Page 27 of Grave Flowers

I arrived at the cathedral for the wedding right on time and was escorted inside to wait for the ceremony to begin.

In honor of her position, Gwenllian would lay my train out before I walked down the aisle.

She hovered behind me as I made my way into the narthex, whispering.

“Step slowly! No! Don’t look down—look ahead.

Daughter forgive you! Don’t you dare lift the skirt.”

Father waited there for me.

My steps quickened at the sight of him, and I hurried to his side.

With everything colliding, I was almost relieved to see him.

He was my ally, a Radixan and a Sinet, and the closest bit of home I’d had since arriving.

He was the same: his weathered face, his overly alert, colorless eyes, his twitchy, impatient hands.

Today, he kept adjusting his sword.

It was a regal weapon only for display, and it was clear how much he loathed it.

My gaze traveled over his broad shoulders and chest, knowing that beneath the thick layers of his clothes lurked his drapery cord and a dagger, if not two or three.

I’d lived years of experience in the past month, yet Father was a stone in my past, immovable even with time, taking me back.

I felt young standing before him.

Not just young but like a child, one not afraid of the dark but afraid of her father, even as she needed him.

“Good morn, Daughter,”

he said, as though we were meeting for breakfast and not the wedding that would precede our assassination plot.

“Hello, Father,”

I replied.

The choir began to sing, meaning the ceremony had started.

The voices swelled as one and poured into the narthex.

It was time for me to progress down the aisle.

I glanced desperately at Father.

“May you swim in salt,”

he said.

Hearing the saying from home spoken in Father’s familiar voice nearly undid me.

Impulsively, I held out my hands to him, and he took them both, his own so big, firm, and strong.

He cocked his head to the side, regarding me carefully.

One eyebrow quirked slightly up, asking if I was all right, if I would do my duty.

I remembered who I was and who he was. We weren’t merely daughter and father. We never had been and never would be. We were Sinets, and if I failed, he’d enact punishment. I lifted my chin and smiled. He stepped forward, still holding my hands. Desperately, I tried to pull back, but he held me in place. He simply kissed the top of my head. Then he released me.

Next, he awkwardly lowered the blusher over my face.

It misted over me.

He gestured for me to pass by him.

As the father of the bride, he’d observe from the back, representing the house I was leaving behind. Gwenllian lifted the train and released it in a final fluff. A gush of air rushed around my legs, and the silk gently settled behind me.

“You’re perfect,”

she murmured.

“Go make me proud and bless all who behold you with your beauty.”

She was talking to the wedding gown, not me.

I stepped toward the cathedral entrance.

Deep breaths eluded me.

I was so nervous, I could manage only shallow ones, and they made my chest strain against the gown’s confining bodice while my pulse beat wildly against the choker piece.

The veil pressed against my lips. It was so delicate and thin that it didn’t obscure my vision and certainly wasn’t thick enough to impede my breathing, yet it seemed to suffocate me. Every inhale pulled it to my mouth. I cast my gaze forward.

At the betrothal ceremony, I hadn’t been able to view Aeric clearly from the narthex.

This time, he was right within my view, a solitary figure at the end of the aisle.

It was my first time seeing him wear a crown—at least one that wasn’t made of tin.

My shallow breaths almost ceased entirely. Just as the tin crown had sat slightly askew on his head, this one did as well. It slanted across his brow and flashed brilliantly, making it appear as though he were crowned with sunlight, not gold. I saw him shudder slightly, though I wasn’t certain why. I processed down the aisle to him, my gown sweeping back to reveal my legs, my veil streaming back from my hair like water.

He stared ahead, his eyes fixed somewhere over my head.

I reached his side, and we turned to the altar.

Still, he didn’t look at me.

Perhaps he’d made a deal with himself not to engage with me, his enemy, any longer. I understood. I’d made the same deals with myself over and over too. But I wasn’t used to his inattention. I was used to commanding him even in silence, even in secrets, even in scorn. Standing next to him, I missed him deeply.

I glanced once more at him.

His profile was strong, his chin lifted, his attention fixed stubbornly on the monasticte.

Anger sparked in me.

