“Last week, Deiphobos and Edwin talked to Father about you,” she said, leaning against one of the bedposts. “Are you sure you aren’t interested? Because Edwin made all that money when he ran away to sea, and Deiphobos was the best in his class at the Lyceum, and they’re both very handsome.”
I sighed as I sorted through the embroidered ribbons that we would tie into our hair for good luck. “Not you too. I’ll be married to Tom-a-Lone, remember?”
“Or if you can’t make up your mind, maybe you could have them both. Don’t the hedge-gods have a ceremony for that?”
“Astraia!”
“Oh, I forgot, you can’t marry either of them because you promised to wait for your prince.”
“I was seven,” I muttered, starting to tie ribbons into my hair. Astraia grinned as she moved to help.
“He’ll hug you and kiss you and be your light in the darkness—”
The teasing was nothing new, but the word darkness sent a shudder across my skin and I slammed my palms onto the table, rattling the comb and the little jars. “Shut up, you little toad!”
That got a shocked silence out of her: we’d fought when we were younger, but I hadn’t raised my voice against her in years.
“Sorry,” I muttered.
She rolled her eyes and kissed my cheek. “You wouldn’t be my sister if you didn’t have a little poison on your tongue.”
I met her eyes in the mirror. “And you wouldn’t be my sister if you didn’t have a little poison hidden in your heart. Whatever did you do to get Lily Martin out of the village?”
Lily Martin was the miller’s daughter, cow-eyed and buxom and by all accounts no better than she should be. Certainly she had tried her best to seduce Adamastos before she went on a very sudden trip to visit her relatives.
Astraia giggled. “I only wrote to her aunt that her stepbrother was spending an odd amount of time with her, and since her aunt is dirty-minded like all old relatives, she decided it was her duty to save Lily from his twisted passion.”
“Does Adamastos know he’s getting such a devious wife?” I asked.
“Oh, he knows what’s good for him.” Astraia’s smile was secretive and highly satisfied.
I snorted but said nothing. Adamastos was a quiet, kind boy who seemed more than a little afraid of Astraia—but he kept coming back to court her, and I supposed at this point he must know what he was getting into.
Outside the window, a bird sang loudly. The notes were sweet, but suddenly I wanted to scream, or cry, or break something.
I took a deep breath and forced myself to relax. This was not a time to lose myself in one of my moods. I had a sister to save.
The thought felt familiar. I didn’t know why.
When we came downstairs—both of us wearing red silk, Astraia also veiled in red gauze—Father and Aunt Telomache were waiting for us. Father looked remote as usual, but he had an arm laid gently over Aunt Telomache’s shoulder.
“You both look lovely,” said Aunt Telomache.
“You can’t see me,” said Astraia, and I took the opportunity to pull the veil off her head. She giggled and shot me a triumphant look before bounding forward to hug Father, who pulled her to his chest with a sigh.
“Very lovely,” he said, and dropped a kiss onto the top of her head. Then he looked over her at me. “Nyx, I spoke with your tutor today. I asked him to write you a letter of recommendation for the Lyceum, and he said yes.”
I nodded, gripping the veil and pressing my lips into a firm line, though I wanted to dance around the room. “Thank you, Father,” I said.
Father smiled and kissed Astraia’s head again. He would never dote on me the way he did on her, but he took pride in me as he never did in her. The knowledge still rankled sometimes, but I had mostly made my peace with it.
“We must be going,” I said. Father released Astraia and she briefly submitted to being kissed by Aunt Telomache before skipping back to my side.
We stepped outside together, hand in hand. The sun had just gone down; a little light clung to the sky, but the stars had already begun to glitter.
Like the eyes of all the gods, I thought, and tried to remember where I had read that phrase. An old poem, perhaps.
Astraia tugged on my hand. “You’ve seen the stars before.”
“I know,” I muttered, following her slowly.
She grinned at me over her shoulder. “Or were you admiring your true love’s home?”
I hadn’t even thought of the castle, but now that she said the words, I couldn’t help glancing to the east, where high above on the hilltop the ruins of the old castle were still visible as silhouettes against the darkening sky.
Nobody had ever tried to rebuild the home of the ancient kings after they were destroyed in a single night. The records of those days were nearly lost, but the legends went like this: nine hundred years ago, Arcadia was ruled by a line of wise and just kings, who defended the land with their Hermetic arts. But then one night, as the king lay dying, doom came upon them: some curse or monster—the legends differed on exactly what—destroyed the entire castle and would have destroyed all Arcadia, except that the Last Prince offered himself to the Kindly Ones. This is the bargain he struck: so long as he is bound to the castle as a ghost, whatever evil destroyed it is bound there too. So the castle can never be rebuilt and the line of kings is ended forever, but Arcadia will always be safe.
The stories always ended thus: sometimes at midnight, the Last Prince walks the ruins. If you see him and you call out his name—Marcus Valerius Lux—then he will turn and speak with you, for he wants to know if his people are safe. But he must always vanish with the dawn.
I first heard the story when I was seven years old, and I spent the whole day sobbing before I declared that I would find and marry him. For years after, I was forever sneaking away to the castle to play among the fallen stones. I chanted his name, half- longing and half-afraid, wondering what it would be like to meet him. Until one night I stole a Hermetic lamp and Father’s pocket watch, and after Aunt Telomache tucked me into bed, I slipped away to the castle. I sat on a stone, shivering despite my coat, until the pocket watch said midnight.
But when I called his name, nobody answered. That was when I realized how foolish it was to think myself in love with a legend. I cried and went home, and I avoided the castle forever after.
The village’s main square was lit with a blaze of torches and hung with garlands of ivy and sheaves of wheat—the emblems of Tom-a-Lone and Brigit. A great bonfire crackled high in the center, while to the left were the smaller cooking fires where two lambs roasted over spits and a great pot of the traditional chestnut soup bubbled. The rich, spicy scents floated on the air and tangled with the noise of the practicing fiddlers—and the dull roar of chatter, for half the village was in the square. Most were seated already at the tables that ringed the bonfire, but some of the women still bustled about making preparations, while children skipped underfoot. All of them, young and old alike, had ribbons tied to their wrists and arms and hair, just like Tom-a-Lone.