Rae Carson - The Girl of Fire and Thorns

I blink. Lady Aneaxi smiles. “Trust,” she says, reaching for the Godstone. Her nails prod the skin of my abdomen; they scrape around the stone. Fiery pain darts through my pelvis, down my legs. She digs deeper and pulls. It feels like my spine is coming out through my navel. The pain is too much to bear. I manage a breath. Quick and shallow, but it’s enough that I can scream. Aneaxi draws back, startled. Her fingertips, swollen and black with infection, drip crimson. She grins. “You must wake up, my Elisa.”

“Elisa! Someone is at the door.”

I open my eyes to a silk canopy of orange and coral, trimmed in glass beads that catch the gentle morning light. Ximena nudges my shoulder as a thump sounds at the door.

“I think you were dreaming, my sky.”

My muscles melt into the silk covers; I unclench my jaw and catch my breath. The bed is yielding and soft. The kind a girl can sink into if she doesn’t want to face the day. But the knocking continues.

I pull the covers up to my chin. Ximena smiles in sympathy as I call out, “Come!”

A girl about my age enters. She is petite and beautiful with elegant cheekbones, graceful and dainty even in her homespun wool. She curtsies low; it looks like a dance step, like she’s about to twirl away. I stare at the shimmering black hair poking from beneath her maid’s cap. Finally I realize she’s awaiting permission to address me.

“Speak.”

She stands and smiles. One of her front teeth folds in slightly. I focus on the flaw as her gaze follows the form of my body beneath the covers, comes to rest on my face. Black eyes flash, like she has learned something valuable. She raises an eyebrow just slightly; then her expression becomes vacant, and she lowers her head.

“I was sent to help you prepare for breakfast.”

My stomach growls, and I imagine fresh baked bread with honey, fig cakes with sweetened coconut milk.

“Your name?” I ask.

“Cosmé.” She has the odd, lilting accent of the desert people.

I flip back the covers and sit up. The floor is a long way down, and I scoot over the edge until my toes touch the sheepskin rug. “Cosmé, my clothes are a disaster from my journey. Could you find a blouse and skirt for me?”

Her brow knits in confusion. “I could find a corset and a dress maybe . . .” Then she gasps. “You’re from Orovalle!”

Dread fills my gut. A corset would make me look like a stuffed pig, and except for my false wedding, I’ve never worn anything so restrictive. Do the women of Joya only wear corsets?

“Yes, I am visiting from Orovalle. You may address me as Lady Elisa.” I catch an approving look from my nurse.

She curtsies again. “I’ll see what I can find, Lady Elisa.” And she glides away as if she were the princess and I a dumpy maid in a sooty dress.

While she is gone, Ximena and I explore the suite a bit. There are three rooms. My bedroom with the huge bed has a dressing table, a tiny balcony overlooking a dry garden, sheepskin rugs, and large, tasseled cushions. The smaller maid’s room has bunked beds and a wardrobe. A cool atrium with a garderobe and bathing pool connects the two. The pool is square shaped and marvelously tiled with tiny, hand-painted designs in blue and yellow. A glowing skylight suffuses the atrium with hazy gold. The entire suite contains not a single chair. I remember Alodia recounting how the people of Joya d’Arena use cushions for sitting.

Another door leads from my bedroom, but it is locked.

The suite is no larger than my chambers at home, but it’s rich with deeper colors, finer fabrics. I love the silk and gauze that canopy my bed and swathe my walls. But I miss the tinkle of fountains, the creeping allamanda that sneaks tendrils of green through my window.

Ximena brushes and plaits my hair as we wait. It’s my favorite time of morning because I love the feel of her fingers against my scalp, the gentle tugging. My hair is shining and black, with waves that fall to my waist. Ximena usually creates two braids, one atop the other, because there is so much of it. Aneaxi used to tell me I had pretty lips and eyes, too. She was wrong, of course; my lips look like fat slugs and my eyes are far too small, overwhelmed as they are by cheeks like pomegranates. But it’s nice to have one lovely thing.

Cosmé returns with an armful of clothing. She spreads everything out on the bed and I can hardly breathe for the beauty of it all. So many colors, so many fabrics and trims. Glass beads sewn into panels, gem-encrusted bodices, the tiniest, most detailed lace. I run my fingers along the skirt of one dress. It’s a soft coral, like my canopy, with a light fringe at the hem. But everything is petite. Made for a dainty person like Cosmé.

“. . . that Queen Rosaura was about your height,” she is saying, “so I thought one of these might fit.”

Of course they won’t fit. They are so obviously too small that I stare at the tiny maid. She has insulted me on purpose, and I don’t know why.

Ximena’s hand rests on my shoulder, and it’s all I can do not to cry. I stare at the tile floor, at a sheepskin rug that curls up on one end. Softly, she whispers in my ear, “I washed your blouse and skirt in the atrium last night. They are nearly dry.”

I almost choke with relief. “Thank you.”

Cosmé guides us downstairs to a vast, loftily ceilinged dining hall. Light streams blue from high stained windows. People are already seated on cushions when we enter, a row of steaming dishes between them, and they look up in mild interest. The men are clean shaven, the women corseted. Everyone wears bright colors, blank expressions. No one speaks. I don’t see my husband anywhere.

A woman stands to greet us, smiling, and I smile back gratefully. She glides forward, golden arms outstretched. Her eyes, shimmering honey brown beneath black lashes, are startling in her tanned face.

“You must be Alejandro’s special guest!” she says. Her voice is soft and high like a girl’s. Only faint lines and slight weariness around her eyes reveal that she is older than I, maybe late twenties.

I nod, unsure what to say. I wish the king was here so I could follow his lead.

“Come, sit with me.” She grabs my arm, and I let myself be pulled along. “I’m Condesa Ariña. I’ll introduce you to everyone after you’ve had something to eat.”

As Ximena and I settle beside her, the damp ruffles of my skirt stick cold against my legs. It is odd that the condesa has not asked my name, that she speaks of my husband with such familiarity.

I try not to be too interested in the food as she fills a wooden platter for me, selecting from various dishes before us. I look at the people seated around me; they eat daintily, glancing away as soon as my gaze catches theirs. The chamber is stone-cold gray and huge, too huge for two handfuls of people. I miss my cozy adobe.

Condesa Ariña sets the platter in my lap. “Here you are, Lady Elisa.” So she already knows my name. I’ve told no one to address me that way save Cosmé. I glance toward the curtained doorway we entered through, but the maid is gone.

I attack the food. It’s a bit bland, but so much nicer than traveling fare. I bite into a puffed pastry, remembering an almond glaze that would contrast beautifully with the mild egg flavor. Maybe Alejandro’s kitchen master will be willing to experiment with some of Orovalle’s finer dishes.

Then I remember Ximena. Ariña hadn’t bothered to serve her. I hand her my platter, smiling in apology. She winks at me and grabs a tiny quiche. As I settle the platter between us, I notice several of my companions looking at me strangely. I wonder what I’ve done wrong. Maybe they’re not used to seeing a servant treated with respect. Or maybe I don’t eat daintily enough for them. I stuff another pastry into my mouth and stare right back.