Page 3 of Grave Flowers

A blurry form slipped onto one of the mirrors directly behind Inessa.

I spun around, certain another ghost approached.

“I beg your pardon, Your Highness, I announced myself, but you didn’t seem to hear.”

Helena, one of my ladies-in-waiting, stood near the garden’s entry.

“We need to get you ready for the party.

You’re already late.”

I blinked.

Helena belonged to the world as I’d known it, the one without ghosts and dead sisters and—

I looked around, bewildered.

The grave flowers were back to their normal activities.

They sniped and grumbled and bullied each other as they would on any other day.

The irrigation system coughed up its irregular bursts of water just as before. The bench was empty.

Inessa was gone.

I tried to collect myself, but I still saw her before me, bones writhing against her skin, beseeching eyes upon me.

Had it been a nightmare? Or was I going mad? There was only one acceptable answer: nightmare, because madness in the royal bloodline was a liability.

If discovered, I would be dealt with, either mercifully by being installed in an enclosed holy order or brutally by having a fatal accident.

“Your Highness?”

Helena prompted, waiting.

Whatever had just happened, I must appear nonchalant.

Servants gave the corners and keyholes of the palace eyes and ears.

Every single one reported to Father.

I took a sharp breath and then another, stitching myself back together.

“Of course.

Let’s depart.”

The party was feverish.

Faces spun past, planets in a dizzying orbit revolving around me.

Usually, I was one with the motion.

My heart’s kingdom was the garden, but my official one was the ballroom, where I oversaw the power-hungry courtiers for Father.

Or that had been the case, when everyone assumed Inessa was the heir and I was the second princess who’d one day be married off as a reward to a loyal noble.

At the last party before Inessa’s betrothal announcement, I’d been everywhere and nowhere, drawing gossip and secrets out of the sycophantic partiers in the way a bee draws nectar from a flower to take back to the hive.

I’d known who I was and what future I faced.

And so did everyone else.

But tonight, everything had changed.

Older nobles joined the party for once, a certain sign that they resented the betrothal and wished to evaluate the circumstances—and me.

Almost everyone wore Radixan green and gold.

The musicians, I noted, began the party by playing a traditional folk song, one as old as our kingdom itself.

The message was clear: No one was happy about Acus’s impending involvement in our kingdom.

And, from the wary looks cutting my way, everyone doubted that I, the weaker Sinet twin, could effectively advocate for us once I was queen.

Overwhelm beset me.

Inessa lingered in my mind.

Her face hung between me and the court, making it seem like she, the figment of my mind, was the only real thing and everyone else was made of grim, glowering gossamer.

I pushed to the edge of the party.

Ropes of black and green sea pearls garlanded the ballroom, strung in loops above our heads.

Chandeliers, crafted to be bouquets, twisted beneath the ceiling, which was painted in an expansive scene of sword-wielding armored knights being devoured by ferocious flowers, some of which were transforming into dragons.

The mural was dulled with time and dust, its livid greens and mysterious blacks turned into insipid pastels.

It was old and trenched in cracks from some ruinous event long ago.

The knights’ anguished expressions gave face to my own inner torment.

I stepped around stacks of timber, sacks of plaster, and bales of hay.

Last year, Father had made grand plans of fixing the palace, but we’d run out of money, along with places to store the materials.

A window was open to offset the heat created by so many bodies.

I headed for it.

Tonight, the air was extra heavy with moisture and saline.

I needed its bracing effects.

As I moved, bodies followed, my shadow split into multiples.

Overly sugary voices flooded my ears, and ingratiating smiles, plastered beneath angry eyes, surrounded me.

A bit of it was the same nonsense as always:

“Taffeta, Princess Madalina? I thought you didn’t like taffeta, so I ripped up my taffeta gowns.

Do you like taffeta? Are you going to wear it often now?”

“I pine for you! Your Highness, I know I said the same about your sister, but her betrothal made me realize I truly love you.”

But more sinister sentiments mixed in with them:

“Is the king unwell? No? How odd.

I thought perhaps he might have gout or sweating sickness or some such ailment because he hasn’t met once with his council since announcing the betrothal.

Not once.”

“The treasurer says there’s no coin left.

It’s been spent on building materials, yet crates of nails sit everywhere and not a new shingle has been laid … perhaps all King Sinet cares about is funds from Acus to make his palace grander?”

“I was just telling a terror tale to my daughter at bedtime—oh, what was it? The one about outside monarchs turning into flower nectar if they look at our throne.

Only, I think there’s a terribly charming version where a Radixan king offered to subjugate us for resources during the Second Great Sick, and, well, he dissolved into flower nectar as well.

