It was decided that Persephia Graye would be spared and handed to the watch of Gillian and his dragons. After tomorrow’s cremation ceremony, they would all set sail along the Celestel River into the capital, Aynor.

Like most from the countryside, Meya had long dreamed of touching her bare foot on the stone of Aynor for once in her fleeting life. Jason often told tales of narrow streets with houses crammed on both sides like rows of crooked teeth, upper floors tottering over the thoroughfare, drying laundry slung across windows. Celebrations came one after another, neverending—tournaments, festivals, markets. People, food and crafts from every corner of Latakia and beyond, collected in one square.

The prosperity of Aynor even spilled onto the surrounding roads and rivers, such that they could shed most supplies, travel light, and live off the land. There wasn’t much left to pack, seeing as Meya was already prepared to set off for Jaise. She wasn’t allowed to help with the heavy-lifting, either. So, on Ozid’s advice, Meya stole away to the botanical gardens.

True to Hyacinth pride, the gardens’ design took inspiration from a spiderweb. Sandstone walkways radiated from the centerpiece fountain, flanked by layers of violet flowerbeds and emerald hedgerows alternating with crystal-clear canals. A colonnade of date palms sealed the enclosure against the desert heat.

Meya sat on the sandstone seat surrounding the fountain pool, feeding leaves to a voracious green caterpillar lounging on a bare branch dripping with milky sap. Footsteps approached. She looked up to find a familiar gaunt, pale face, lit orange by the setting sun.

“It’s getting dark. You should head back,” said Coris. His features sharpened as he drew near. He spotted the pile of leaves beside her. “What have you got there?”

Meya said nothing. Carefully, she scooped up the little fellow along with his branch and the leaf he was munching on, as Coris bent down to see.

The caterpillar was apple green, plump and soft and large as her finger. A line of white and blue freckles scored his sides down to his pointy yellow tail. Two pairs of elaborate, spiky green antlers crowned his head, and on his back were two luminous, blue-green false eyes.

“Aw, look at his wee horns. And his eyes. He’s just like you.” Coris cooed. He shot her a toothy grin, then gave the caterpillar a gentle poke. The wee thing jolted just as he recoiled. A glistening drop of half-clear, half cloudy-green liquid clung to his fingertip.

“That’s his blood,” said Meya darkly as she rested the branch back upon the leaf pile. Their eyes met, and she tossed her chin towards a squatty potted plant with garish pink flowers, some way away in the gathering darkness,

“The gardener plucked him from one of them shrubs there. Tossed him on the gravel. Prolly would’ve stamped his guts out if I hadn’t stepped in.”

Coris peered at the shrub for a moment, then lifted himself to the seat with a sigh.

“Desert Roses.” He muttered. “The sap’s poisonous. Be careful.”

Meya felt his eyes upon her middle. She bit her lips at the pang of guilt in her heart. The caterpillar munched on, unknowing, slicing away the leaf in neat, curved lines.

“Ain’t no fair. Look how starving he is. He’s just trying to survive.” She grumbled.

“I know,” Coris accepted softly. The caterpillar waved his head, searching. Coris nudged a new leaf towards him, “But imagine you find him in your cabbage patch back home. You can’t let him ruin your family’s food, can you?”

Meya wasn’t talking about just the caterpillar, of course. And Coris wasn’t, either. As if he sensed her pain, he added more kindly,

“We’ll bring him along. With time, love and care, he’ll turn into a majestic moth.”

Meya’s heart warmed despite herself. Back there, Coris spoke in Persephia’s favor purely out of his love for Meya, for what she stood for. She saw herself in Persephia—her old self. She too was once lost without memories to guide her way. She too would’ve done anything if she thought it would please Dad.

Coris wasn’t much different. But now, he was becoming a father himself, and Meya a mother. With all the scars they carried still.

They watched the little caterpillar in silence. The phantom of Coris’s blow burned on her cheek like the ebbing noon heat. Meya recalled his eyes, colder than the creeping night chill.

She was scared and angry, but not as much as she should be. Her heart still melted at his smile and silver glint in his eyes, but could she trust him again? And she was pregnant with his babe. She couldn’t leave.

As her lord, mentor and husband, Coris had the right by law to discipline her. And Meya certainly had done enough to deserve discipline. It was just that—that wasn’t exactly discipline, was it? And did Coris have the moral ground to discipline her, when he himself was barely older than her, and just as flawed in many ways?

And Coris didn’t seem himself, then. She’d seen him dish out lines and folded ears and vocabulary drills as punishment, fob chores on his brother as revenge, but never violence. It was as if something had possessed him. Something from the past. Even beyond Cristoria.

