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They silently return to their design orientation, and every once in a while Iriset allows her elbow or hand or the end of her mask to drift against ans, so that an will forget she’d been so bold.

The very next day, Singix of the Beautiful Twilight arrives.

The late morning veils itself with sheer clouds that do nothing to cut the light and heat, but palace architects have prepared for weeks so that force-fans waft gentle breezes up and down the path leading through the quartz yards to the pavilion where His Glory awaits his bride.

Gone is Lyric’s simple priest’s robe, replaced with an elaborate sleeveless robe in deepest red. He wears gilded sandals and golden earrings, his hair loose. He is just as beautiful as the last time Iriset saw him. She feels the ghost of his fingers against her wrist. It’s a problem.

Amaranth wears black and burnished pink, and aside from black eye lines and red lips, her only face paint is a gaping black circle on her forehead, with eight tiny rays also in black added evenly to its circumference: the Moon-Eater’s mouth.

She’s veiled by nothing but her long, waved black hair falling free past her elbows and to the small of her back. Simple, sumptuous, vivid.

The handmaidens wear simpler costumes of cream and pink, all in matching layers and face paint and sheer pink veils for masks. Accessories.

Her Glory grins, bouncing a little on her feet.

Iriset glances at Sidoné, and the body-twin leans close.

“Ama was instrumental in Lyric’s decision to accept this marriage.

She’s been arguing him around to it for years.

It is a triumph for her faction—those who would see the empire expand in new ways. ”

Expanding the empire through marriage and alliance instead of conquest and death seems preferable on the surface, but Iriset knows by now how Sidoné has struggled with the assimilation laws, how so many of the minor rebellions of the past two hundred years have been because of multiple generations of resentment and oppression, not the immediacy of war.

The empire is still the empire, chewing and swallowing.

But Amaranth believes it’s better to kiss than to chew—funny for the mistress of the hungriest god.

It’s all the same to Iriset: being claimed and losing.

When word comes by force-ribbon that the Ceres Remnants retinue has arrived at the quartz yards, Lyric méra Esmail His Glory takes his sister’s hand briefly, then places himself at the fore, stands calmly, chin up, hands relaxed at his sides.

From the pavilion, the quartz yard spreads, veined with straight-edged paths of blindingly white shells.

People of Moonshadow fill the space, miran nearest the center, and line the main road along which Singix Es Sun approaches.

Excitement thrills in the air with ecstatic pops and Iriset feels very alive, and entirely part of the world.

Designers trigger rising force arrays that draw hundreds of flower petals in red, white, fire blue, and sunset orange high to hang in the air, trembling, catching light. They swirl together into shapes over the crowd: massive roses, a burst of fire, a royal griffon that spreads red-petal wings.

In the distance, Iriset sees the first billow of red: Designers line the path with long sheets of thin red cloth.

As Singix approaches, exact forces are applied and the cloths lift into the air one at a time, shaped like holy arches with the point at the apex, creating a tunnel of shade for her; after Singix Es Sun passes they fall, wafting a gentle breeze at her back.

Singix’s arrival is marked by a moon-red, welcoming wave.

Overhead, the floating petals form the Ceres flag: a seven-petaled lily against a deep purple.

The flower is odd-numbered on purpose, for in the islands they worship a multiplicity of gods, not all of which require balance.

Each petal represents a different value: strength, loyalty, family, hierarchy, obedience, courage, and beauty.

As all watch, the center of the lily births a red star with four points: the Vertex Seal.

It doesn’t consume the lily, but joins with it, both turning together and growing larger and larger against the sky. A perfect symbol of the coming union.

Singix walks in on her own, long skirts dragging behind her.

The peacock-blue gown hangs from her shoulders in straight folds, hiding the shape of her body beneath a flattening chest piece that glitters with glass beads, vivid rubies, and aquamarines.

Her cape is just as formless, layers of jeweled fuchsia and pink, too many bold colors.

In a compromise with the traditions of the miran, she holds a square-shaped mask of stretched silk in front of her face with two delicate white hands.

It is sewn with what can only be diamonds, in lines like the sea and clouds.

She’s a fountain of brilliant color, scattered light.

In two columns behind her march soldiers in molded black leather armor, their swords plain steel, and then Ambassador Erxan with seven men and women bearing gifts.

Lyric shifts his weight to one hip, then almost immediately balances himself again: the only sign of anxiety. He’s never met Singix before, though they’ve exchanged a few brief—chaperoned—letters.

Instead of allowing the princess to step up onto the pavilion, Lyric suddenly walks down to meet her. He doesn’t bow but lifts his hands to touch his fingertips to his eyelids in a show of great respect from the Vertex Seal.

Singix’s hands, holding the square of silk, are tattooed in intricate ghost writing, like veins of silver fire barely brighter than her skin, and so perfectly rendered the lines seem to lift out from within her, an expression of her lovely inner design.

They will be the names of all the royal ancestors of the Remnants. Singix lowers the frame.

Iriset gasps quietly. All the various bold colors of Singix’s costume serve only to highlight the princess’s bare face.

