AGHAVNI
If gazing into mirrors ever becomes a sport—I have no doubt I would end up placing uncomfortably close to the victor’s podium.
I try to ease the relative sting of this revelation by telling myself that this isn't something I take any pleasure in but simply because I must be perfect. I must be perfect. I will not be attending the Ieshan party alone; before I had even received the invitation, a golden hawk had soared through my window at dawn and dropped a letter on my desk, the wax still hot, the ink so fresh I could smell it.
Might you join us for the evening, Cousin Aghavni? Mother misses you terribly. It will be fun. —S
Father is no longer here to scare away my aunts and cousins. Like vultures they have gathered, and an orphan they have labelled me. They click their beaks and settle into the dirt and watch and wait for the little orphan to die.
I have wound rose vines around my neck and the buds are beginning to stir. I gaze into the mirror hanging like a portrait behind my bed, my eyes bright and pensive, and think that I would like for the buds to bloom carnation pink.
Carnation pink, and carnation petalled, yet armed with a rose’s wicked thorns.
A spot just below my temple begins to throb as the rosebuds struggle open their petals, their dark, furled hearts bleeding away motes of rose-red. I barely feel the pain. I tell myself this sternly, yet my reflection twists her lips into a grimace until I catch her at it and tug her mouth harshly back to perfect placidity.
I would like for the rose-carnations to bloom loveliest near my eyes. I would like for the pink to compliment my eyes, like silk softening the sharp, sharp facets of a princess-cut emerald. But, I add hastily, they must not take away from my eyes; they must not soften them to docility.
The throbbing in my temple rises to a fever-pitch as the roses hear and obey. I must state my desires very precisely to them, in this fashion, for them to bend their heads to me and listen. A curl of pale hair falls into my reflection’s face and sourly I fix it back into place with a small black pin, back inside the bun twisted up behind my ears.
The blooms (that are almost perfect, now) begin to wilt.
Of all the flowers I have trifled with, roses are always horrifically jealous. I cannot leave them alone before they are complete, not even for a moment, unless I would like for them to punish me by turning in their thorns and shriveling their petals in vindication when they feel my attention stuttering.
My reflection’s bright green eyes gleam like daggers. She bites her lip hard and the thorns turn themselves out again, but not before pricking a trail of bright blood to bloom. I curse when I feel the blood drip thick and hot, like melted wax, down my neck.
By the time the roses settle, carnation pink and carnation petalled, loveliest near my eyes, the blood has seeped into my bedsheets and won’t come out no matter how hard I scrub.
There is a cousin clothed in scarlet on my left, her hair as black as mine is gold. “Aghavni,” Cousin Sulwen murmurs into my ear, “is that Prince Pilate?”
I follow her cold, appraising gaze towards a scaled figure leaning languidly against a banister twined with fresh holly, a spotless, breathy robe spilling like water off of his dark frame. I look at the snakes coiled lazily around each other, a living braid; I smile. My teeth flash like a string of pearls.
“The prince of the hour.” Sulwen's smile grows wings at my confirmation, until it leaves every semblance of cruelty behind and becomes all honey, all flattery, all gold, glittering Hajakha. I marvel at how quickly she does it. If the rumors are true, and each child of Ieshan claims a different part of the snake for themselves, then Sulwen must really be their cousin and not mine.
“Then I must go to him,” Sulwen chirps, before pressing a cold kiss to my cheek and wading into the slow current of the crowd. I know I will not be seeing her again tonight unless she wishes for me to find her. It has always been that way. The hierarchy has always been reversed.
My roses tremble as they grow a thicket of thorns over the place I received her kiss.
Perhaps it is luck, or perhaps it is some reawakened memory of traversing these echoing, marble halls behind my mother that leads me into the Ieshan's dining hall. In any case, I am relieved—the surroundings are comfortably familiar, the silk material of black-suited servers turning to sapphire if I squint.
It is the Scarab and it is not; I think I recognise everyone until I don't. The bar table, filled to bursting with an assortment of jewel-toned drinks, darkens to polished mahogany when I reach it. I choose a seat at random, my smile easing into something more comfortable to wear when the smell of liquor and smoke wafts like perfume around me.
A drink made of liquid sapphire is placed in front of the guest besides me. I turn towards them, intrigued by the cocktail's brilliant color, until my breath snags and my eyes blink when it is Erasmus. Gold-veined Erasmus, sun symbol Erasmus. He is a very long way from home.
I cannot help it; I laugh.
“Has Solterra sank its fangs into you as well?” I do not bother hiding my interest, when he tips the sapphire liquid down his throat and swallows. “Well? How does it taste?”
