Page 43 of Skysong

By the time Oriane was dressed, she had finished the first slice of bread and then another, and she had to admit that Andala was right; it had made her feel the slightest fraction better. She reached for the glass as Andala finished pinning her hair atop her head. A heady scent drifted up towards her. She breathed in and a faint burning sensation flowed through her nose, down her throat. Whatever the drink was, it was strong.

‘You’re ready,’ Andala said. She spun Oriane gently by the shoulders so that they faced one another, and for a moment she simply stared.

Was she displeased with her own handiwork? Did she think Oriane looked foolish? Like the simple, sheltered, grieving girl from the woods she really was, instead of the skylark, the goddess they expected her to be? Oriane could not tell from her expression.

At last, Andala cleared her throat. ‘I’ll fetch a mirror so you can see.’

Oriane did not want to see. But Andala had retrieved a full-length mirror from some corner of the chambers and set it in front of her before she could protest.

It was like looking at an oddly familiar stranger, as if some artist had taken all the components of Oriane and rearranged them,151somehow, into the shape of someone divine. She still did not feel like anyone particularly special – not even after sharing her gift to such rapturous reception, or hearing herself calledgoddess. But the woman in the mirror … It was easy to believeshewas special. The sun-gold dress was draped around her body in gossamer veils, bright as day against the light brown of her skin. Her hair was pinned elegantly off her neck, a curl or two falling free here and there, and Andala had painted a faint strip of gold across her eyes and up her temples, as if she peered out from behind a sheer, shimmering blindfold.

The only thing that made Oriane sure she was looking at herself was the eyes themselves. No cosmetic could mask the depth of grief they housed. No, those were her eyes – her father’s eyes – and for all she looked the part of the Messenger of Day, she was still just Oriane: a girl who had lost her family, and every remnant of the life she once knew.

She suddenly remembered the glass in her hand. Ignoring Andala’s protest, she raised it to her lips and drained it in one draught. The liquid burned as it went down – but fire was supposed to be cleansing, was it not? Where was it she had learned that – some volume from her library in the cottage, now reduced to ash itself? Oriane couldn’t remember. But it did not matter, because the drink was making its way through her blood and to her brain, and as it did, the first sensation of calm she had felt in days descended over her. It was a dizzy sort of calm, a spinning lightheadedness that made her feel simultaneously unbalanced and settled.

She glanced back at herself in the mirror. Andala was standing behind her, her look of concern reflected over Oriane’s shoulder. For the first time, Oriane noticed that Andala was dressed specially for the solstice ball, too. Gone was her usual maid’s uniform, and in its place a long-sleeved, high-necked evening gown of deep blue-black152silk. It was not as fine or intricate as Oriane’s, but the beauty of it on Andala’s body, its stark contrast against her skin, made Oriane’s heart skip in her chest. A side effect of the drink, perhaps.

Andala noticed Oriane’s eyes on her gown in the mirror, and a faint blush spread to her pale cheeks. ‘It isn’t mine,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I had to borrow it from the princess’s lady’s maid. I don’t … I’ve never been to one of these events before.’

Andala didn’t usually talk this much. Had she had some of the amber liquid, too? Was she feeling vaguely untethered, as Oriane was?

‘I know next to nothing about you. About why you ended up here – at the palace,’ Oriane said aloud, before she could stop herself. Because it was true: apart from that day in the city, she had never asked Andala about herself. She had been too self-absorbed.

Andala looked back at her, seeming to consider whether she should answer or not. As always, her expression was inscrutable, the barest hint of some inner struggle raging beneath the composed surface.

‘Please,’ Oriane murmured.

At the word, Andala nodded. She moved to the window, staring out at the gardens below, all lit up in readiness for the ball. Oriane followed.

Andala was quiet for such a long time that Oriane wondered whether she had changed her mind about sharing. Finally, she looked back at Oriane.

‘I was married,’ she said abruptly. ‘For a short time. It did not end happily. My husband and I parted ways, and I came to the city in search of employment. I was lucky enough to find work here, as a kitchen hand at first.’

Husband. Oriane was not sure why, out of everything Andala had just told her, that word stood out. It gave her an odd feeling, to know Andala had been married.153

‘You were a kitchen hand,’ she blurted. She had to say something in reply, and for some reason her brain had seized upon that. ‘Do you … do you miss it? Working with other people, rather than being stuck up here with me?’

Andala gave her a small, strangely sad smile as she replied. ‘Not in the slightest. It was an honour to be assigned to tend the skylark herself.’

There was no mocking tone to the words. Andala’s eyes locked with Oriane’s for a quiet moment. Oriane was not sure what she saw there. But before she could open her mouth to ask any more questions, Andala turned away, smoothing down her skirts.

‘It’s almost time. We should be getting down to the ballroom.’

Oriane followed numbly as Andala led them through the corridors and down to where the ball was taking place. The palace had been transformed. Little golden lamps dotted each walkway and surface with light, making a constellation of every hallway. Flowers from the gardens scented the air at every corner. There were no people, though, which Oriane found strange. It was like walking through a dreamscape. The empty, glittering halls, the sweet scent of summer roses, the pleasant heat that still traced its way through her veins … Oriane could almost forget where she was, why she was here. What had happened only a week ago today.

As they reached the ballroom, instead of proceeding through the doors, Andala veered off towards a discreet servants’ entrance, which must have led into the great room unseen. Oriane stopped short, the dreamlike state evaporating.

‘Where are we going?’

Once more, Andala looked uncomfortable. ‘He … The king wants you to make an entrance.’

The words put a sick, sour taste in her mouth. Of course. She was to be the centrepiece of the celebration, after all. It made sense that154Tomas would want to wheel her out at the perfect moment, like a decorated cake.

Andala led her through the door and into a dim passageway. The sounds of a crowd, which had been distant and muffled before, grew steadily louder as they came to another door, which undoubtedly led into the ballroom. Oriane’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. She swallowed hard, trying to force her heart back down her throat. Her breathing grew faster, more ragged. She could not do this, not now—

A hand slipped into hers and squeezed it. The touch was brief, there and gone in a heartbeat, and the fingers were cold against her own, but it was grounding all the same. Oriane turned her head. Andala was there, not looking at her, but at the door in front of them.

‘The king will come and fetch you in a moment,’ she murmured. ‘You can do this. I’ll be there. Kitt too. It will all be over soon.’

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