Page 4 of The Gilded Ones

“‘The words of a woman should be as sweet as fruit and honey’,” she reminds Agda. “So sayeth the Infinite Wisdoms.”

Agda bows her head, sheepish. “Yes, Mother,” she replies.

“Besides,” her mother adds, the pity in her eyes at odds with her cheerfully grinning mask, “Deka can’t help that her skin is as dirty as her mother’s was, any more than Elfriede can hide her birthmark. That’s the way they were born, poor things.”

My gratitude curdles to anger, the blood boiling in my veins. Dirty? Poor things? She should just call me impure and be done with it. It’s all I can do to keep my face docile as I walk towards the door, but I somehow manage. “Thank you for your kind words, Mistress Norlim,” I force myself to grit out before I exit.

It takes every last bit of my strength not to slam the door.

Then I’m outside, and I’m inhaling and exhaling rapidly, trying to regain my composure, trying to push back the tears of rage pricking at my eyes. I barely notice Elfriede following behind me.

“Deka?” she asks. “You all right?”

“I’m fine,” I whisper, hugging my cloak closer so she won’t see my tears.

My fury.

It doesn’t matter what Mistress Norlim and the others say, I tell myself silently. I will be pure. Doubts surge, reminding me that I have the same uncanny differences Mother did. I push them away. Mother managed to hide hers until the day she died, and I’ll do the same. All I have to do is make it through the next few hours and I’ll be proven pure.

Then I’ll finally be safe.

I spend the remainder of the morning preparing for the Ritual of Purity: pressing clothes for Father and me and polishing our shoes. I’ve even made a garland of dried flowers for my hair; their bright red colour will contrast nicely against the ceremonial blue of my dress. I’ll be going to the village feast immediately following the Ritual, and I must look my best. This is the first time I’ve ever been invited to a feast, or any other village celebration, for that matter.

To calm my nerves, I concentrate on the gooseberry tarts I’m taking to the feast. I try to make each one as perfect as possible – edges neatly folded, dollops of whipped cream just so – but it’s difficult to do so without a knife. Girls aren’t allowed to be near sharp things from the moment they turn fifteen until the day after they’re proven by the Ritual of Purity. The Infinite Wisdoms forbids it, ensuring that we do not bleed a drop before the Ritual. Girls who injure themselves during their fifteenth year are taken to the temples for cleansing, their families ostracized and shunned, their marriage prospects destroyed. All they can hope is that they heal properly and that they’re proven by the Ritual. Even if it weren’t for that, most men won’t marry girls who have scars, especially ones with scars from their fifteenth year. It’s considered taboo.

“Despised are the marked or scarred, the wounded and the bleeding girls, for they have polluted the temple of the Infinite Father.” These words have been drummed into my head from birth.

If Father had more money, he would have sent me to a House of Purity, to spend the entire year before the Ritual protected from sharp things in its soft, pillowed halls. But only rich girls like Agda can afford Houses of Purity. The rest of us have to make do by avoiding knives.

I’m so deep in thought, I don’t notice Father’s footsteps approaching. “Deka?” he calls. I turn to find him shifting nervously behind me, a box clutched in his hands. He opens it with a hesitant smile. “This is for you,” he says, offering me the embroidered dress inside.

I gasp, tears blurring my eyes. The dress is dyed the deep blue of the Ritual and has tiny golden suns embroidered on the hem, but that’s not the most exciting thing. Peeking out underneath it is a delicate blue half mask with white silk ribbons to tie it on with. It’s finer than anything I’ve ever seen, the craftsmanship light and elegant despite its wooden base.

“How?” I breathe, gathering it to my chest. We don’t have money to spare for new clothes, much less masks. I altered one of Mother’s old dresses for the Ritual.

“Your mother made them for you in secret last year,” he answers, pulling something else from the box.

“Mother’s favourite necklace…” I whisper, a happy sob bursting from my throat when I take in the thin, finely crafted gold chain and the delicate gold sphere hanging from it, that old, familiar symbol emblazoned across it. It almost looks like the kuru, the sacred symbol of the sun, but there’s more to it, another marking so worn I’ve never been able to make it out, not even after all these years. Mother used to wear the necklace every day without fail.

To think that she had all this ready for me so long ago.

My chest feels tight now, and I rub it, trying to soothe away my tears. I miss her so much, miss her voice, her smell, the way she always used to smile whenever she saw me.

I wipe my eyes as I turn to Father.

“She made sure I kept it for you,” Father says. Then he clears his throat, colour rising in his cheeks as he pulls one last thing from the box: a garland of fresh flowers, their bright red shimmering in the light. “The flowers, however, are from me. The merchant told me they were long-lasting.”

“They’re beautiful,” I cry, feeling overwhelmed as I look at him. This is the first time I’ve received so many gifts. “Everything is beautiful. My deepest thanks, Father.”

Father awkwardly pats my back. “Ready yourself, quickly now. Today, you’ll show them you belong.”

“Yes, Father.”

I hurry to do as he says, determination firming inside me. I will show them. I’ll wear my new dress and flowers, and then, once the Ritual has ended, I’ll wear my new mask to match. I’ll wear it so proudly, even Agda won’t be able to deny me.

I grin at the thought.

It’s late afternoon when we reach the temple. The village square is packed by then – well-wishers and curious onlookers jostling for space; girls in their ceremonial blues lined up before the temple steps, their parents on either side of them. Father takes his place beside me just as the drums sound, and we watch as the jatu march solemnly towards the steps in preparation for Elder Durkas’s arrival, their red armour a gleaming counterpoint to the sea of deep-blue dresses, their gnarled war masks glowering in the dull afternoon light. Each mask resembles a terrifying demon face, and can be attached and removed from the helmet with ease.

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