He would look at me, even if only one last time. I lifted my hand and brushed my fingers against his, though we weren’t supposed to touch yet. It was enough. His head turned to me. Strange, volatile awe filled his eyes, and he leaned slightly back to one side, regarding me as his bride. Then he straightened and his jaw squared. I thought he’d remain this way—steadfast, noble, newly crowned king—for the rest of the ceremony, all vulnerability and openness firmly locked away.

Unexpectedly, though, he whispered.

“You’re beautiful.”

It was one of the simplest things I’d ever heard from him.

He said it with such passion that somehow the two words seemed to encompass an entire ode.

Regret filled me, and I saw it in him too.

Even though we stood side by side, an aching, endless void stretched out between us. It snatched away every kiss and every moment and left us with nothing.

The ceremony unfolded.

We knelt at certain points, lit candles, and held hands at others.

As in Radix, there wasn’t one moment between not wed and wed.

Rather, every turn of the ceremony drew us further into the land of marriage, and at some mystical point known only to the Primeval Family, we became husband and wife. Its beauty and poeticism were lost on me. My dread grew, as though the ceremony were a tightening cord around my neck, a thought that made me think of Father. I glanced over my shoulder. He rocked back and forth, watching.

“And now, the kiss,”

the monasticte intoned.

I faced Aeric, my husband.

Gently and with utmost care, he reached for the veil to pull the blusher back.

Symbolically, the action was supposed to be a revealment.

According to the faith and lore, the bride was given a divine dispensation and, as the veil was lifted from her eyes, she could see reality clearly—not just our temporal reality, but the divine one said to encircle us like air.

She might say a prayer then, and the Mother, who was closer to her than ever before during this consecrated moment, would hear it.

Aeric raised my veil.

A flash of gold blinded me for a moment, and I thought perhaps it was true—I was granted the divine sight—but it was his crown, a sunbeam bouncing off its band.

It dwindled and I saw him.

Nothing truly connected our gazes, yet it felt as though they were compelled together by the same forces that bound our feet to the ground, turned compasses north, and kept the celestial bodies pinned to the sky.

Most couples simply joined hands and quickly kissed, but the same compulsion that united our gazes drew us to each other.

I settled into his arms as he pulled me close, dipping me so far that my hair nearly brushed the floor.

I thought briefly of the vial, but the corset and bodice were structured enough to hide it.

Our lips met in a kiss of passion, but it was a tormented passion, one that had no true home, making the kiss even more desperate. My hands clawed into his neck and hair while his own curved desperately around my waist. A frantic thought shot through my mind, and it had the same unbounded, suffusing power as the sunbeam that had flashed in my eyes. Don’t make me kill him. It was the only prayer I’d ever said in my life. I tore free from Aeric, mind whirling. The vial dug into my skin.

“Ah, young love,”

the monasticte said with a gentle smile.

He addressed us both softly.

“May your marriage be held in light everlasting and may the same light shine upon your children and your children’s children.”

Next to me, Aeric once again faced the altar.

All I could see in my peripheral vision was his jaw tightening and releasing, over and over.

The monasticte raised his voice.

“Hand me the crown.”

As Aeric’s wife, I was queen consort but not in title yet until I was crowned.

A crown embellished with red diamonds, rubies, and garnets was brought to him on an equally red pillow.

Rationally, I knew hands carried it, but somehow it seemed to glide through the air, as though seeking my head.

Aeric stepped back, and I knelt. The montasticte raised it high.

The crown hovered above me, narrowing the cathedral’s vaulted ceiling to one perfect gold circle.

Swiftly, he lowered it and settled it onto my head.

Unlike the wedding ceremony, there was no unknown, ephemeral switching from one state to another.

Once the crown was on my head, I was queen consort in every sense, with all associated rights and titles. I wasn’t prepared for its weight. It made me shift, straighten, and stiffen, as though my very physicality had to alter, as though every thought in my mind must now be encircled by the band of gold around my forehead, decisions made not for me but for others. Deep inside, I knew it wasn’t truly my crown. My true crown was in Radix, and I’d wear it someday. It had twisting grave flowers crafted from filigree. The crown I wore now—even though I wouldn’t wear it long—was a precursor to my flower crown, and I’d use it to protect Radix with my life.

