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Your Highness —
Your mother is dead. The king requires his heir. You are summoned home.
Elma was happy in Lothyn. She was safe. Her mother, she was certain, had died of some natural cause. If she had been murdered, the king would have left Elma in Mekya, far from danger. Instead, he wanted her close. He would say that he wanted her in Frost, the capital city, where he could ensure that she understood her birthright. But Elma was certain, though he would never admit it, King Rafe did not want to be alone.
Elma bit back a sob as reality sunk in.
She did not remember her parents. The last time she’d seen them, she had been an infant. There were no memories, no blurred recollection of a pair of faces, of voices, of hands holding hers. She had been too young, sent away at the first possible moment, as was tradition. Babies did not fare well in Rothen. And so, everything Elma knew of her parents had been told to her or learned in rare letters from the northern kingdom. All she knew was Orchard House. And now, she was to be ripped from it, forced into a world of long nights and frigid snows and thick, dark windows.
Tears streamed down her face.
You are summoned home.
There would be no denying the king, her father. She had never met him, not truly, but she knew what he would expect of her. She knew her basic duty as heir to the throne of a kingdom — to do her father’s bidding.
She made a strangled sound of frustration, gritting her teeth.
Couldn’t her mother have been more careful, for Elma’s sake? The thought washed bitterly down her throat. No. Whatever had stopped the beating of her mother’s heart, whatever ailment had taken her soul prematurely, was the work of fate. Nothing could have prevented it; Elma knew that much. She had spent enough time lighting candles under the moon, hands clasped with her three stand-in mothers, speaking to the world’s heart.
She knew things like this never happened by chance.
A knock sounded at the door, the soft rap of a knuckle.
“Come in,” said Elma, pressing her eyes with the heel of a palm.
The door opened slowly, revealing first a tray of tea, and then Tammire, one of her mother’s cousins. She caught Elma’s gaze as she entered, closing the door behind her. There was love and warmth in her eyes, and a steady knowing — she had heard of the death of the queen.
“I’m sorry,” said Tammire, not waiting for any formalities to pass between them before she set down the tea tray, gathering Elma into her arms.
Finally, Elma gave way to grief. She wept loss into the embrace of one of the only mothers she had ever known. Racking sobs escaped her mouth, a stream of hot tears falling from her eyes until her nose was clogged and her breath came ragged.
She wept for the loss of Mekya, the garden kingdom, the place she would love with every piece of herself until her dying breath. The loss of Tammire, Dae, and Sharra — the women who had shaped her, nurtured her from infancy. The loss of Lothyn, its narrow streets, crowded shopfronts, expansiveponds and gardens, the libraries, the musicians, the flocks of green parrots that cackled in droves atop swaying palms.
But mostly, she wept for the impending loss of a youth that had been so fleeting, fragile in the knowledge that it would be taken away.
“Cry, cry, let it out,” said Tammire, and Elma heard in the woman’s voice that she, too, wept. “There is no shame in grief.”
“I don’t want to go,” Elma said, desperate, over and over into her mother’s shoulder. “I don’t want to go.”
“I know,” said Tammire.
And even those two words, soft and helpless as they were, calmed Elma until her sobs lessened, until her breathing slowed. Had Tammire told her to stop crying, she would have wailed even louder. If Tammire had tried to assure her that things would be all right, Elma would have shoved her away, disbelieving. But Tammire, Dae, and Sharra had only ever shown love. Understanding. Compassion.
Dread caught at Elma’s throat. Would there be compassion in Frost? Would there be love, understanding, even acceptance? Or would her life become hard-edged, carved from ice like the glaciers that moved unendingly across Rothen like frozen seas?
“Come,” said Tammire, holding Elma at arm’s length so they could see one another clearly. “Have some tea. I’ll send for the others, and we’ll say our goodbyes.”
Elma said nothing, afraid to speak, should she start crying again.
“It won’t be forever, love.”
The next day, Elma set off for Rothen. She had three bags full of belongings, all piled neatly on top of the carriage that would bear her across one kingdom and into another. Hergauzy dresses would stay behind, just like her sandals. They wouldn’t be needed in Rothen. Instead, she wore plain trousers, a tunic, and a long woolen cloak to keep her warm at night.
The journey would take weeks. A small contingent of guards was hired to protect her, in addition to a personal maid and various other members of the traveling party whom Elma couldn’t identify and had never met.
Tammire, Dae, and Sharra hugged her all as one before she left, their bodies nearly smothering her with unadulterated love. They were much like Elma, physically. Tall, graceful, their faces lined with decades of laughter and expression. They wore their hair long, thick and grey. Tammire’s hair was plaited, a thick braid down her back. Dae and Sharra wore theirs loose about their shoulders.
Elma breathed them in desperately. They smelled of cloves and orange honey, their soft embraces a lifelong comfort. She had felt so safe, so loved and protected in her fourteen years at Orchard House.
