, I don’t understand why he’s asking my permission, of all things. It’s not as if I really matter. And yet, I nod.

“She was always full of nos.” A tremor runs through the Poet’s body. His fingers tremble as he produces a flame from the silver lighter. This trembling eases only after he’s sucked the first taste of the acrid smoke. “Though that is not a word she knows.”

He’s talking of Mama, I guess. But since I don’t know for sure, it’s better not to reply. I pat my knee lightly. Mufu replies to my summons instantly and jumps on my lap. My darling companion.

“Ahh…” The Poet smacks his lips, eyes closed. His lashes are long and black. I hope mine will grow to be like his, for in comparison, even Elise’s are short and pale. “Never does this taste better than on a night blessed by the Moon himself.”

I watch my seed smoke in silence. Rumors. There are almost as many rumors about him as there are of me and my sisters. He was Mama’s favorite once, but only for a short while. These days he’s rarely invited to the court. Though many share his vices, I’ve been told Mama can’t tolerate his. I bury my fingers between Mufu’s collar and her fur, seeking comfort from the warmth. I don’t want to anger my seed, but there’s so much I don’t know. So much I want to know.

“What is it that you are smoking?” I ask, for to that he can answer honestly at least.

Poet Granizol turns his back to me before he puffs more gray clouds. When he’s done, he leans toward me, elbows against knees, onyx eyes wide. “The nectar for those who need to imagine, for those who yearn to see more. For those who are afraid, but bold enough, to glimpse the world beyond the great door.”

The Poet’s words make no sense. Rafa and Mufu glance at him, too, sharing my opinion. Maybe seeking out my seed wasn’t such a good idea after all. Maybe I should return to the grand hall. Sensing that I’m about to get up, Mufu jumps on the floor.

“Don’t go.” The Poet lowers his hand on my arm. His fingers feel hot through the fabric of my sleeve.

“Mama might need me,” I say, although that’s not the truth. The court celebrates Alina tonight—though, given how shaky she was earlier, she has no doubt retired already. As in all the celebrations, everyone has their eyes set on Celestia and Elise. Sibilia and I don’t matter. That’s the role of the younger daughters. To be ignored and forgotten. But Mama can’t possibly understand any of that, as she’s the oldest and only daughter.

“The empress is akin to a celestial object or a distant star. She can only be glimpsed from afar. Oh, when the planets align right, terrible, terrible is her might.”

As I shake my head, the world blurs around the edges. Rafa nudges my shin. Mufu sneezes. I feel cold. “I’m not sure I feel well.”

The Poet touches my forehead, the wrinkles on his brown forehead deepening. “I will read you poems. A nourished soul can never fall ill.”

I debate with myself whether to leave or stay. If I leave, I might faint. If I stay… I don’t see my seed that often, and he did give me Rafa and Mufu. I decide to stay.

“Here, lay your head on my lap. This one is called ‘The Ode to the Moon, the Light of the World Beyond This One.’”

I close my eyes and let myself lull into the trickle of his carefully chosen words. As I inhale more smoke—there’s no avoiding it in this room—the words swell into a stream, then into a river. I float in my seed’s gentle voice. The words, they have no meaning, never had. All that matters is that I’m with him and that he cares the most for me, and not one of my sisters.

Suddenly the Poet falls quiet. A heartbeat later Rafa growls and Mufu joins the warning. I jerk up to a sitting position, just in time to see the smoke part and a ghastly figure emerge.

Gagargi Prataslav strides toward us. The heels of his boots clack loudly against the floor. His black robes billow behind him as if he were riding the wind. His dark eyes gleam with pure malice.

Frozen. I sit on the sofa, frozen, head spinning. My companions hide in my hem. The gagargi knows I eavesdropped on him. He might know more than that. How? I can’t say. It doesn’t matter.

“A Daughter of the Moon,” Gagargi Prataslav says as he halts before the sofa. His thin lips form a smile. Why he’s smiling, I can’t tell, but I scoot instinctively toward the Poet. The gagargi shakes his head. He says to the Poet, “Go.”

The Poet glances at me, at the gagargi. I cast a pleading look at my seed. Don’t go!

The gagargi’s smile deepens until it becomes a scythe’s edge. I know now where I’ve seen that expression before. On a cat toying with a mouse. What can he be thinking?

The Poet opens his mouth as if to argue. He’s noticed how I clutch my hem. He may have heard how my heart thunders.

“Go,” Gagargi Prataslav repeats, and his gaze darkens. He has much power. He’s to be feared.

The Poet gets up. He doesn’t look at me. Disappointment and anger pierce my heart, leaving me wounded beyond recovery. I can’t believe how easily he gave up on me. “Fine.” He sucks in another breath from his cigarette. He exhales it toward the gagargi. “But I’ll be back.”

Gagargi Prataslav laughs, a deep rumble from his chest. I hunch on the sofa. Rafa peeks out from the cover of my hem. She hesitates but a moment before she jumps to take the Poet’s place. My brave little companion. I hug her against my chest. I don’t even know why I feel so threatened. The palace is full of people; just there, on the other side of the room, older ladies gossip and decorated soldiers exchange war stories. I suspect.

“Now, little Daughter of the Moon.” The gagargi arranges his robes. He smooths the folds one at a time before he takes a seat too close to Rafa. My dear companion whips her head around to growl at him, needle-like teeth bared.

“Why…” Gagargi Prataslav pats Rafa on the head, though she pulls her ears back, tight against her slender neck. But as soon as the gagargi buries his bony fingers into her smooth hazel fur, she stills. The growl dies in her throat. “There is no need for ill will. None. None at all.”