Despite everything, despite my weakness, despite my aims for nothing more than petals and soil, I was queen consort of Acus, and, after Father died, I’d be queen regnant of Radix.

I was whisked away to change into my second look of the day.

My wedding gown, now that it’d gone through the sacred rite, wouldn’t be washed or ever worn again.

Instead, it would be installed in a vault with wedding gowns worn by queens before me.

Funnily enough, those were among the few things in Acus that needed protection from the sunlight. Gwenllian and the other sewists had tears in their eyes as I stepped out of it, and they saw it one last time before it was taken away. Luckily, my undergarments remained, meaning I didn’t have to switch the vial. A nude dress adorned with pinky-red lace was slipped over my head and I was sent to supper, which was scheduled earlier than usual as there had been no time for anyone to eat the midday meal. A matching shoulder-length red veil trimmed in lace was fixed to my hair.

Prince Lambert, Aeric, Father, and I settled into our chairs in the dining hall for the wedding feast, and the servants hurried to bring out platters.

For the rest of the week, feasting was planned for the entire court.

However, once Aeric was dead, there would be nothing but a frenzy that would reach to the ends of Minima.

I fought off a shudder. That would happen only if he didn’t arrest me first.

The supper was an extravagant display.

A marzipan warhorse reared in the center, and an assembly of egrets, herons, and swans were served, birds of flight condemned to our teeth.

Father was skeptical at the lack of forks, his mouth twisting mirthlessly as he poked at his food with the rounded spoon.

Wordlessly, I passed him a bowl of salt, which was put at my place for every meal due to my constant requests for it.

Aeric seemed as anxious as I.

He clutched his spoon, using it to move the food around his trencher but never bringing any to his mouth.

“King Sinet, we are honored to have you.”

I thought Aeric’s obvious worry would reflect in his voice, but his tone was light and breezy, as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

“Tonight, I am excited to present a play.”

“A play?”

Father echoed.

He abandoned the spoon to tear meat from the unfortunate swan with his hand.

There was the crack of delicate bone, and Father’s hand came away with the snowy white of the swan’s tender meat, its downy feathers, and the bone itself.

He dredged the drumstick through the salt bowl, sucked the meat free in an effective slurp, and cast the bone back onto the platter, returning it to the swan he’d torn it from.

“Indeed,”

Aeric said.

“It’s a wedding gift to Madalina.”

My heart plummeted.

Father scowled, angry to hear our wedding gift was of no monetary value.

I waited, wondering if Aeric might say I’d suggested it and turn Father’s displeasure against me.

“The cast and I have been working tirelessly on it.”

I hid a sigh of relief.

“Now, if I may, I’d love to share just how special the performance is to me and my intents behind it.

One may think of the theater as the most transient of artistic pursuits.

It only exists so long as it is being performed, rendering it reliant upon time, place, and persons, both actors and attendees.”

Aeric paused.

I thought he was finished, but it turned out he was only beginning.

He spoke passionately about each criteria he’d mentioned.

Time, place, and persons all got their lengthy due.

Prince Lambert stared at him in confusion.

Father pretended to listen for the first few minutes and then, once Aeric concluded his thesis on the role of persons in theater and began another on costuming, rose and paced. I watched, disconcerted and, despite myself, bizarrely amused. This was an unusual show of power but an effective one. As the preeminent monarch present, Aeric forced both his enemies to indulge his prattle. It was a truer show of force than any I’d witnessed before, yet one devoid of weapons and bluster.

“My dear,”

I interrupted.

Aeric, midsentence, abruptly stopped.

His attention jumped to me, enigmatic and removed.

“I noticed the play is set in the royal garden. Why so?”

Picking up his goblet, Aeric tilted it sloppily in my direction.

Red drops of wine splattered the tablecloth.

He smiled blearily at me.

“For you, of course.

Because you love flowers.”

Without waiting for a response, he took a long drink and continued where he’d left off, monologuing about whether special effects reflected directorial insecurity.

I sat back.

