princess Miriam
of House Ieshan
of House Ieshan
I told my soul to sing
she said her strings were snapt
M
y hair has not been washed in days.It is the first thing I will think of when I open my door and see her there: my sister, her dark hair dripping like a siren’s, anointed with sweet-smelling oils to cover the death-scent that usually follows her. I will taste the wild orange drifting from her skin and wonder what I smell like. I don’t wash my hair enough; I can’t remember the last time I had enough energy to put on my own perfume. And slowly the realization will dawn on me that I am no longer my siblings’ keeper, running their baths, ushering them to and from class according to schedule. Now I am the one being kept.
But this is what will happen. What will happen a few minutes in the future, a door barely opened at the end of a long, dimly lit hallway.
Right now I am deeply, darkly, blissfully asleep.
Under my feet the sand is caked with blood. I know I am getting married, because my mother’s necklace lays cold and heavy as a corpse against my chest. And despite the eye of Solis unblinking overhead, the desert around me is capped with white frost, and I think to myself it’s winter, and then no, it doesn’t snow here, even in the winter, and then I think more and reach the only reasonable conclusion following those two facts, which is: I am dreaming. Otherwise, I am in hell.
I don’t recognize my fiancé. I can safely assume he is a royal—why else would I be getting married?—but his body is shrouded in a thick cloak of red, his face in a veil of black, and I cannot make out any of his features. The priest stands between us. Her hair has been shorn into a short, dark, streak, and her cheeks are painted in gold, a sun on each side connected by rays in the middle. She’s pretty, I think. Prettier than the nothing I can make out of my to-be husband.
I want to kiss her. I think about it, and then I chastise myself: I know I am getting married.
So I turn back to my fiancé. He says I do in a voice made of rocks, and I say I do in a voice that barely manages to leave my mouth, and when I reach out to kiss him, I move the veil aside and—
There is nothing underneath it. Not a skeleton, not a ghost. I move the veil aside and I am staring right through the space where his body should be and seeing nothing but sand, sand glittering with that awful mixture of ice and blood, sand now covered with the thump of the cloak as it falls to the ground, unlatching itself from a neck that never existed.
“Look what you’ve done,” says the priestess. Her eyes are glowing now: the dark of them threatens to spill, past the line of kohl and the paint on her cheek, over and over again, but never quite does.
I open my mouth. I almost say, it’s not my fault—but—
My mother did not raise liars.
A pit of self-serving, almost-evil vipers, but not liars. (Except maybe Pilate, but then he has always worked to make himself the odd one out.)
So when I hear my voice being called through the door, in a tone that implies whoever it is does not know whether or not I am in my room (where else would I be?)—there is only the briefest moment in which I debate not answering. I could stay silent. Go back to sleep and pretend I’m not available. It would be much easier than dealing with whoever this is. I am already so, so tired…
My mother did not raise liars.
I pull my hair back, stumble out of bed, make my way to the door. And I don't bother checking who it is through the peep-hole, because there is no one in this world who has not already seen me at my worst. I only throw it open and brace for impact. I am watching the arrow on its way to strike me.
The arrow is my sister.
My hair has not been washed in days. The realization slams over me like a tidal wave as I look at Ruth's dark hair, dripping like a siren's, anointed with sweet-smelling oils to cover the death-scent that usually follows her. I taste the wild orange drifting from her skin and wonder what I smell like. I don’t wash my hair enough. I can’t remember the last time I had enough energy to put on my own perfume. And slowly I realize: I am no longer my siblings’ keeper, running their baths, ushering them to and from class according to schedule. Now I am the one being kept.
"Ruth," I say, and my voice is hoarse with exhaustion and surprise. I clear my throat. Taste acid. I step back and let the door swing wide, but the room behind me is so dark it's hard to see into. "Come in?"