An interesting twist to the tale, isn’t it? And then there’s the one about the lost flower crown summoning the ghosts of ancient Radixan monarchs to unseat any kings who don’t have Radix’s best interests at heart.

Hmm, I haven’t thought of this before, but perhaps the same might apply to heirs? Especially if they do nothing to stop the threat?”

I tried to outpace the questions, but they pursued me across the ballroom.

Unable to get to the window, I reached for wine.

Three servants surged forward at once, each desperate to be the one to give it to me.

I snatched the nearest goblet. It was a heavy thing crafted from pewter and glass and filled with our signature Radixan wine, which was tangy and sour with a hint of dark floral musk.

Pain struck.

White-hot agony filled my hand.

Its origin was clarified: my scar.

The loud clank of heavy iron striking metal rang out, and fine shards of glass exploded at my feet.

A golden puddle of wine splattered the marble.

“Your Highness! Are you all right?”

“Blood! She’s been cut!”

“Quick—someone tell the king that his new heir is hurt.”

Turning around, I lifted my chin, assuming the Sinet ruthlessness.

My gaze might as well have been a torch.

Those nearest to me stumbled back as though they might be burned.

Terror dashed through their eyes as they snapped their attention to the tips of their shoes and hems of their gowns. Little did they know I was as afraid. Afraid of their discontent and afraid that I might be going mad. I hid my hand in my skirt.

“Who pushed me?”

Silence swept in and spread through the ballroom, a contagion borne on the air.

Those nearest to me inhaled it first.

It passed through the crowd in glares and nudges, spreading onto the dance floor.

Guests jerked to awkward stops midstep, the women’s skirts fluttering as though their dresses still wished to waltz. Lastly, it reached the musicians. Jarring notes of bows scraping off strings and breath turning whistly in flutes rang out and then promptly died. The ballroom was full of people yet empty of sound.

“Someone pushed me and made me drop my wine,”

I declared, trying to buy myself time as I chose a victim.

I needed someone who didn’t have any close ties to the crown, someone others mistrusted and would be happy to see fall from grace.

It was an easy decision.

Baron Breton had nearly stepped on my heel as he’d loomed close, veiling threats in children’s terror tales to express his disapproval. By Family fortune, Father had mentioned a preposterous plan of Baron Breton’s at supper a few months back.

I took a quick breath.

I always had to, before acting like the Sinet princess I was supposed to be.

“I know who it was.

Baron Breton, you mention regaling your daughter with terror tales, which is endearing … except last I was aware, nursemaids facilitate bedtime, not barons.

And I found your choice of terror tale fascinating.

It made me think of one. Once upon a scare, there was a man who asked his king if he might charge tolls from those who used the bridge that barely touches his land. Oh my, come to think of it, that isn’t a terror tale at all, is it? It’s what you asked my father. You proclaim to care so much for Radixan independence, yet you’d impede our own people’s freedom for profit because one support of a common bridge is on the outskirts of your estate.”

Baron Breton shifted uncomfortably.

He glanced around.

Unfriendly stares fenced him in.

He tried an uneasy smile.

“I would never suggest such a thing,”

he said.

“Not when everyone relies on the common bridge.”

“Now you deny my word?”

No matter how many times I made them, accusations never streamed easily from my mouth.

I’d seen the true cost of them too often, epitomized in imprisonments at best and slow walks to the executioner’s block at worst.

“Be aware that I’m speaking as heir to the throne and on behalf of my father, King Sinet.”

“I’d never dare deny Your Highness’s word, but I would never suggest—so, as you say, I did have the passing idea about my bridge—but I—I—”

“Leave.”

I pointed to the entry.

The air crackled with new excitement, chasing out the dread that had hung so heavily only moments ago.

Relief and gleeful satisfaction replaced it as the court reveled in Baron Breton’s disgrace.

“I’m certain few would like to see you at the next party.

Or any thereafter, lest you try to collect a toll from them for being in your presence.”

Baron Breton collected himself and tried to depart as elegantly as possible, but his steps were quick, and his neck was red.

No one noticed my hand hidden in the silk cocoon of my skirt.

I pushed forward through the crowd.

They parted before me, and the sound of the musicians playing at different times shook the discomfort from the room. My girls hurried after me, but I lifted my good hand to stop them.

They knew not to follow.

I made my way into one of the parlors off the ballroom.

Quickly, I lit a candle and placed it in a brass holder in dire need of polishing.

I peered at my hand in its thin, shadowy circle of light.

I gasped.

Pink streaks ran from my scar in jagged bolts. The skin around it was soft and spongy.

Nightmare.

Madness.

Or was there really a ghost?

I pushed farther through the parlor and out onto the balcony.

Wind, wet and full of salt, whipped through the night sky.

It darted by to lick my face and dishevel my hair.