I’d been certain Aeric had a reason behind this prolonged supper, but, as his words grew thick and his speech slurred, I questioned.

Maybe he truly did have grandiose ideas of himself as a director. The more I knew him, the less I seemed to. One thing I did know, though:

Either he would die tonight, or I would be arrested.

Both were equally repugnant to me.

I didn’t wish to kill Aeric.

In fact, if it weren’t for the vial digging into me and Father’s relentless gaze, the plan would almost seem like a nightmare.

I kept feeling as though I’d wake from it at any moment and only the good parts would remain. I was his wife. I was safe. My sister didn’t wish to destroy me.

But nothing could be further from the truth.

If I avoided Aeric’s trap, he’d be dead before sunrise.

And if I didn’t, I’d be jailed by his hand.

When the servants cleared away our trenchers, Aeric stood and hoisted his goblet high.

“We shall away!”

he cried.

“To the play!”

Prince Lambert, smiling through clenched, wine-stained teeth, raised his empty goblet in response.

Father didn’t bother.

Aeric, though, wasn’t looking at them.

He looked only at me. I picked up my own goblet. The interlude was over. There were things I needed to do before the play began, all while waiting for Inessa to show her hand so I might metaphorically stab it through and save myself from being switched with her. Every thread of my life now wound about one spool. Before the night was over, I’d know the outcome of it.

Hiding my fear and preparing to face my fate, I lifted my goblet.

I returned Aeric’s gaze and said,

“To the play!”

The court waited in the theater, the red seats filled with bodies in equally red clothing, everyone eager to please Prince Lambert and King Aeric and show their allegiance to Acus by wearing the kingdom’s color in the presence of a foreign king.

Wine, also on the vermillion spectrum, flowed and goblets teemed with it, making it look like every hand clutched a long-stemmed red flower.

The other times I’d been in the theater, it had been only me and Yorick, and those times had been precious to me … until I’d learned Yorick was a ghost and searched for him, only to find every trace of him gone.

Now the theater writhed like a moving river, currents of people sidestepping to reach seats or pushing up the sides to get more wine or waving to people they knew.

The royal announcer declared our presence, and they fell into a restrained quiet, their ruddy cheeks, flashing eyes, and wine-stained lips already flushed by merriment.

Whatever personal tragedies troubled the rulers of Acus, the people were always their own self-consumed entity.

A few moments later, they were loud once again. I searched the faces, noting where the full general sat, along with the head monasticte and the treasurer, their fingers flashing with their new rings. There were also guards at the doors, which was abnormal. I suspected Aeric would say they were there for extra security after Queen Gertrude’s death, but I knew they were present so Aeric might order them to arrest Prince Lambert and me after the play, if things went according to his plan, which I would attempt to thwart.

I stopped as Aeric, Prince Lambert, and Father proceeded toward the royal box.

I had only one chance to prevent myself from being portrayed in the play.

“Oh, it’s chilly in here.”

It took no effort to mimic shivering.

I shook with fear from head to toe.

“I shall fetch a covering and return.”

Before Father, Prince Lambert, or Aeric could respond, I ducked into the crowd, trying to bury myself behind the various bodies as quickly as possible.

The theater’s inclined floor tugged me forward.

Doom engulfed me.

My destination, the door backstage, loomed ahead, as ominous as an executioner’s block. The masks ringing the stage were the same, but I saw only the expressions of hopeless pain, sorrowful grief, unrestrained fury.

I slipped backstage.

It was even more chaotic than the theater.

Actors bustled back and forth, doing singing exercises (though I was fairly certain there were no musical numbers), practicing lines, and engaging in various superstitious behaviors like tapping the cue script once and passing a boot around to rub.

Most were attired as Acusan flowers, but two were dressed as royals. A king and a prince.

King Claudius and Prince Lambert, I thought.

I saw her.

A dark-haired actress, wearing the red dress costume with my name embroidered across the front.

Ducking my head, I made my way to her.

“Excuse me, which part are you playing?”

I asked.

She had brown eyes, but I saw she wore a wig meant to emulate the length and color of my locks.

Half Fely actresses, it seemed, were in short supply.

“Oh, Your Highness!”

