CHAPTER ONE
When I awoke to the rumbling of summer’s first thunderstorm, I knew my father would die today.
I don’t know when or how the premonitions began, but they always came like a tidal wave over my senses: my muscles tensed and dread swallowed every other thought.
And as I stood there, watching somber clouds hang over the house, something in me hardened and bit back for the first time.
Not now.
But the urge did not care for me or my wishes. It didn’t care for anybody—not when I knew Ms. Appleby’s terrier would take a turn for the worse, when I sensed the unfaithfulness of my brother-in-law, or when my best friend’s evasiveness stirred fears about her home life.
The premonition came, went, and left destruction in its wake. And it did not care.
“Good morning, Papa,” I said, drawing his curtains so that sunlight could tickle his skin. He lay on the bed, his face haggard, his eyes barely open in the dim light.
“There’s my lily pad,” he murmured in response.
I laid a sandwich on the mattress, cold roast peeking out from beneath rye bread slices.
We’d be thrilled if he managed even a few bites.
My lips tightened in a forced smile. “And how are you feeling today?”
“Much better.”
He always felt much better, even when it was clear he was much worse. Day by day, the disease had carved away at his life. The stocky, muscular man who used to throw me in the air in exchange for squeals and giggles was now little more than the skin and bones that held him together.
My stomach turned. “You look better,” I lied.
He laughed as if he knew. I drew closer, clasping his hand.The sweet scent of lilies rose from his bedside table, where Mama’s fresh bouquet from this morning sat. Papa had always loved lilies, the way they blossomed with vibrant colors in the sun’s warmth. My sister and I were unsure if he loved the flowers because they shared a name with our mother, or if he’d fallen for Mama because she reminded him of the flowers he loved.
“What news from the palace?” he asked.
“I’m not exactly on the King’s council, Papa. I only tidy the young princes’ rooms.”
He sighed. “You’re made for more, Lyranore. Your magic…”
“I know, Papa.” Guilt gnawed at me. It’s what he always said when my work came up. Never mind that it helped pay the bills after he fell ill with the Quiet Passing, the plague slowly seeping through the kingdom’s population. It had left behind an empty chair around every family table we knew in the Capitol.
And now, it seemed, it was our turn for the disease to settle under our roof and steal our father’s final breath.
I tried to suppress a shudder. “Have you finished writing your stories with Kelara?”
“Over there,” he said, nodding his head toward a stack of handwritten memories that sat atop his nightstand. “You ought to read it. Before I—” His voice caught.
“I know.” My eyes prickled and I looked away. “I’ll get Mama. She’ll want to know you’re up.”
He grasped my wrist as I rose to leave. “I’m so very proud of you, Lyra. Working at the palace… I know you’ll always make me proud.”
My throat tightened. I leaned down and hugged him, enveloping myself in the dwindling warmth I’d considered home for so long. His arms lay limp at his sides. He used to tickle my belly, tap my nose affectionately, smooth back my hair and say it was just like Mama’s. Now he lay as if already prepared for the burial.
“I love you,” I whispered. His ribs shook beneath me, his chuckle reaching my ears.
“I love you too. I’m not used to hearing such sentimentality.” When I pulled back, his eyes were narrowed, mischief lurking within them. “Are you sure you’re well, lily pad?”
I swallowed and nodded. “I just wanted to make sure you knew.”
He shot me a wink. “How could I not? No one else is willing to sit and read political diatribes to me.”
