Levana would not be the one to disrupt those values now, no matter how much it irked her to know that silly, vapid Channary would spend more time batting her lashes at handsome servants than discussing the economic difficulties facing their country.
But Levana was only fifteen years old, as she was so often reminded, so what did she know about it?
Nothing at all, is what Channary would say, or any one of the thaumaturges who were preparing to swear fealty to her. Their bias seemed to ignore the laws, that Lunar royalty could rule as young as thirteen, with or without the advice of a council.
Levana stood on the third-level balcony, staring down into the great hall where the funeral had been, where her sister had sobbed until she could hardly breathe and then fainted, or pretended to faint, and was carried away by—of all the guards—Evret Hayle, who was standing nearby when it happened. Where Levana had been left alone to blunder through an unprepared speech of lies and fake tears.
The grays were gone now, replaced with the official colors of Luna—white, red, and black. An enormous tapestry hung on the wall behind the dais, depicting the Lunar insignia in shimmering, handwoven threads, a design that had originated back when Luna was a republic. It depicted Luna and the capital city of Artemisia in the foreground, with Earth—once their ally—in the distance. It was a majestic piece, but it was impossible for Levana not to think that it would have been even more stunning had it been made by the fingers of Solstice Hayle.
Though countless servants were toiling away in preparation for the ceremony, and her sister was no doubt being fitted into her gown at that moment, Levana was glad for the temporary serenity in the empty hall.
She had selected a simple sapphire-blue dress to match the gloves delivered to her chambers that morning. They arrived in a white box, wrapped in crisp tissue paper and accompanied by a little note from Solstice, which Levana had thrown away without reading.
The gloves were even more beautiful in the daylight that poured through the palace windows, and the embroidery was more delicate and exquisite than she’d imagined. The threads began with flourishing Ls placed covertly on her palms, before curling around her forearms and past her elbows like living vines that then blended perfectly with the chains that continued on to her neck.
She almost felt like a queen standing there, and she couldn’t keep away a fantasy that she was the one being crowned that day. She hadn’t yet decided on an acceptable glamour for the occasion, so in that moment, she became her sister. Twenty-two years old, mature and elegant, with those ever-smiling eyes.
But no. She didn’t want to be Channary. She didn’t want her beauty, not if it came with her cruelty and selfishness as well.
No sooner had she thought it than another woman flashed through her thoughts.
I do not believe you have ever met my wife.
Trying on the glamour of Solstice Hayle felt like something taboo and reprehensible, and strangely right in the very wrongness of it. Levana thought of her flawless complexion and the ringlets of dark hair draped over her shoulders, of her almond-shaped eyes and the way her lips had a just-kissed hint of rouge to them, though the idea that the redness was caused by a kiss was quite possibly a product of Levana’s own envy. She thought of Solstice’s thick, flirtatious eyelashes, and how she had seemed to glow with happiness, even on a day of mourning. She thought of Solstice’s stomach, plump and round with the promise of a child.
Evret’s child.
Levana settled a hand on her own stomach, incorporating the pregnancy into the glamour. What must that feel like, to have a living creature growing inside her? A child created by love, not political advantage or manipulation.
“Levana, are you up—”
Gasping, Levana spun around as Channary crested the top of the staircase. Her sister saw her and paused. “Oh, you’re not…”
Channary hesitated, her eyes narrowing. It was an expression that Levana had seen a thousand times. No matter how confident she was becoming in her glamours, Channary always saw through them. She would never explain what Levana was giving away, whether it was the way she held herself or a particular expression or some other tell, like a gambler’s tick. But Channary had a special knack for discovering it.
Sensing that Channary hadn’t yet made up her mind about the pregnant woman loitering on the great hall’s upper balcony, Levana dipped into a humble curtsy.
“I do beg your pardon, Your Highness,” she said in her meekest voice. “I should not be up here. I was only waiting for my husband to get off duty and thought I would come to admire the decorations.”
Thinking she had already said more than a real seamstress would, Levana curtsied again. “May I take my leave of you, Your Highness?”
“Yes,” said Channary, still hesitant, “and don’t let me catch you up here again. This isn’t a playground for the desperately bored. If you need something useful to occupy your time while you’re”—she gestured at Levana’s stomach—“reproducing, I’m sure my lady’s maid can find something for you to do. There will be no idleness under my rule, not even for women of your condition.”
“Of course, Your Highness.” Keeping her head bowed, Levana ducked around her sister and darted toward the steps.
“One more thing.”
She froze, a mere three steps lower than where Channary stood, and dared not meet her gaze.
“You are Sir Hayle’s wife, aren’t you?”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
She heard a soft footstep, and another, as Channary came to stand on the step above her. Curious, Levana dared to glance upward, regretting it the moment she saw Channary’s smirk.
“Do tell him how much I enjoyed our time together after the funeral,” said Channary, her voice lilting over the words like a stream bubbling over worn stones. “He was such a comfort to me, and I hope we can enjoy each other’s company again soon.” Her tongue darted through the corner of her mouth as she admired the fake pregnancy bump. “You are a very lucky woman, Mrs. Hayle.”