She smiled.

She pointed to the embroidered name.

“You, of course.”

“I thought the play was a Primeval Family myth.”

“It was until this morning.

Prince Aeric brought us a new script and costumes.

I don’t mean to be dramatic, but it’s had me in a frenzy all day.

I was set to play the Daughter, and now, suddenly, I’m playing you. By Family fortune, we mostly only have to pantomime actions.”

“I see.

Here, come with me.”

Desperately, I hurried her into the closet that had been Yorick’s room.

The emptiness of it made my heart hurt.

I could almost see how it had once been, so carefully decorated and cozy.

His deception still stung, but as I thought of him drowning in the fountain, I wished someone would’ve helped him. Just as I was alone, he’d been as well.

“Prince Aeric has made yet another change,”

I said.

“He wants me to play myself.”

“What?”

The girl threw her hands in the air.

“After all my preparation?”

“Well …”

I hesitated.

“I thought you only received the new part a few hours ago, and there are hardly any lines.”

“True, but I’ve already channeled you, and it took a great amount of emotional energy.”

“There’s no time.

Quick, we’ll switch outfits.”

The actress sighed dramatically.

“Very well, but I still better be paid.”

Hastily, I slipped into the costume.

It was a cheap mockery of the real one, quickly sewn with slits of different heights and ties instead of fasteners.

Yorick’s black jester’s cape still hung from the hook.

I picked it up and wrapped it around myself. I let out a little sigh of relief. Now, there was no actress to portray me in the play, and if I was lucky, my ally turned foe Prince Lambert would be exposed, and Aeric would order him to be arrested. I’d poison Aeric tonight and return home as soon as possible, hoping I might avoid whatever Inessa had planned by making sure I didn’t say a roundabout invocation. Acus would be left in chaos while the next heir to the throne was determined, but all that mattered was that I did my duty, protected Radix, and ensured I pleased Father.

I had to be strong for only a little bit longer.

Holding Yorick’s cloak closed, I climbed the four stairs to the royal box.

It was quite close to the stage and about six feet from the ground, giving a level view of the theater.

Attendants extinguished the candles, and white tendrils of smoke curled through the air.

Instruments began humming discordantly as the musicians tuned them for the performance. The sound was as eerie as a moonmirror wail.

I settled next to Aeric, swathed in Yorick’s cape.

Aeric frowned as I settled next to him.

Leaning over, he said.

“You must be very cold.”

“Practically freezing.”

The curtain parted.

The stage was revealed like an opening eye.

Crimson silk flowers attached to actual branches wreathed the set, surrounding the memory garden tableau.

The backdrop depicted a blue sky with fluffy white clouds, but the undersides were gently streaked with red, as though they bled.

The actors dressed as flowers ran out, bobbling comedically about the stage, drawing laughs at their antics.

An actor wearing a crown sat on the bench.

He lifted a hand to his chin, attempting to pantomime a man lost in thought.

Another actor, dressed in Prince Lambert’s costume, approached from behind.

An exaggerated, maniacal smile was on his lips, and he tiptoed toward the unsuspecting king. A twitter ran through the audience as they read Prince Lambert’s name embroidered on the costume. I watched the ridiculous portrayal, its overdramatization more bizarre because I knew it had really happened. If Inessa was right, King Claudius had sat in the garden surrounded by the graves of his children as Prince Lambert crept near, armed with moonrain provided by Father. I thought I should look at Prince Lambert to see his reaction as his crime lived once again on the stage. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t drag my eyes from the stage.

The prince reached the king and lifted a vial almost-comically labeled POISON into the air.

Heads turned, the court looking from the stage to the royal box, faces morphing as they realized they had seen an accusation.

Some sobered, some gasped, some looked excited.

“What is this?”

Prince Lambert hissed.

His hand went to the hilt of his sword.

“Why is my name sewn onto the costume? Nephew.

What troubles do you stir with this nonsense? This is a fantasy. A farce.”

“Oh, it isn’t finished.

Sit down, Uncle.”

Aeric leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms behind his head.

Leisurely, he lifted his legs onto the rail and removed his crown.