Oval, with balanced high cheekbones and a high forehead, her skin is flawless as far as Iriset can see—a smooth, polished pearl, her lips just as pearly but pink, and her large eyes a bright dark brown.

They are flat along the bottom and arched along the lids, with short black lashes and black brows that slice just imperfectly enough to be perfect.

Sleek black hair is pinned away from her face and gathered into a large, soft-looking cloud of small braids and smooth lines at her nape.

The traces of ghost writing at her hairline tease and promise, and Iriset wants to taste them as if they are lines of rising force.

Then Singix Es Sun smiles. Even her smile spreads perfectly, without one corner lifting higher than the other, and the muscles around her eyes fulfill the promise of that smile, transforming her already immaculate features into something holy.

Ecstatic force pings fast in Iriset’s blood; her palms are cold, despite the heat and the sweat beaded along her spine.

“Welcome to Moonshadow,” Lyric says in gently accented formal Ceres. Then in mirané, “Welcome, Glorious Singix.”

As Singix answers in the mirané tongue, “I am so glad to meet you, Lyric Your Glory,” Iriset is relieved to note her voice is as plain as anyone’s.

Lyric turns enough to hold out his hand for Amaranth, who descends for introduction.

At the same time, Erxan walks up through the column of Ceres soldiers and bows, then gives a more elaborate introductory speech relating the poetical biography of Singix Es Sun, Singix of the Beautiful Twilight.

Overhead, the petals draw together to form a fluttering canopy that hardly blocks the heat but creates a dappled shade rather like light through water.

A mystical, dreamlike way for a husband and wife to meet.

The Vertex Seal offers his hand, palm up, and the princess places hers against it; the two ascend to the pavilion and face the crowd spread out across the quartz yard. The sun fully emerges from behind the moon, the architects release their petals, and a lovely rain of flowers drifts down.

Then it’s over.

The royal party removes themselves from the blasting afternoon, Lyric and Singix bidding temporary farewell to each other so that all might rest and prepare again for the evening celebration with only the miran of the council and the palace.

Before the feast begins, Garnet méra Be? arrives to take Iriset to the chambers where Singix will live until her wedding on the afternoon before the Day of the Crowning Sun.

Garnet, too, has changed into his formal uniform, and two force-blades cross over his back in a way designed to accentuate the breadth of his shoulders.

He bows to Iriset, says nothing, and turns to lead her.

Iriset walks closely behind him, recalling the energy of the blade in her hand.

She parts her lips to taste the flavor, but the sheaths are covered in glazed ceramic that dulls—or contains—the force.

Just when they reach the princess’s rooms, Garnet pauses. He glances at her, at the jade cuff, and says nothing. Either he’s begun to trust her or he chooses to pretend for the sake of His Glory and Amaranth. Surely it’s the latter.

“May I attend Her Glory now?” Iriset asks.

Garnet scratches at a line of skin razed clear of beard in a thin repeating star pattern. “You told Lyric not to wear face art.”

She noticed the Vertex Seal only rimmed his eyes in black lines today. “That is not exactly what I said.”

“The opinion of the royal architects should be given more weight than a disgraced daughter of the undermarket.”

Iriset scowls. “It is not my fault he believed me.”

“So long as you stand by your claim,” he says mildly.

“I do.”

Garnet gestures for her to knock. He remains outside as she’s greeted by Ambassador Erxan and pulled into the chamber.

“Here she is, darling,” Erxan says, hand delicate at Iriset’s shoulder blade. His hearty smile shows his teeth, and he smells of sharp rice liqueur.

Iriset catches only a glimpse of diaphanous pale green before touching her eyelids.

“Hello, daughter of Aharté,” Singix Es Sun says in mirané.

“Your Glory.”

“Ceres, Ceres!” says Erxan. “I’ve worked too hard this past season to allow you mirané, sweet Iriset.”

Her eyes snap up at sweet . But the ambassador presses his hand into her shoulder and lets go, pleased and expectant.

Iriset looks to Singix’s perfect face and is startled to realize they’re the same height.

Singix seemed taller in her wafting layers of costume.

Her current pale green dress still hangs shapelessly, hiding her body, but it suggests the elegance of a poplar.

Latched at her collar is a vivid red cape that complements the red glass beads, red embroidery, and jade coating the breast of her gown.

Tucked into her hair is a long comb attached to a small square of stretched silk that rises over her head like a square halo, painted with a sky of sunrise clouds.

Singix smiles, and Iriset begins in Ceres, “We are glad to have a partner for our Vertex Seal.”

“I am glad, as well. Do you…?” She speaks words Iriset hasn’t learned, and Iriset glances to her tutor.

His wince is elaborate, but filled with humor. “If you speak of art, Princess, and the faith of Silence, Iriset’s vocabulary will be better.”

To Iriset’s delight, Singix laughs prettily. “Are we art, Iriset?” she asks, glance flicking between their elaborate costumes, and with a twinkle of irony.

“We are,” Iriset agrees. “But the best art, for we are… we are both art and art-maker.”

“I would like to be maker of myself,” Singix says, or that is how Iriset understands it, and impulsively she reaches for Singix’s hand, thinking how important it is to know one’s own design.