Page 3 of Embrace the Serpent

The crowds had thickened along the main road. It seemed less a sea of individuals and more a beast of a single mind.

“Oi, Gally boy!” A shout came from above, a balcony overlooking the street. A red-faced man leaned out, and the wine in his

cup sloshed onto the heads of the unlucky sods below. “Oh, sorry!”

Galen saluted with his cane. “Hey-o, Rosh.”

“Come on up. We’re having a little to-do. The girls want to watch the Serpent King, but there’s hours yet, and they’re getting

bored.” Rosh winked in a way that he probably thought was saucy.

Galen gave him a thumbs-up. “Saphira, why don’t you go on ahead? I’ll drum up some business with Rosh’s crowd.” He patted

his hair to check that it hadn’t deflated. “How do I look?”

“Presentable,” I said.

“Would it kill you to give a compliment?”

“I thought you didn’t want me to lie to you.”

He rolled his eyes. “You have a real talent, you know. You could convince Helen of Troy she had a face like a tortoise. You

could convince a stallion that it was a donkey.” His eyes sparkled; he was getting into it. “You could convince the Emperor—the

Emperor—oh, dash it, I’ve lost it.”

“I got the picture,” I said.

“Oh, it’s on the tip of my tongue—blast it. It was a good one. But it doesn’t matter. Thing is, it’s all right. You couldn’t

sell a jewel if your life depended on it, but that’s what I’m here for.” He looked at me fondly. “What would you do without

me?”

“Die in the streets, probably.”

He laughed as if it were a joke and stole a glance up at the balcony.

That’s my cue. “Good luck with business, boss.”

We parted ways. Cutting a diagonal path through the crowd took me to a side street, which, with a hop and scamper, let out

into the interconnected alleys that were the domain of trashmen, grocers, and delivery people. The kind of people who were

gloriously too busy to pay attention to anyone. But today, the side streets were empty. Even the mice had gone to try their

luck on the main road.

My guard was down. Idly, I picked up nice-looking rocks to gift to Grimney, my only friend and connoisseur of ordinary, unprecious

stones, but my mind was on Mirandel.

Even at six years old, she was memorable. She and I had been on the same transport wagon to the Imperial City, but I didn’t

notice her until they stripped us and bathed us, shaving our hair of the matted knots and lice we’d picked up on the weeks-long

journey. There was a beast-like roar and a thud. A boy began to cry. And a girl with a gremlin’s face shouted, “He deserved

it. He called me ugly.”

That was maybe the first time I’d almost smiled since I’d been taken from home.

We were settled into the Rose Palace—not the glittering main wing where Lady Incarnadine and her Chosen lived, but the other,

older wing, the one the children called the thorns . In those first few days, the fleet of women caretakers—all of whom we were told to call Nanny—gave us musical instruments, well-worn chessboards, charcoal and slate to draw with. We were bade to dance, to craft, to recite poetry.

And then Lady Incarnadine came. Incense smoke preceded her, so thick that it made the air dim, so fragrant that my head began

to spin. The servants carrying the incense braziers stood aside. Her eyes seemed to me pinpricks of fire, looming from the

dark.

I clutched my mother’s ring and inched back until I hit the wall.

The Nannies read from a scroll, calling forth one by one the children who were deemed most beautiful, most talented, most

valuable. They showed their skills, some proudly, others through their tears. With long fingers tipped in gold, Lady Incarnadine

gestured come for the ones she chose, and begone for those she didn’t.

And then one of the Nannies called my name.

My heart was in my ears. I didn’t answer.

The Nannies scanned the crowd, and the children shifted uneasily.

Lady Incarnadine began to turn—

Mirandel jumped before her. It was like a gargoyle had crept out of the shadows, newly come to life, with only a vague understanding

of how to smile. She bowed before Lady Incarnadine and shouted at the top of her lungs, “I am Mirandel.” And marginally quieter,

an accusation: “You forgot to call me.”

She squatted and stomped around like a three-legged horse. A stunned silence, broken by nothing but her heavy breathing and

the thuds of her feet on stone. At last, drenched in sweat, Mirandel stopped. “That was a dance,” she announced, and comprehension

dawned on us all.

Lady Incarnadine waved a dismissive hand. Begone.

Two of the Nannies picked Mirandel up. “Wait! I can sing,” she shouted as she was carried away, and she belted a line in a

voice that squawked like a crow, until one of the Nannies clapped a hand over her mouth. Even then she was undeterred, just

muffled.

After that, Lady Incarnadine left, and the Nannies forgot about me.