“May we talk?”

What have we been doing, then?Meya itched to retort. Coris took her silence as permission, sighing.

“I’m so sorry I struck you.” He whispered. “I promise it won’t happen again, although I have no proof for my word. I’m still committed to you, but if you want to end our courtship, I’ll take the child and raise it with a loving mother. So, don’t worry and—take all the time you need to decide.”

Meya watched, dumbfounded, as he rose. He glanced at the caterpillar, then handed her his dagger.

“Cut him a new branch. I’ll wait at the gate.”

He turned and headed to the arbor. Meya sprung to her feet, fire blasting in her bowels.

Did he honestly think she’d take that insane agreement? What did he make of her?

“Coris.”

He halted at her call. Meya drew in a deep breath. His parting words rang some bells. She was sure she’d found her answer.

“It was your mother, wasn’t it? She didn’t just avoid you—she tried to abort you.”

Coris spun around, eyes wide on bloodless cheeks.

“I’ve never—”

“She told me. And your father told me you knew.” Meya cut across. Coris stood blinking, lost for words for a moment, then hung his head.

“It was Zier.” He said as if he’d read her mind. “He probably overheard the servants gossiping. My friends and I were cornering him—trading barbs and—he let slip.”

Meya took a few slow steps towards him. He chuckled, but she doubted he was trembling from that.

“Strangely enough, I believed it instantly.” He threw his head back, smiling wanly at the emerging stars. “Everything made sense, then. I knew what I must do.”

He jolted, tensed at the touch of Meya’s burning palm on his cheek, then he caught her hand with his and pressed his nose against it. Meya drew soothing circles above his ear. His pulse mellowed under her fingers.

“Seeing me put our babe in danger must’ve struck you deep down there. It dun excuse what you did, but it explains where you came from, where I went wrong.”

Coris shook his head.

“You’re always—leaving.” He stammered, “I know you want nothing less than full honesty from me—that I can’t always give. I know I can’t make you stay, but I can’t help but—feel as if I’m just—airunder your wings. Someday you’ll rise where I can’t follow, and I’ll melt away into nothing.”

“I’m sorry.” Meya breathed, her voice trembling with tears. Coris shook his head again.

“No, you’re not Mother. Irrational of me to assume—”

“Well, it dinnae help that I was mightly like her, did it?” Meya retorted, “All those times I went off on me own. I knew you’d be worried sick. I knew you’d feel hurt. And you haven’t said a word.”

Coris pursed his lips, but his eyes betrayed the truth. Meya let her weary head bow, sighing,

“I used to be just a peasant girl. Now I’m Lady Hadrian. And a dragon. It happened so fast, I keep forgetting. And when I remember, I feel—trapped.”

Coris stroked the back of her hand, reassuring her with his familiar cold.

“But I promise, I won’t flee no more. But you must promise you’ll protect me. And never hurt me again.”

“On my life.” Coris pulled her into his embrace and pressed his lips to her temple. “I love you, Meya.”

“I love you, too.” Meya murmured into his chest. Her eyes were falling close when tiny lights blinked from among the hyacinth thickets. Three became five, then ten, then twenty. Some even took flight. Before long, Meya found herself and Coris standing amid dozens of floating green lights.

“Ozid said there’ll be fireflies.” She whispered, as if her voice would scatter the elusive critters. Coris’s pale eyes absorbed their eerie color as he smiled and drank in the ethereal scene.

“You know, some say fireflies are souls of fallen warriors. Others say they’re weary souls descending from the Heights to the mortal plane for a second chance at life. The Scriptures say they’re Freda’s lights, meant to guide our way through the dark.”

“—And Meya says they’re horny crawlies, waving green crystals in their bums to snag a wife.”

Meya added drily, sending Coris chuckling at her daily dose of heresy. His laughter was short-lived, however—a fluttering light landed on Meya’s middle, blinking like a winking star—then another, blinking to its rhythm.

Meya didn’t dare breathe. Eyes bulging, she turned slowly to Coris. His eyes were just as large.

“Lexi—” She breathed. Coris nodded, smiling shakily. He slid his arms around her as softly as he could. The fireflies remained, winking at each other. They flew away side by side, their lights soon lost among the rest. Obviously, they were simply a pair of lustful bugs, but Meya couldn’t help believing, for once.

“Looks like we’re having twins.”

Coris whispered in her ear as he wrapped her more snugly in his arms. Meya giggled, her cheeks doubling in heat. Boys or girls or one each, she prayed to Freda they’d be chummier than the Graye twins, at least.