Levana’s jaw fell, horror and indignation filling her head as quickly as hot blood rushed to her face. “You’re lying!”
Channary’s insinuating look turned immediately to arrogance. “It is you!” she said, laughing delightedly. “What in the name of Luna are you doing impersonating a guard’s wife? And a pregnant one at that!”
Balling her hands into fists, Levana turned and marched down the steps. “I’m only practicing!” she called over her shoulder.
“Practicing your glamour?” Channary said, traipsing after her. “Or practicing for a life of eternal loneliness? You must know you’re not going to catch the eye of anyone in court by prancing around as a poor, pregnant woman. Or—oh!” Faking a gasp, Channary clapped a hand over her mouth. “Are you hoping that Sir Hayle himself sees you like this? Do you have fantasies of him mistaking you for his beloved? Swooping you into his arms, kissing you breathless, perhaps even … reenacting what led to your present condition?”
Smothering her embarrassment, Levana kept a firm hold on the glamour of Solstice Hayle, in part for the principle of it. Channary thought that if she taunted Levana enough, she could control her decisions, and Levana refused to let that be true.
“Stop it,” she seethed, arriving at the first landing. She rounded a carved column to continue down to the ground floor, her hand rested on her stomach like a real pregnant woman might do. “You’re only jealous because you never have any originality with your—”
She froze halfway down the steps.
Two guards stood at attention on the lower landing.
One of them was Evret Hayle.
A shudder pulsed through her, from her very empty womb up through her chest and vibrating down through her gloved fingertips.
Despite all his training, Evret was failing at keeping his expression stoic and disinterested. He gaped at Levana—Solstice—and he tried so very, very hard to look professional, but it was conflicted and confused.
“Solstice?” h
e stammered, brow furrowed as he took in the beautiful blue dress that pulled tight over her stomach, the elaborately embroidered gloves that he’d no doubt seen his wife working on the evening before. “You’re supposed to be resting. What are you doing here?”
Levana gulped and wished and wished and wished that she were truly his beloved.
“Oops,” said Channary. “I guess I should have told you he was down here. Completely slipped my mind.” She drifted down the steps until she was standing beside Levana and placed a hand on Levana’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, you silly man. This is my baby sister, only pretending to be your wife.” She dropped her voice into an exuberant whisper. “Between you and me, I think she might have a bit of a crush on you. Isn’t that just darling?”
Levana felt a sob in the base of her throat, clawing to get out, and knew it would succeed if she stood there a moment longer. She tried to figure out what was the worst part of this moment. That Evret had seen her impersonating his wife, or that he might have heard Channary’s accusations.
She decided it was all mortifying. She decided she would rather have been stabbed sixteen times in the chest than have to live through this one excruciating moment.
Shoving Channary away, she hid her face—her beautiful, flawless, beloved face—and ran from the hall. Ran as fast as she could, ignoring the protective guards that hastened to keep up with her, ignoring the servants that threw themselves against walls to be out of her way.
She started ripping off the gloves the second she reached her private chambers. One of the chains snapped. The hem on the other glove ripped. She unclasped the gold-braided necklace, nearly choking herself in her need to get it off.
The dress was next, and she didn’t care if she shredded it. She wanted to ruin it. Soon, the gown and the gloves were wadded into a tight ball and thrust into the corner of her wardrobe, and she knew she would never put them on again.
She was so stupid. Such a stupid, stupid girl.
For ever thinking she could be admired. For ever thinking she could be beautiful, or adored, or noticed. For ever thinking she could be anything at all.
* * *
Levana attended the coronation ceremony in head-to-toe white, under the guise of a waxen-haired princess with skin so pale as to be almost invisible, her faded glamour hiding the tracks of her tears.
She sat in the front row and praised her sister when the rest of the gathered Lunars praised her, and knelt when the rest of Luna knelt, and bowed her head with all the others. She refused to look at Channary, not even when the crown was placed on her head or when she took the scepter in her hand or the great white cloak was draped over her shoulders. Not when she drank the blood of her people from a golden chalice or when she cut open her fingertip and let her own blood splatter into an ornate marble bowl or when she spoke the vows that Levana knew Channary would never take to heart.
She also did not look at Evret, though he was on duty and stood directly within her line of sight throughout the proceedings.
Levana was a statue. A girl carved of regolith and dust.
She hated her sister, now her queen. Her sister did not deserve the throne. She would squander every opportunity she had to make a great ruler. To increase the economic potential of Luna. To continue the research and technological advancements that their ancestors had begun. To make Artemisia the most beautiful and enviable city in the galaxy.
Her sister did not deserve that scepter. That cloak. That crown.
She deserved nothing.
But she would have it all. She and Solstice Hayle and all the families of the court would have everything they ever wanted.
Only Levana—too young and ugly to matter—would go on living in her sister’s shadow until she faded away and everyone forgot that she’d ever been there to begin with.
