Needle tells me his lip hair is as long as my hand from palm to
fingertip and as big around as my thumb. I take her word as truth. The
thought of asking permission to touch Junjie’s face makes me fidget with
nerves. Of all my advisors, my chief is by far the most intimidating.
“I wasn’t feeling well.” I bring two fingers to my forehead, faking the
ghost of a headache I never had.
“Then you should have called for the healers,” he says. “Your health
is too important to the city to take any chances, Isra. You know that.”
“I know,” I mumble, wishing I had arranged to meet the Monstrous
and his guards in the field, instead of coming with the soldiers to fetch the
beast.
It has been only three weeks since I became queen, and already I
grow tired of my newfound “freedom.” Each time I dare set foot outside my
tower, fretful, bossy old men shadow my every move. Junjie and the other
advisors would obviously prefer that, until I’m married, I pass my days
alone in my bedroom surrounded by mountains of pillows. I’m treated like
a foolish child with bones made of glass, and I
so that she may sleep there with you and—”
“Sleep there? In the tower?” I ask, horrified by the thought of a
stranger invading my last safe place. “But where would we put her? Needle
and I already share my bedroom.”
“She can sleep in your dressing room. There’s enough space beside
the bath for a small cot, and she can keep her clean uniforms underneath.”
“Please, Junjie,” I beg. “I don’t need a healer sleeping in my dressing
room. I’m not an invalid. It was only a headache.”
“The kingdom would sleep better knowing a healer is minutes from
your side.”
“The kingdom is safe. I’ll call for someone next time I have the
smallest ache or pain. I promise,” I say, wishing Needle would hurry and get
back with word from the Monstrous’s cell and save me from Junjie. The
guards went to fetch the creature from the prisoners’ floor of the infirmary
nearly twenty minutes ago.
What’s taking so
health and fit to rule. It’s time you dined with the nobles at court, at least
during special celebrations,” Junjie says, disapproval clear in his voice. I may
be queen, but in his eyes I’m still the naughty little girl who threw paint on
the king’s best fur when she was four years old. “You owe it to the city to
honor its traditions.”
“I know. I just couldn’t. Not last night,” I say. “I’m sorry.”
When I was younger, I used to beg to be allowed to accompany Baba
to the harvest banquet, but he always said no. It seemed wrong to go last
night without his permission, without
mirrors draped in white, and men with black scarves tied around their
arms, and I myself wearing green and only green until the first day of
spring, as is tradition for a child in mourning.
“I understand,” Junjie says in a gentler tone, reminding me that there
is a heart beneath his gruff exterior. “But remember, you are not alone. I
am here to support your rule. I served your father well for twenty years; I
will serve you just as faithfully.”
years ago. The offerings are usually made no more than thirty years apart.
In ten years—or seventeen, if I’m lucky and the city’s magic holds strong—it
will be my turn. If Baba had lived and remarried, things would have been
different, but he’s dead and they aren’t. The fact hangs around my neck like
a stone, making it harder to pull myself from the pit of my grief.
The healing garden is the only bright spot in my darkness. When the
Monstrous boy’s father first told Junjie his son would be helpful in our
gardens, I admit I was less than impressed. Our gardens do very well on
their own, thank you very much. What captured my attention was his
insistence that his son knew how to grow and mix the healing pouches the
Monstrous use to ward off further mutation in their young. I did my best to
conceal my curiosity from Junjie, but I’m sure he guesses why I fought for a
plot of land and the chance to help the Monstrous create a new garden.
For years I’ve been certain there was no hope for me, but what if
there is a way to reverse my mutation? Or at least be certain the peeling of
my flesh will never spread? For years, I’ve had nightmares about waking up
to find my face and neck as scaled as the rest of my body. Now I have hope
that those nightmares might someday be a thing of the past. I could barely
sleep last night, I was so eager to begin.
And now the beast is
Unless the monster attacked them. Unless they are even now doing
battle with it. If that’s the case, I’ll have the creature’s claws cut out.
I should have given the order yesterday when he dared to put his
claws to my throat, but I was afraid Junjie would find the guards asleep at
their posts and guess at the stupid, impulsive thing I’d done. If he finds out I
was alone with the Monstrous, I—
“In the name of that service,” Junjie continues, startling me from my
thoughts, “I’ve scheduled your coronation for the week after next.”
My lips part. “Week after next? But I—”
“The plans are under way,” he says, interrupting me. Again. It seems
Baba was the only member of court who thought a blind girl deserved the
right to finish her sentences. “Out of respect for the violent nature of the
king’s death, the celebration will be subdued—simply a short procession
and the ceremonial presentation of the crown and scepter. Afterward,
you’ll be taken onto the dais to be cheered by the common people, and
we’ll conclude with a banquet in the afternoon, during which the members
of court will be able to present themselves to you personally.”
I bite my lip and nod my agreement. I want to beg him to postpone
for another month or more, but I know it would do no good. Once Junjie
has set something in motion, there is no stopping him. He is inexorable. It’s
one of the qualities my father valued most in his chief advisor.
I, however, have yet to acquire Baba’s appreciation for Junjie’s
single-mindedness. Persuading my advisor to allow me to work in the new
garden with the Monstrous—even accompanied by four armed
guards—took every bit of stubbornness I possess and then some. If getting
my way as ruler is always going to be so difficult, I’ll have to choose my
battles carefully, or spend the rest of my life in a state of perpetual
exhaustion.
“Good girl,” Junjie says, his condescension leaving a sour taste in my
mouth. I’m
Seventeen
for Needle’s right to ply her namesake—she’d be devastated to miss the
chance to design my coronation gown—but am saved from the battle by
swift footsteps running down the path leading from the infirmary.