I stared down at the garden, seeking peace from it, even at this height.

At night, it was full of magic.

Moonmirrors lifted their glowing silvery heads to the sky, their large discs projecting light.

The other grave flowers made guttural noises in their sleep.

Their stems and petals were iridescent at night.

Fog rolled about in the wind.

Even more snails glided out at night, along with glittery-eyed bats and neck-twisting owls.

For most, it was disorienting and even frighteningly chaotic, but I loved it.

The scene was almost enough to grant me comfort.

But not quite enough.

If Inessa had appeared to me as a ghost and not a vivid nightmare, then she was dead.

The thought was destabilizing.

I made a fist, turning my hand into ridges of knuckles and a bundle of fingers.

I clenched every finger as though life as I knew it were balled into the center of my fist and I might return to it, if I only held on tight enough.

Notions of Bide descended upon me.

We’d been raised with the concept, told often how the spirits who’d left the Family’s court had set up a screen between our world and the next one to trap human souls with unfinished earthly dealings.

It was even said they tried to lure souls into the net with sweet songs and shining lights.

But once you were there, it was an endless note of static, a place with no light but also no darkness.

No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t imagine Inessa there.

She was so alive to me, so unstoppable that even seeing her as a ghost couldn’t fully convince me.

A faraway clatter cut against the grave flowers’ chorus, coming from the cobblestone road leading to the palace.

It meant you heard people approaching before you saw them: a mixed rattle of jingling harnesses, creaking wheels, and clopping hooves, punctuated by men shouting.

An envoy was coming.

Sweat spread across my palms, moistening my grip on the balcony’s rail.

The envoy crested the cobblestone hill, well lit by mounted lanterns and guards holding torches.

Flickering tongues of fire danced across the red-and-gold Acusan flag.

An envoy coming at this time of night could mean only bad news—Inessa must truly be dead.

The thought burned in my throat, making it feel like I’d drunk poison and couldn’t swallow it down.

Everything was about to change, once again.

I must help Inessa.

She’d said I was the only one who could, and she was my sister and twin.

For the sake of the little girls we’d been, the ones wandering through the palace with dirty faces and messy hair, scampering through the hidden passages together, I’d do what I could to free her.

But how? I tried to think quickly. I needed to ensure Father investigated her death as an assassination so justice might be brought forth and she could find peace, something she’d never had in this miserable world.

Despite my determination, my breath was already weak in my lungs.

I’d never approached Father of my own accord, ever.

For Inessa, though, I would.

I’d failed Mother in the time of her death … I would not fail my family yet again.

Inessa was depending on me, and I’d save her.

STARVELINGS

Grave Flower Experiment Two

Appearance

Black stems and thorns, tallest of all the grave flowers, with some stalks standing seven or eight feet tall.

The flowers, which are purple, seem pointless in comparison to the dramatic thorns.

They are long and curved at the tips and come in sequences of four or five, almost in imitation of human hands.

Small slits that look like tiny mouths cover the stems, but they remained closed.

Behavior without invocation

Insatiable beasties.

All the grave flowers are often thirsty, but the starvelings are also hungry.

They will eat most things yet only desire one: meat.

Whether the prey is animal or human, they love to kill it with their claws. They bury their prey after they’ve killed it and have extensive root systems that devour the remains over time. It seems that they savor it. Oftentimes, they make the sort of low rumbling sound that a stomach does when empty.

Invocation

O Primeval Family,

We are born in hunger.

We live in hunger.

We will die in hunger.

Please, provide us sustenance so we may be satiated—

until we hunger again.

Results

After the invocation was said, the gaps opened in the starvelings’ stems.

They revealed strange, almost-muscular systems and a chamber, most akin to a stomach.

They began grabbing things with their claws and stuffing them inside the gaps.

The gaps stretched, and the stems constricted as they swallowed item after item, not stopping to chew. I assume it was a way for the items to go directly to the root system through the stem.

Complications

They began to consume everything within reach.

Chairs, paintings, prisoners, guards—they even slurped up chains.

By Family fortune, the invocation did not last long, and their strength left and the gaps closed.

We worked long and hard to cut the stalks open. Unfortunately, the prisoners and guards that had been consumed were dead. We were able to retrieve a chair in its whole condition. Though it will need a good cleaning.

Applications

I would love to see them tear through Acus like this! What a sight that would be.

Yet, like the beauties, they don’t respond to direction.

I ordered them.

“Eat only the prisoners”

yet despite my repeated commands, they ate indiscriminately.

They would’ve eaten me too if I hadn’t been observing from the high tower overlooking the courtyard.

I had a sense they might be frightful, so I’d made sure to be far out of reach.

But Primeval pestilence. That was one of my favorite chairs, and now it’s covered in a disgusting goo.