“He will soon.”
Behind them, the door burst open.
The girl looked like crashing waves at sunset as she poured into the room, unstoppable beauty. And though shorter, what she lacked in height she made up for in the curves and sway of her hips as her creamy peach dress bubbled up like agitated froth with each of her steps. Whether she liked it or not, her moods were always readable through her movements—an effect of her hypnotic gift of dance.
“Dear sister,” greeted Niya, her light tone contradicting her needle-pointed gaze as she stopped before them. “How fortunate this day is to see you returned home. Happiest of Eumar Journés.”
“Thank you, Niya.” Larkyra eyed her sister with both hidden amusement and wary defensiveness. “And happy day of birth to you as well.”
“Yes, quite.” Niya brushed back a loose red curl. “Is that why you maimed your hand? As a gift to me?”
Larkyra strained to keep the levity in her features, the phantom limb of her missing finger twitching in agitation. “Why, yes. Do you like it?” She displayed her nub more prominently.
Niya shrugged. “It’s rather small.”
Larkyra pursed her lips.
Niya raised one manicured brow.
And then a grin curled its way onto each of their faces.
“Come here, you old toad.” Niya tugged Larkyra into a hug. “I’m happy you are home. But I do hope you practiced sleeping with one eye open during your Lierenfast,” she said softly into Larkyra’s ear. “For I will return the loving sentiments you left on my bed. Perhaps I’ll make you symmetrical by taking your other ring finger.”
“I look forward to your attempts.” Larkyra tightened her arms around Niya.
“Let the games begin.”
“I thought they already had.”
“How much longer are the two of you going to hold each other in a creepy, whispering embrace?” asked Arabessa. “For I’ll gladly tell Cook to push back tonight’s dinner a sand fall or two. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to oblige.”
“Feeling left out?” Niya stepped back, regarding their eldest sister.
“Never have a day in my life.”
Niya snorted. “Well, that’s the largest load of—”
“I thought I’d find you all here,” said a deep, familiar rumble that sent memories of their shared childhood flying through Larkyra’s mind.
A dashing black man stood by the open door.
“Zimri!” Larkyra ran to him, throwing herself into his arms.
He stumbled a step, and it took Zimri a moment to wrap her in a similar embrace as he let out a low laugh. “I’m glad none of your spirit has dulled after your time away.”
“If anything”—Larkyra settled into his arms—“my time away has only made me shine brighter.”
“Indeed,” said Zimri warmly.
Zimri D’Enieu was the son of their father’s oldest ally, Halson D’Enieu, and upon his and his wife’s tragic death, which had left Zimri with no living relatives, their father had taken him in and raised him as his own. He’d started as a skinny, quiet lad, but thanks to the curious and often-overbearing nature of the Bassette daughters and their father’s wisdom and fortitude, he had grown into quite a strapping, independent man. It was only natural that Zimri would step into the role of their father’s right-hand man—something he had taken on with great honor and seriousness. Sometimes too much seriousness.
“May I put you down now?” asked Zimri.
“Only if you must,” sighed Larkyra.
Once back on her feet, Larkyra took him in properly. Zimri’s dashing grin and penetrating gaze had brought many women and men to a weak-in-the-knees sigh. And as usual, he was dressed impeccably in a gold-embroidered three-piece gray suit. The threads matched his startling hazel eyes. “Is it just me,” asked Larkyra, “or have you gotten more handsome since I left?”
“It’s just you,” said Arabessa from across the room.
Zimri shot her a glare, but Arabessa had returned to practicing with her throwing knives, filling the space with the rhythmic thunk of each hitting her target.
Larkyra exchanged a knowing glance with Niya before turning back to Zimri. “Have you brought me a present?”
“In a way.” He straightened his suit. “He’s asked to see you.”
Larkyra’s stomach twisted tight. Oh dear, she thought. “Right now?”
“Right now.”
After glancing at each of her sisters—reassuring nods were given—Larkyra turned to Zimri once more. “Okay. Lead the way.”
While Larkyra had grown up in this house, she still had not figured out all its secrets, and a week wouldn’t go by that she didn’t discover at least one new room or passage, only to return the following day to find it had moved to a different floor entirely. Zimri effortlessly led her through endless hallways that stretched up to stained glass ceilings; down flights of stairs rimmed with tapestries from far-flung places, the thread dancing with movement; over a small bridge that connected the south wing to the west; to not one but three doors that allowed entry to her father’s chambers, where she finally, thankfully, breathlessly stopped.
Larkyra rubbed her lips together, her magic pacing in her veins at her uneasiness.
Everything with her father was a test, a lesson, in some way. Though more often than not, no sister knew if she’d ever passed or failed, which, as tests went, Larkyra supposed, wasn’t such a bad outcome. Yet it still made every encounter fraught with that potent mix of anxiety and anticipation. Larkyra only ever wanted to please her father, given that she had much to make up for, due to taking away his wife.
Guilt hit Larkyra low in the belly, as it always did when she thought of her mother.
Zimri stepped back, allowing Larkyra to approach the doors, each different in design. One was made of jagged onyx; another plain, worn wood; and the third pure-white marble, bearing no identifying marks to symbolize what lay beyond.
“Your choice,” instructed Zimri, leaning against the adjacent wall. “He’ll be waiting for you no matter which door you choose.”
“You’re not coming with me?” asked Larkyra.
Zimri shook his head. “It is you he’s asked to see.”
“But I’m sure he’d enjoy a surprise visit.”
“Lark.” Zimri raised an unimpressed brow. “Knock.”
Zimri was one of the few who knew the secret the Bassettes held behind spelled walls and hidden cities, given that he came from the very place they kept so carefully guarded.
“And a happy day of birth to you too,” grumbled Larkyra, returning to the choices before her.
A great many things could happen, depending on whether she knocked on one door over another, or nothing at all.
Which, again, was probably some lesson to meditate on. But currently, on a day like her Eumar Journé, Larkyra had no use for such still reflection, so with sure footing she approached to rap once, twice, and then three times on the onyx doorway.
It gave a rather dramatic creak as it opened, an icy wind funneling out, and right before Larkyra stepped through, she had a moment of self-doubt, fearing that perhaps now, more than any other time in her life, she had chosen poorly.