am careful with my arrival back home. A big spectacle in an arrival is something that is more suited to Hagar or Adonai than myself. I don't want my siblings to see me until I appear before them. Each believing I greet them first, before the rest. My siblings like to be the first. Despite my plan though, I am careful of who I actually approach first. I know Pilate is the safest bet, the others I can soothe, tell them Pilate caught me when I was on my way to greet them. But Pilate’s grudge would be too deep pacify.
“Mistress mary quite contrary
How does your garden grow?”
I hum the song quietly below my breath. Only the ‘sss’ manage to hiss through my teeth, but should anyone hear they may better think snake than girl. The servants have taken the bags to my room. I give them each a gift that I have collected while on tour, no two gifts the same. One a strange gold coin, another a strong from my recital costume, and still another a scale that someone told me belonged to a dragon. They were my own presents once, from admirers of the ballet and my role, but I have little room for such petty things. I slip the scale inside his pocket and ask: “Where is Pilate?” With a smile that would look like blood if it were not so camouflaged beneath the red of my skin. “Breakfast, in the dining room.” I blink emerald eyes. “And the rest of my siblings?” His eyes widen. “Their rooms I believe, Ruth collecting medicine, and Hagar in the gardens.” My cheek presses against his own, a silent thank you before going to the dining room. I could use a bit of toast, perhaps a cup of tea. Mama had told me once that a cup of hot tea is one of the best things for a hot day.
Tea, yes I would like a cup of tea, I think.
“Pilate!” I say charmingly as the servant opens the door for me to enter. I race towards him, all vigor and youth that my age permits me to harvest and allows me to display without consequence. I collapse against him for a moment in an embrace that little sisters give their brothers. “Your face is the first I wanted to see, I have missed you most of all, big brother,” I say when I pull away. I kiss his left cheek and then his right before smiling sweetly.
“The heat out there is absolutely dreadful,” I say taking a seat beside him. “I could do with a cup of tea,” I say and as if on cue (because it is so on cue) a servant arrives with cups and the kettle. He pours me a cup, is about to move away before I am able to pause him with just a flick of emerald eyes. “Won’t you indulge me and have a cup as well?” I ask him, peering up from underneath long lashes in a way that makes me look so very small beside him. “Please, you are much better company than my dolls for a tea party,” I say as the cup is poured. I add a just a bit of sugar and stir, all while keeping my gaze directly upon Pilate. “Did you know I no longer take any milk in my tea,” I say looking down at the tea that still swirls. I wait for it to settle. “I learned while away you truly can get by with just a dash of sugar.”
{ @Pilate Delilah "speaks" notes: wow, I hate her :) }
like to say I don’t play favorites. It is always said teasingly, because I think even the average person—stranger or otherwise—plays favorites with their family members; their friends; even their lovers, as time passes. It is a sly admission of guilt, a jest I make to get others to trust me, because why would a prince open himself up to ridicule like that to just anyone? I know it makes them feel special. I know that little laughing confession, coy smile included, softens people’s fears that I am the poison prince, a boy made of magic sand.
But I do play favorites. Obviously.
Delilah sits somewhere toward the top of my roster—below Hagar because she is not my twin, and below Miriam because she is far more conniving—but leagues above both of my brothers. It is a safe spot to be in. Some would even envy her. I adore her like she adores her dolls: not quite a real girl as much as she is a reflection of whoever controls her, built too perfectly to be natural but so beautiful you cannot look away. I see a lot of myself in her. And I can never decide if that’s good or bad.
So when I hear from Dahab the courier that my sister is on her way back from her big dance tour, I react with a mix of surprise, mirth, and a little dash of suspicion around the timing of it. And the lack of fanfare—usually she at least sends a letter in advance. It’s only on the morning of her arrival that I’m told she’s almost here; but that gives me just enough time to steel myself before the moment when she blows into the dining room, one girl-shaped flurry of black silk and green eyes and fire-red hair.
Pilate! She races toward me, bullet from a gun, and is collapsing against my chest in a heap of sisterly affection almost before I’ve regained my feet. I make a noise somewhere between a laugh and a gasp as the breath is knocked out of me.
There are moments where I remember why I love my siblings, and the fact that I love them at all. This is one of them. My sister crashes into me, and she is the only one of us still child-small and fragile; I know her weight in exactitude, from the many times I’ve held her before; she smells like all the places she’s visited, smoke and spice from places I’ve never been before, but mixed with the familiar alcohol of our mother’s perfume. (That part hits me like a truck. All of a sudden, I feel nostalgia so strong it’s sickening. I have to close my eyes, and when I step back my smile is reeling.)
“Of course I’ll have tea with you.” I sink back into my seat. Between us, a servant pours a long, steady stream of amber-colored tea into identical china cups. Steam rises in a thin white question mark. When she tells me about her new drink habits, I laugh warmly and say: “Ah, so you’ve finally finished growing up, little sister. What else have you learned in your time away? I do hope you’re happy to see us.”
y brother caught me, counting once. I would count to 8. 8. The counts of dance. 8. The count of my siblings. 8. I counted around our palace, through the hallways, the rooms. Counting aloud. 1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8… 1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8… 1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8… 1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8… 1…2…3…4…5…6…7…8…
1…2…3…
“Delilah!” Came the sharp voice of my brother. “Stop that confounded counting!” It was the first time one of my siblings truly raised their voice at me. They knew better. I was the baby, after Myriam. I was the youngest. Mama’s last creation, her last living one at least. I hummed and skipped over to him. “Shall I count the waltz instead? That is only counts of 6.” 6. Not the number of my siblings, but—it could be.
I grin within the embrace of my brother.
All venom.
But that is as much to be expected from our family. I like the way the breath rushes from his lungs, as it makes that smile on my face uptick to a greater degree. “It feels as though it has been so long since I have last seen you,” I say, burying my face within him. I am, ultimately, the Ieshan’s darling. It is in the youth of my smile, my green eyes, and that way I can bat those long lashes. I was the face used to remind everyone of our family’s kindness.
“Good,” i respond to him, taking my tea. Grown up. A feminine smile still sits curled upon those sharp, serpent Ieshan features of mine. “A reasonable amount,” I respond to him, taking a sip. “I have so missed my dollies though,” it is said with a child like sigh. “It is too difficult to bring them all on the road.” No, they wouldn't quite fit now would they? “I learned plenty, from my tutors, but I continue to learn how to be the best from dancing,” I say. It is not bragging, my brother would understand. Our mama made us to be nothing less than the best at whatever we were created for. “Tell me, brother, how are you? How are our siblings? I’ve simply missed everyone so so much.”
