I glance at Fernando, who gives me a quiet nod. It fills me with confidence. With light. “All right. Yes. I’m ready.”
The doors open outward, releasing a gust of body-warmed air. The palace guards tap the butts of their spears to the ground, once, twice. A hush falls over the audience. As one, heads turn to stare.
“Lady Red Sparkle Stone!” the seneschal booms, and I wince to hear my ridiculous name echoing over the heads of a thousand people. “Handmaiden to Her Imperial Majesty Empress Lucero-Elisa né Riqueza de Vega! Candidate for imperial adoption!”
Two Royal Guardsmen sweep inside before us, hands to their scabbards. The remaining two, including Fernando, will remain at our backs. It’s all highly choreographed—the crown prince as my escort, the Royal Guard contingent, the monstrous adoption gown—to send a message to everyone watching that I’m already royalty, and worthy of such things.
“His Imperial Highness Prince Rosario né Fleurendi de Vega!” the seneschal continues. “Crown Prince and heir to the united kingdoms of Basajuan, Orovalle, and Joya d’Arena! Conde of the Southern Reaches, youngest recipient in our great empire’s history of the Queen’s Star for acts of gallantry and intrepidity in circumstances of extreme danger!”
The vihuelas begin playing a stately interpretation of the “Entrada Triunfal.” Our procession moves forward, and the throng parts to make way, revealing a deep purple carpet that runs the length of the audience hall, ending at a large dais. The dais is occupied by familiar faces—Prince Consort Hector, his daughter Princess Ximena, Lady Mara, and the Quorum lords, all arrayed around Empress Elisa herself on her giant throne.
Hector is solemn as always, but his eyes twinkle as though he’s trying to resist winking. Elisa, however, is perfectly imperial, straight-backed and proud, her face grave. Her smile, when it comes, is slow and deliberate, as if reminding everyone of the magnitude of today’s ceremony.
But even her measured smile is beautiful, and it’s surrounded by the most glorious black hair I’ve ever seen. She wears a gown of silver blue with cobalt trim and a necklace of sapphires. Her imperial crown is made of shattered Godstones, a symbol of her unique power, and they catch the light of the chandeliers just so. She has always been generously plump, but her rigid posture reveals a waist thickened by two pregnancies—and another on the way.
Her current pregnancy is supposed to be a secret. I glance around, wondering if anyone is noticing.
Standing next to the royal family—my family—is Songbird, the Invierno ambassador, who has been attempting to negotiate a new trade and cultural exchange treaty. He wears fabrics that match those of the wealthiest members of the court, a symbol of the ties that already exist between our people, woven in elaborately patterned colors that complement his unnatural height and his pale skin without drawing extra attention to them. His retinue is similarly attired, emphasizing the commonalities between us instead of the differences. The attempt to fit in doesn’t succeed; an empty space surrounds his party, as if they are bearers of a contagious disease. The ambassador’s large, thoughtful eyes linger on me, curious but not rude.
But the light of Elisa’s smile draws my attention back to her, pulls me down the aisle. The “Entrada” crescendos. Nobles twist in place to follow my journey with their eyes. I’m supposed to be here, doing exactly this; I know I am. But my ruffles are ridiculous, stretching the length of the receiving hall. Light from the chandeliers washes my skin to nothing. Everything feels off. Wrong. Like I’m a hawk dressed up to look like a camel.
Rosario’s attention is pulled toward the right, and I follow his gaze. It’s Lady Carilla, a girl about my age, with blushed round cheeks and huge dark eyes that gaze at the prince in rapt, unwavering attention. I resist the urge to smile.
Someone murmurs off to the left. The slightest sound, but jarring nonetheless. I glance over—it’s Lady Malka, speaking to a companion behind a gloved hand.
Her hand lowers, revealing full lips turned up into something too nasty to be a smile.
Rosario’s fingers on my elbow tighten.
Straight ahead, Elisa’s face falters. Hector reaches down and grabs her hand.
The air is taut and heavy—how did I not notice it before? Eyes are wide with anticipation. With sure knowledge. I pass a tall, reed-thin man wearing a green silk stole, who glares at me with fire in his eyes. His hate is such a palpable thing that I nearly stumble.
As quietly as I can, I dare to whisper, “Something is wrong.”
“Just keep walking,” Rosario whispers back.
Is it my mark? Maybe the dye didn’t take. Maybe it’s shining as white as a cloud for everyone to see. Or perhaps my train ripped, or it picked up something unspeakable on the journey through the palace that now drags in its wake.
We reach the dais. The vihuelas cease, and a hush descends. I hear the tiny pop of a candle bubbling in the chandelier above my head.
Father Nicandro, head priest of the Monastery-at-Brisadulce, hobbles forward. He holds a copy of the Scriptura Sancta in one arthritic hand, a sparkling tiara in the other. He closes his eyes and intones a blessing in the Lengua Classica, and I should focus on his words, soak up this moment, but all I can think is that something is wrong, wrong, wrong.
Nicandro closes his blessing, and the room mutters “Selah” in unison. He steps aside and is quickly replaced by Conde Astón of Ciénega del Sur, a man of middle height, broad shoulders, and almost inconceivable wealth. More important, he is the elected speaker of the Chamber of Condes, one of the three governing bodies of our empire. Which makes him the most powerful person in this great hall aside from Elisa herself.
In a loud, clear voice, he says, “Her Imperial Majesty Empress Elisa and His Imperial Highness Prince Consort Hector have petitioned the chamber to adopt the candidate before you, and assume all rights and duties with respect to the child.”
I’m hardly a “child.” It must be formal wording, set forth in the Articles of the Empire, when Elisa agreed to relinquish some of the powers held by the crown in exchange for unanimous ratification of her new peace treaty. I remember Ratification Day well. I ate my first coconut scone.
“The candidate,” Conde Astón continues, “named Lady Red Sparkle Stone, was purchased by our empress as a slave from an innkeeper in the free villages and immediately emancipated. According to testimony, the child then played an integral role in securing our victory in the Battle of Basajuan. She has remained a member of court in the years since, bringing no shame or dishonor to herself nor to her warden, the empress. Her natural parentage is unknown, though she is presumed through physical examination by the Imperial Physician Enzo to be half Invierno, and therefore infertile. Her age is estimated at seventeen years.”
He pauses, letting everything sink in. None of this is new information to the court, and I’m not sure why it was necessary to state it aloud. Maybe he’s trying to humiliate me. It won’t work. I’m not ashamed of my past or of what I am. It’s nothing I can help; why be ashamed?
“Is there anyone,” the conde says, “who will vouch for the moral character of the imperial adoption candidate?”
Three people will vouch, all carefully arranged in advance. Still, I hold my breath and wait.