It was a half year later that we spoke. In that time, I’d learned a lesson or two about being invisible, and had begun to

coax the secrets out of the walls. The thorns gave up hidden cellars, boarded-up rooms full of junk, and—best of all—passageways

that led out of the palace altogether.

I came out of one passageway into what usually was an empty room. Mirandel was practicing what I assumed was a new dance.

Her feet were bandaged, but blood had soaked through. She was better, but still nothing like those who showed inborn talent.

I didn’t understand. “Why do you try so hard?”

She screamed and then quickly scowled. “Where did you come from?”

I shrugged.

She squinted at me. “I know you—you’re the ghost. I’ve seen you disappearing. But I’ve also seen you show up for mealtimes.

And I know ghosts don’t eat.” She leapt forward and pinched my cheek, hard. “Aw, you’re just a girl.”

I slapped her hand away. “Don’t touch me.”

She crossed her arms. “They called your name. You could’ve been up in the Rose Palace. Don’t you want to eat sweets and have

nice dresses and get married?”

“I’m seven,” I said. “I don’t want to get married.”

“You’ve gotta think ahead. That’s what my da tells me.”

“Your da... He’s alive?”

“Sure. My ma and da sent me here to bring honor to my family.” She blinked hard, then turned her back to me. “Go away. I’ve

got to practice.”

“You don’t want Lady Incarnadine to choose you,” I said after a moment of watching her stomp around. “She’s a djinn.”

Mirandel gave me a worldly, pitying look. “You’re such a baby. All the djinn are gone. The Emperor and Lady Incarnadine beat

them all so bad they had to hide in the Serpent Kingdom. Look, I had nightmares when I was a baby too, but my ma said they’re

never coming back.”

My mother’s last words were on my tongue, but I had the feeling Mirandel might hit me if I spoke them.

I was at the door when Mirandel said, “You can be my friend if you want.”

We were friends for three months. And then she betrayed me for a ticket into the Rose Palace.

And I ran away, to Gem Lane.

My shoulders relaxed as the buttery walls of the workshop greeted me. I slipped my mother’s ring into my pocket and tackled

the tiny buttons that went from my throat to my knees.

Sounds of cooking came from the kitchen. Grimney was stooped over the stove, gingerly holding a wooden spoon between two stone

fingers.

“Hullo, Grims.” I dug a handful of stones from my pockets.

He rambled over and poked through them for the choicest pebble, which he ate.

From the direction of his carved mouth came a sound like a boulder rolling down a gravel path. “Grrzzdhj?”

“Yes, I’m starved.” I said.

As Grimney put together a plate for me, I swept the floor and dusted the counters. The debris amounted to a small pile of

gravel, each no larger than a pea. This was good. Like most golems, Grimney had a habit of coming apart, occasionally leaving

behind rocks as big as apples.

Golems had been in fashion several years ago—the Emperor had tasked every jewelsmith with reviving the ancient art to fill

his armies. But since most golems only comprehended a single command at a time, and often had trouble understanding concepts

like which humans were good and which were the enemy, the general consensus was that asking them to fight was unwise. They

had a brief life as chauffeurs and doormen, but the other problem with golems was that from the day they were made, they began

eroding, as if they were trying to return to the earth. Most only lasted a year.

I was ten when we got Grimney. He was my height then and was at the time the most complex bit of jewelsmithing I’d ever tackled.

There were seventeen jewels that together made him what he was, but his essence, his mind, was tied to a large shard of electrum.

Each jewel was connected to the other with lines of gold.

But gold is soft, and easily bent out of shape by the stones of Grimney’s body grinding against each other.

So I kept him in working order, and in exchange, Grimney cooked.

And if there was the occasional bit of gravel in my dinner, I didn’t mind.

Grimney put the plate before me, and a small pile of rocks before himself.

I was still in my livery. “I’ll change and be down in a second.”

I left the kitchen and trod down the hallway, past the door to Galen’s workroom, but instead of taking the stairs, something

made me pause at the last door, the frosted glass one that led to the showroom. A shiver went down my spine, a prickle of

unease.

A flicker of movement—there it was. Someone was in the showroom.

It should’ve been impossible—the front door had a triple lock, and besides, the workshop guards knew not to let anyone past

the gate when Galen was out.

A gravelly tread came from the kitchen, and I motioned for Grimney to stay back.

I cracked the door open.

A tall man strode from one display to the next. His back was to me, his dark hair falling in soft waves to his shoulders.

The showroom was lit only by the frail light filtering in from outside, but even in the dimness, he glimmered. If a peacock