* * *
She turned sixteen two weeks later. The country celebrated, but on the heels of the week-long party that had come from the coronation, the birthday seemed to dissolve into just one more day of royal shenanigans. An illusionist was hired to perform at the feast, and he awed the court’s families with feats of magic and wonderment, and the partygoers were more than willing to be taken with his pretend fancies.
Levana attended her own birthday celebration as the pale, invisible girl. She sat at the head table beside her beautiful sister and pretended not to notice how the illusionist turned a tablecloth into a lion and a lady’s handkerchief into a rabbit, and the crowd oohed and aahed and placed jovial bets as the lion chased the rabbit under tables and around their ankles. Then the pretend rabbit hopped up into the queen’s lap, who giggled and went to stroke the long floppy ears, and the creature vanished. The napkin, still held in the illusionist’s hand, was nothing but a napkin.
The lion bowed to the queen, before he, too, disappeared. A tablecloth untouched.
The crowd was in fits, applauding and laughing.
No one seemed to care that every illusion had been centered before the queen, not the birthday girl.
After a series of flourishing bows, the illusionist took a tapered candle from one of the tables and blew it out. The crowd fell silent. Levana sensed that she was the only person who didn’t lean forward in curiosity.
He let the black smoke curl naturally for a moment, before arranging it into a pair of entangled lovers. Two naked bodies, writhing against each other.
The show of debauchery received boisterous laughter from the families, and flirtatious smiles from the queen.
It was easy to tell who would be warming her sister’s bed that night.
For her part, Levana could feel the heat burning in her cheeks, though she hid her mortification behind the pale-faced glamour. Not that such entertainment was anything shocking, but while the illusion persisted, she could feel Evret’s presence in the room like a gravitational pull. The knowledge that he was seeing the same suggestive show, listening to the same bawdy laughter, possibly thinking of his own relations with his wife, made Levana feel as pathetic and insignificant as a crumb off her own cake.
She had not spoken to Evret since he witnessed her impersonating Solstice, which was not altogether unusual—they had shared more words at the funeral than in the entire time she’d known him. But she couldn’t shake away the suspicion that he was avoiding her, perhaps as much as she was avoiding him.
Levana assumed he must still be mortified, both at her glamour and at Channary’s accusations. But she couldn’t avoid a fantasy that maybe he was also flattered. Maybe he had begun to notice how his heart fluttered extra fast when he saw her. Maybe he was regretting marriage, or realizing that marriage was as silly a convention as many of the court families believed it to be, and that he loved her … he had always loved her, but now he didn’t know what to do with those emotions.
It was a very complex fantasy, which frequently left her even more depressed than she’d been before.
The smoke charade faded away to loud cheers, and the illusionist had not finished his bow before every candle flame on the head table exploded.
Levana screamed, tipping backward so fast that her chair crashed to the floor, bringing her with it. Though the flames continued to roar above her, bright and flickering, she realized after a terrified moment that there was no heat coming from them. Neither the threatening pulse of fire nor the smell of charred flesh followed.
No one else had screamed.
No one else had tried to get away.
Now, everyone was laughing.
Trembling, Levana accepted the hand of one of the royal guards—they alone were not showing their amusement. Her chair was righted, and she settled self-consciously back onto it.
The flames continued to burn, every one of them now as tall as a person, and with her terror waning, Levana was able to discern that this was just another illusion. Hovering over the table of wine goblets and half-finished plates was a line of fiery dancers, twirling and leaping from candlestick to candlestick.
Channary was laughing harder than all t
he others. “Whatever is the matter, baby sister?” Come here, baby sister. “You can’t possibly be afraid of a silly little trick.” I want to show you something.
Levana found that she couldn’t respond. Her heart was still thumping wildly, and her distrustful gaze was still fixed on the flame-dancers. Their existence, even if only a mental trick created by manipulating her own bioelectricity, made it impossible for her to relax. She could not tear her attention from them. Which was fine. She didn’t wish to see the mocking expressions around her. Hearing the laughter was bad enough.
She was only grateful that she’d had enough practice with the glamour of the invisible girl that she hadn’t lost her control.
“Is the princess afraid of fire?” asked the illusionist. Though he didn’t stop the illusion, the dancers did stop jumping, instead content to twirl slowly upon each candlewick. “I apologize, Your Highness. I did not know.”
“Don’t worry about her,” said Channary, holding a hand toward one of the dancers. “We cannot let her childish fears ruin our fun.”
“Ah—do be careful, Your Majesty. The fire underneath is still very real.” To prove his point, the illusionist sent the nearest dancer stepping down off her candle and into Channary’s palm, leaving the very real flame still flickering behind. Again, the crowd oohed its pleasure, and again Levana was forgotten.
Don’t worry about her.
It was only her birthday, after all. This was only her party.
The performance ended with all of the dancers turning into old-fashioned rocket ships that blasted upward and exploded into fireworks.