Persephia was kept under the double guard of the Blood Druids and Gillian the Dragon throughout the day. Agnes had been in the kitchen for the good part of the afternoon, emerging at last come dinnertime.

Her hands straining under the tray’s weight, she pushed open Persephia’s door with her backside, spun around, then almost dropped her tray.

At first glance, three walls of the room were plastered with gold-gleaming scales as metallic green as beetle wings. Then, she noticed the silvery claws, the curved tail thick as a log and beset with silvery spikes, and the long, serpentine head adorned with silvery horns. The dragon seemed to have been in light sleep. Its visible eye opened at her entrance, glowing acid green with a tear down the middle, a sliver exposing its mysterious depths.

Agnes rolled her tongue over her dry lips. She dipped her head a little in acknowledgment, firmed her grip on the tray and headed to Persephia. She was sitting against Gillian’s armored side, her neck, wrists and ankles manacled, trapped between the enclave of Vyrgil and his two friends—who held their swords at her neck—and Gillian’s drumming talons. Her glowing green eyes rose and followed Agnes as she set the tray between her feet.

“I’d rather you left me to rot in that brothel.” She hissed through gritted teeth, but she didn’t send the bowl flying like she did with the prior two meals Agnes had brought, at least.

“Blancmange, Persie. Your favorite. I cooked it myself. Hasn’t been tampered with, see?”

Fumbling in desperation, Agnes lifted the lid off the heavy clay bowl. The roiling cloud of vapor dissipated, revealing a snow-white gruel, its smooth face inlaid with honeyed pine nuts, spelling out a vulgar curse upon Hadrian.

Persephia stared down her nose at the white gruel, making no move to touch it.

“How do you expect me to swallow with blades jabbing at my throat?” She shoved it off with her foot.

“I’ll feed you.” Agnes hastily caught the skidding tray before the swirling gruel overflowed, then snatched the escaping spoon.

“Try it. I’ll spit it out and boil your other eye in its socket.” Persie snarled.

“If it means you’ll take a sip, then fine by me,” Agnes mocked through gnashing teeth.

“I’ve no appetite.”

“You’re half-human. You must stilleat.”

“My body willfeedif it needs to.” Persie cocked her head at the wall of scales she was propped against. Was that why Gillian assumed his true form? So Persie could feed on his scales? How absurd.

Agnes shook her head in frustration. Scooping up a slopping ladle-full, she leaned in and held it before Persie’s lips, pleading,

“Please. One mouthful. It’s Mother’s blancmange.”

Whenever the King’s entourage took up residence in Graye Castle, Father would organize a hunt for one of their prized white peacocks. The fowl’s flesh would then be boiled with rice in goat milk, served in a bowl of white turtle-shell, sitting atop a nest made of its pearly train. The centerpiece of the welcoming feast.

But that wasn’t Persie’s favorite. Whenever Agnes fell under the weather (Persie, being a Greeneye, was never sick), Mother would cookbothgirls a filling, healthy treat of their favorites. For Agnes, she’d bake a pie of ground almonds and cream. For Persie, she’d cook a homey blancmange with the tenderest common hen and fattest goat milk. She’d carry the treat to their bedsides, alongside a flowing handful of pine nuts, and watch with a smile as the girls decorate their dish.

The rich smell no doubt caught Persie’s nostrils, stirring distant memories. Her glowing green eyes lingered on the spoonful. A long pause of silence, then she mused softly,

“I still can’t believe she’s dead, sometimes.”

Two emotions welled inside Agnes’s chest. Relief—and shame. She wondered what had prompted her to whip up Mother’s specialty for Persie. Was it to manipulate her? Or was she genuinely hoping to console her? She lowered the spoon to the bowl, her eyes to the carpeted floor, counting the legs of the embroidered bejeweled spiders.

“What I wouldn’t give to be at her bedside that day. Just for a moment.” Persie continued, her whispered voice trembling as it gathered strength, “I’ll never forgive him.”

“Then, why are you still doing his bidding?” Agnes muttered. Persie caught it.

“Do I look like I have a choice?” Her retort was instant. Agnes surfaced, blinking eyes filled with questions. Persephia averted her gaze, glaring morosely at Gillian’s gleaming talon.

“Baron Hadrian sent me home with a letter for Father. I thought it was an apology but no—he threatened to expose me as a Greeneye.”

Persephia’s hands clenched into shaking fists on her knees.

“I guess Father couldn’t bear the risk any longer. He bribed the Bishop to disappear me. I could’ve been defiled then killed for all he cared, but the bastard just threw me in the convent to rot.”