He turned it over in his hands, as though bored.

Then his attention turned to me.

“There is still yet another part.”

The set changed.

A bed was brought out with a crown attached to the headboard, signifying it was the king’s bed.

Sweat collected in every hollow of my body, in the lower slope of my back, in the dip at the base of my skull.

With flourish, an actor dressed as Aeric threw himself into the bed and propped himself up to pose promiscuously. Nervous laughs punctuated the theater. The actor patted the spot next to him. I knew what it was supposed to be. My and Aeric’s wedding night. The actor frowned and glanced backstage, waiting. No one else stepped onto the stage. Fumbling, the actor began to monologue about how much he loved his new bride. Then he gave it up entirely and started a spontaneous piece inspired by his own life as a poor theater child.

Aeric sat up.

His hand reached toward me.

I cringed back in my chair.

Gripping the hem of Yorick’s cloak, he flipped it back. Cheap red fabric flashed beneath the black folds. A harsh, mirthless laugh left Aeric’s throat.

Leaning forward, he whispered in my ear.

“You’ve ruined my play.”

“Did I?”

I blinked innocently back at him, even as terror tightened my throat.

“But my darlingest dear, isn’t this dress mine?”

Another bitter laugh rent from Aeric.

Gently, he replaced the fold of the cloak so the red dress was obscured.

Then he set his crown on my lap, just as he had the tin crown.

It was heavy on my knees. Involuntarily, I gripped it with both hands so it wouldn’t slip to the ground.

“I think I like you better in green.”

It was all he said.

Then he surged to his feet.

Immediately, I drew Yorick’s cloak over my nose and mouth.

Father, noticing, followed suit with his sleeve. In one smooth motion, Aeric lifted the mask from the grave flower Oscura stall from under his chair, along with a glass orb. He slipped the mask over his head and pushed a lever atop the orb. It deployed liquid straight into Prince Lambert’s face. With a howl of rage, Prince Lambert jumped to his feet. He reached for his sword.

Then he blinked.

“What is this?”

Prince Lambert asked.

He pawed at his face.

Mad minds.

Aeric must have their liquid inside the orb. The scent was weak, and it didn’t seem exceptionally potent—if it’d been from the mad minds in our garden back home, everyone in the box would’ve been afflicted. In fact, it was probably what Aeric was counting on. That I, Prince Lambert, and even Father would breathe in the nectar vapor and begin tattling on ourselves, while he was protected by the mask.

But, since Father and I had protected ourselves, it was just enough to work on Prince Lambert.

His eyelids and lips swelled.

Seeing his reaction made my own eyes and lips sting.

I felt as though I were the one with the burning spreading to my brain, tearing out my closest held secrets, and forcing them to my tongue.

Madly, Prince Lambert stumbled forward.

He tripped and tumbled over the edge of the royal box, landing heavily below.

He pushed himself up and staggered unsteadily to the stage, as though he might enter the tableau.

The court murmured. Several nobles hurried forward to pull him back. The ring of metal against metal resounded as he drew his sword, swinging it wildly to keep them away.

The actors fled the stage as Prince Lambert flopped inelegantly onto it.

He lurched around the set.

Clear liquid seeped from his eyes, and he blinked rapidly.

The swelling around his lips intensified, and they began to move as though of their own accord.

“I slipped the poison in my brother’s ear as he slumbered on the bench.”

Prince Lambert’s voice didn’t sound like his.

It was several octaves higher, nasally, strange.

“I did, I did, I did.

It went in so easily, like a breeze or a bee or a whisper.

I tried to wake him.

I shook him. I wanted him to look me in his eyes as he died. But he never woke. From sleep to death. Or maybe this is death, and he went from sleep to life and I did it, I did it, I did it.”

Nimbly, Aeric stepped up onto the royal box’s rail.

He walked its length and jumped down.

He ascended the stage, his own sword suddenly in his hand.

Gasps and cries ran through the court.

“Your Highness”—the Head General surged forward—“say the word, and he shall be arrested.”

With a lazy toss of his hand, Aeric waved him off.

I knew this was inevitability finally tipping into fate.

One would emerge king.

The other would be dead.