I recognize the rhythm of the run as Needle’s even before one small,
cool hand takes my wrist and the other begins to move beneath my palm,
communicating in our secret language.
how immense or terrifying—is a child in her eyes until proven otherwise.
Needle is only twenty-eight, but you’d think she was sixty from the way she
talks.
.
“Yes, I would like something to drink,” I say in a controlled voice, not
wanting to arouse Junjie’s curiosity. He’s too eager for an excuse to forbid
me from taking the monster out of his cage. “Would you care for some
lemonade, Junjie?”
“I would enjoy that very much,” Junjie says, making my stomach
clench. I’d expected him to be too busy to spare time for my imaginary
refreshment. “But I have many things to attend to. I’ll make my apologies
and hope to share a drink with you this evening in the banquet hall.”
His none-too-subtle hint that I should
tailing me inside to be bothered by it. With a nod and a softly murmured
“Good day,” I loop my arm through Needle’s and allow her to guide me
slowly up the walk.
As soon as we are through the door—stepping into shadows that
cool my flushed skin—she takes me by the hand and sets a much swifter
pace. I follow her up stairs and stairs and more stairs, nearly as many as
there are in my tower, until we reach the top floor, where the Monstrous
has been kept separate from the other ill and ailing.
As we hurry down the hall, I expect to hear sounds of a
struggle—growls and snarls—but there is only one harsh voice, shouting,
“Move, beast! On your feet!” and a muffled thud followed by a moan so
piteous, I understand immediately why Needle called the monster a boy.
He sounds like a wounded child.
For the first time I wonder what the creature must be feeling. What
must it be like to be abandoned by his family, to be held captive and
pressed into slavery to people he loathes? To be alone and hurt with no
one who cares enough to insist he stay in bed long enough to heal?
This is my fault. I told the guards to drag the Monstrous from his bed
if they had to. A wave of self-loathing rushes inside me, making my stomach
lurch and my voice break when I order the guards to, “Stop! Leave the
monster be!”
I draw a deep breath, trying to compose myself, knowing the soldiers
must be staring. “One of you, go fetch the healers. The rest, give the beast
some room.” I squeeze Needle’s arm as one pair of boots tromps down the
hall, the guard thankfully obeying my order without question. I can’t always
trust the soldiers to do as I say, especially if Junjie is close by. I may be the
queen, but Junjie is their true leader. “Take me closer,” I tell Needle.
I don’t need to add
me meet with the monster in private.
“Where does it hurt?” I ask the Monstrous as Needle settles me on
the stones near where he has fallen. “Is it your legs?” The Monstrous
doesn’t say a word, not a word, for a long, strained moment. “I only want
to help you.…”
I hesitate, realizing I have no idea what the Monstrous calls himself.
He has language, he must have a name, but in the three weeks since he was
captured no one has bothered to ask it. “What is your name?”
“Gem,” he says, forcing the word out with obvious difficulty.
“Isra,” I offer before I think better of it. A prisoner shouldn’t call the
queen by her first name, but for some reason that seems like a silly rule at
the moment. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were still unwell.”
The Monstrous makes a sound—a sigh or a laugh, I can’t tell which.
Either way, the message is received. “Sorry” is a feeble word, and hardly
sufficient when a person is brought to his knees by pain.
“I don’t want you to suffer any more than you have already,” I say,
hoping he can tell that I mean it. “We’ll postpone our work until you’ve
fully recovered.”
“What if I’m never recovered?” he asks, so softly that I know only
Needle and I can hear him. “What if I never walk again?”
“You will walk.”
“You can’t know.”
“No, I can’t,” I say. “But I’ll do everything in my power to make
certain you do.”
He sighs again, a defeated sound. An alone sound.
“I wasn’t always blind,” I say, strangely compelled to convince him I
understand his fears. “There was a fire in my bedroom when I was four
years old. My nightgown caught fire and my father threw me to the ground
to put out the flames. I hit my head, and the world went dark. It has stayed
that way ever since.”
“But you still see,” he says beneath his breath, as if he knows my
moment of sightedness in the garden is a secret. “By the roses.”
“Only sometimes,” I whisper. “And only since I was ten.”
My tenth birthday, to be exact, the last day I was knowingly allowed
out of the tower. Before then, Baba and I went to the royal garden every
year on my birthday, but that was the first year that he let me explore on
my own, let me feel my way around the edge of the ancient flower bed to
the place where the vines spill over one side.
I pricked my finger by accident, and the sunlit world rushed up to
meet me. The roses showed me the city from high above, all the flowers
and the green, green springtime grass, and every tall, white building
gleaming in the morning light. It was beautiful, breathtaking to a girl who
had nearly forgotten the world of color and light.
I would have stayed there forever, grateful tears streaming down my
face, if my father hadn’t pulled me away.
As soon as he realized I was bleeding, Baba carried me back to the
tower, but the damage was already done. I knew the roses had more magic
than anyone else realized. I knew they could be my eyes. I told Baba, but he
forbade me to speak of such mad things and refused to take me to the
garden again. Months passed, but I didn’t forget that shining moment. It
took a year, but I found a way out, risking death climbing over the edge of
my balcony, rather than returning to the hopeless darkness.
The loss of hope is the worst kind of loss. I don’t want to be the cause
of that in someone, even if that someone is a monster.
“I will help you recover,” I say, with an intensity that surprises me. “I
swear it.”
“Thank you. Isra.” My name is uncomfortable in his mouth,
strange-sounding in that accent of his, but there’s something nice about it
all the same. Something nice about being Isra instead of “my lady.”