“My dear sister, you have nothing to be afraid of.”
But I have. The machine looked so terribly, terribly hungry. The gagargi’s gaze was so dark. He has plans for me, I know that for sure.
Everyone knows that without a name a soul can’t anchor to the body, and I still have to wait two more months for my name. The gagargi, I’m sure of it now, he wants to feed me to the machine. That’s what his cruel smile meant.
“What is it?” Merile asks, brushing my cheek as I blink away tears.
The magpie studies me, head cocked to the side. The two guards pretend they don’t see me crying, though no doubt they took note of that. I’m once more ashamed of myself, my fears that I know are more than that. But how can I voice them without sounding ridiculous? How do I tell my sister without alarming her? I don’t want her to run and report to Nurse Nookes.
I whisper, “What if I lose my soul before my name day?”
Merile glances over my shoulder at the guards. They stand with their backs straight, rifles leaning against their shoulders. Dust doesn’t stain their midnight blue uniforms, nor does it mar their black boots. My sister flicks her finger at them, and they take ten steps back, just enough to give us privacy but still be able to protect us from whomever might want to hurt us. Though even they can’t protect me against the gagargi, not when his words turn people to stone.
“A secret,” Merile says. “If you tell me what name you’ve chosen, I will keep it a secret.”
What she is proposing is… My heart gallops like a three-legged wild pony. Nurse Nookes would definitely chastise me if she heard of this. And Mama wouldn’t approve, for it’s still two more months until the ceremony. I really should wait.
“I can’t…” It would be so very wrong. And yet, and yet I have known for months already what I want to be called when I finally turn six.
“I told my name to Sibilia. And she told hers to Elise. Who told hers to Celestia,” Merile reveals. She squats farther down and takes hold of my hands. Her fingers are so warm, even through the stained satin. “And nothing bad happened.”
The sea breeze is getting colder, heavy with the rain to come. I shiver as I stare up the hill, at the pavilion, and through the glass at the machine. I can hear it rumbling, puffing steam. I can’t see Mama, my sisters, or anyone else in the audience. But the machine can see me. And it still looks hungry.
“Alina,” I whisper in Merile’s ear, and it feels to me as if I were somehow, impossibly, sealing my fate. “My name will be Alina.”
Behind us, the machine screams a protest. But it can’t have my soul. My soul is now anchored to my body.
Chapter 2: Merile
Smell. I could smell everyone present in the grand hall even with my eyes closed. The favored nobles with their perfumes and colognes, bergamot oils with a hint of lavender and amber undertones. The servants carrying refreshments, sparkling white wine and bite-size sweet pastries in more sorts than I care to count. The omnipresent stink of horse sweat and gunpowder that ever clings to the high-ranking soldiers. And then… then there’s the sharp, thorny scent of the gagargi that always confuses both me and my dear companions.
“Tonight is an important night.” Gagargi Prataslav reaches toward the sky beyond the grand hall’s glass ceiling. Dressed in his ceremonial black robes, he looks taller and more powerful than I’ve seen him ever before. For a moment, I think he might really manage to touch the clouds that hide the Moon. Then he slowly folds his fingers into a fist, lowers his hand before him. Though I know what’s to come, my skin goes to goose bumps. It’s five years since I got my name, but it’s a day that one can never forget. “The Moon shines benevolently upon us.”
I stand on the raised stage with my sisters and dear companions, in a crescent arc behind Mama, Gagargi Prataslav, and our youngest sister. The nobles dressed in the shades of the Moon, officers of the imperial army, and servants alike stare at the trio, regardless of why they’re present. Though I can see only my sister’s back, the gray-brown hair held in place with dove pearls and the white, silver-sequined, long-sleeved dress that looks slightly too large even though three different seamstresses took it in on three separate occasions, I can tell she feels more out of place and nervous than I did on my name day. Whatever potion Nurse Nookes tricked her into swallowing isn’t strong enough.
Mama, regal in her ermine-trimmed gown, smiles in approval as the gagargi uncurls his long, bony fingers. A white bead the size of my fist rests in the cup of his palm. For some reason, at that moment, I think he holds the whole world in his palm, though it’s just the soul he needs for the naming spell. Rafa nudges me, her nose cold and wet through the silk of my dress. Though I’d normally pick my dear companion up and coo at her, I don’t, for this is a solemn ceremony. But Rafa was right to rebuke me for the ridiculous, childish thought. Mama is the Crescent Empress. Everything under the Moon belongs to her. And after her, that same everything will be Celestia’s, for she’s the oldest Daughter of the Moon.
I fix my attention to my little sister just in time to see the gagargi bend toward her, closer than is necessary. Blackness. Not even one glimmer of silver breaks the blackness of his robes, and so he is akin to a storm cloud or a rogue wave. My heart goes out to my little sister.
“Honored Daughter of the Moon,” Gagargi Prataslav says, leaning even closer. The hall is only dimly lit—the chandeliers bear egret beads—and in the swan bead’s white glow, what little skin remains visible from under the gagargi’s oiled beard bears the paleness of one who rarely steps outdoors. His thin, colorless lips remain parted as if he were reluctant to continue. Or as if he were displeased by something.
As the silence stretches on, people in the audience shuffle toward the stage regardless of their rank or lack of it. For this is an important moment not only for my little sister but also for the whole Crescent Empire. Though my little sister is the youngest, she’s fifth in the line of succession. Poor Mama never had sisters.
Another nudge against my calf. This time it’s Mufu. She’s getting impatient, too—her thin black tail wags like a pendulum of a clock gone mad. Still the gagargi won’t continue. I want to order him to do so, but it’s not my place to say a word. Mama’s pose remains regal. She looks calm from behind, but I can’t help wondering if a flicker of annoyance mars her expression.
At last, Gagargi Prataslav says, “What name have you chosen for yourself?”
My little sister—she’s told me her name, but I don’t dare to address her with it yet—glances shyly at Mama. We’re not fully human before our sixth birthday, not before we get our name. Officially get our name. No one is, and this is how it has always been, even for the Daughters of the Moon.
Mama nods sagely. With her pale hair pinned up, with an ibis-bead crown circling her head, she looks ethereal, dreamy, as if she existed not only here, but also in the world beyond this one. She turns to face my little sister, and the scent of her perfume tickles my nostrils. White roses in bloom. Curious that she still wears her summer perfume.
“My name is…” My little sister shivers. I’ve heard the servants whisper that she chose a bad month to be born. Her name day falls in the second month of autumn—on any other year we would have left for the Winter City already. Maybe the crowd’s anxiety is partially caused by that.
“Yes, my child?” Mama prompts, gently brushing my sister’s shoulder. As an empress, she would never display impatience of any sort in public, but she must want the ceremony to be over and us on our way to a warmer climate. This city was designed to remain cool during the summer months. It’s autumn already, and come winter, everything here will freeze.