“When Baron Hadrian found me, I thought I was saved.” Persie shook her head, a derisive grin chiding her naive past self, “He erased me. Changed my name—my life—my face! Set these Druids to watch me, slipped me amnesiac whenever I showed signs of remembering. I don’t even remember what I looked like. What Mother looked like. But I’m beginning to. I don’t know what he’d do if he ever knew.”

Her voice rose into a snarl, then dissolved into shivering sobs. Her face in her hands, she took a long pause to rein in her ragged breathing, then nodded slowly,

“But Father, I know. I know what he wants. And if I give it to him, he’ll give me what I want. I just want to go home. Maybe he keeps Mother’s belongings somewhere still. I want to see her old rooms. Maybe I’ll remember her face again.”

“I understand, but then what?” Agnes demanded, her voice breaking from the tang of tears in her throat, “What if he wouldn’t introduce you to the Prince? What if he banished you again and Baron Hadrian tracked you down again? How can you be soreckless?”

Persie’s fingers slid down her face. She turned and answered her gaze, cold and calm.

“I told you—I’d kill myself.” She said quietly, adding at the sight of Agnes’s wide-eyed, stunned silence, “What is there left to lose? What’s the difference if I must live as another?”

“Persie—”

Agnes was at a loss. She knew Persie to be headstrong, but she’d never imagined her head would bethisstrong. She cast about for something, anything to convince her, to tempt her—

“Father’s taken a new Baroness Graye. She’ll bear him an heir.” Persie didn’t twitch a muscle on her face. Agnes grasped her arms and shook her gently, peering into her eyes stubbornly glued to the thin air about her shoulder,

“We’re free, Persie. When all this is over, and The Axel is secret no more, we’ll disappear. Together. We can be anyone, anything. We can go anywhere. If you don’t trust the Hadrians, we can go serve Pearlwater. Or Meriton. Or Cristoria, even. So, please—”

Persie closed her eyes to the sight of Agnes, to the naked half of her face which retained vestiges of Mother’s beauty. Agnes sank to her haunches in despair, but if she were doomed to forever suffer in atonement, she would set off on that path with honor, with her head held high.

Agnes reached a trembling hand into her sleeve. From it, she produced a piece of old, spotted parchment, crumpled, burnt, and bloodstained in places. As Persephia gawked, she held Mother’s last letter out to her, its contents laid bare in fading ink.

“You are the firstborn of Graye.” She forced air through the claws of dread strangling her windpipe. She stared down at the carpet spiders, peering so hard they dissolved into blurs of black and glowing amethyst, like the gleam in Mother’s eyes,

“I surrender my birthright. I surrender my claim to the Prince. I surrender myself to the Church.”

Persephia didn’t move. Agnes held on, her hand shaking from ache. She closed her eyes as hot tears stung them. The prospect of life in the convent chilled her to the bone, but it was her destiny. She couldn’t force it upon Persephia any longer.

“Promise you’ll visit me. And bring me Mother’s pie sometimes. Please?”

For an eternity, Persephia said nothing. Then, to Agnes’s disbelief, she reached for the bowl and poured the gruel down her throat, gobbling like a starved child. Dollops of soup drooped onto Vyrgil’s blade (the three Druids hastily withdrew their swords) and splattered her front.

When Persie finally lowered the bowl to take a breath, Agnes launched herself forward.

“I’m so sorry, Persie.” She succumbed to tears as she linked her hands upon her sister’s burning back, shaking her head vigorously, “All those years. I should’ve done something. Should’vesaidsomething—”

Persie sniffed, then smoothed her hand down Agnes’s back in return.

“It’s fine.” She comforted her gently, “It mustn’t have been easy for you, either. I’m sorry, too.”

Burning fingertips snaked under her mask, tracing her scar. Agnes squeezed her eyes against the tide of grief for what could have been, as she pressed her cheek to the soothing heat of Persie’s palm.

“That convent was torture.” Persie confessed, her words similarly choked by tears, “But it still took me a week to stop wishing it upon you. How could I have ever wished such a thing? To my own little sister?”

“Don’t, Persie. It’s just a thought.” Agnes shook her head. Persie embraced her tighter,

“Thank Freda it was me. I’m glad it was me.”

The twins sobbed and held onto each other. Gillian watched them, seemingly impassive, then his eye narrowed with a blazing will. Silently, he shifted so his icy metallic scales burning the Hybridean girl’s back made way for his softer, warm belly, and his tail curved in as if to cordon the heat amid the falling night chill.

By the time the girls’ tears were finally spent, so was their energy. Persephia downed and licked all but a few spoonfuls of the white gruel Agnes helped herself to. Even as hungry as she was, Agnes still couldn’t stand Persie’s beloved blancmange, even one made with Mother’s recipe.