“It’s starting!” said Talvi, eyes wild. “The third trial! The test of power! It’s coming!”
All of them leaned forward.
“Power?”
“What kind—”
“I don’t know,” said Talvi, shaking her head. “It came upon us in the gardens, a thing of utter darkness… alive and angry—”
“Us?” asked Cordelia, raising an eyebrow. “Who were you with?”
Talvi was spared answering when the ground began to quake and tremble. A vase of flowers toppled over, shattering on the floor. The windows opened and in poured a writhing darkness—
THE THIRD TRIAL IS NOW UNDERWAY.
CORDELIA OF THE FAMISHING, YOU ARE FIRST.
THE REST OF YOU ARE TO REMAIN IN YOUR ROOMS UNTIL YOU ARE SUMMONED.
THE END BEGINS NOW.
This was the end.
There would be no more trials. No more gatherings. No more need for sleuthing. No more need for the prince to sneak into her rooms. No more need for her.
Demelza should have felt relieved. She could bungle the third trial and it wouldn’t matter. She wasn’t supposed to be a real candidate, but would trying really make her one? Would Arris want that? Would she?
Alone, Demelza felt the truth creep toward her and, at last, she forced herself to behold it. When she thought of Arris, she felt wings stirring against her bones. She felt as if her feet were lifting off the ground. As if she were a being made of sunlight. But the truth was that Arris had nothing to do with her desire to try in the third trial. She was done diminishing herself… she wanted to dazzle.
If only to prove to no one but herself that she could.
Demelza slumped against the wall. At home, she had always imagined herself bravely charging into the unknown, seizing her tomorrows with both hands outstretched. But in practice, navigating the unknown was exhausting. It would be nice to receive a weekly map where moments of horrid heartache, flustered speech and spiky fear would be neatly scheduled so that she might prepare for them without feeling as though she were tumbling through the air with no promise of when the ground might reappear. Was adulthood like this every day? Or was it just chaos every now and then? With luck and years, Demelza hoped to find out for herself. Still, it would be nice to sneak into the past and curl up in her old bed with her old worries and old grievances. Though she had no wish to return to the way things were, Demelza had to admit…
“I miss home.”
Home, as it turned out, missed her too. All this time Hush Manor had been waiting for Demelza. It had been slinking around her waking hours, pressing itself to the sibling stones of Rathe Castle, pining and prowling like a needy cat. And, like any cat, it refused to make the first move.
But the moment it heard Demelza, Hush Manor made itself known. Behind her, the stones trembled. She scrambled away just in time to see the wall’s opacity sheer to translucence. The stones of Rathe Castle and Hush Manor might be estranged siblings, but they were family nonetheless and when one called, the other answered.
Familiar gray stones splattered with lichen and heatherappeared in the space where the wall had once been. The stones slotted neatly into place, forming an arch-shaped casement that opened directly into a room both bizarre and familiar, for it was none other than her old sitting room. Within, staring at her from two chairs—one, which was squashy and stitched in a pattern of feathers, and the other, which was thin and covered with a collection of coins—sat her parents. The moment Demelza saw them, they leapt up from their seats.
Araminta gasped and dropped her needlework. “Demelza! You’ve found a way home!”
“My darling girl!” said Prava, sniffing and dabbing his eyes with his sleeve.
Demelza stared at them. They were only a few feet away, as if she were sitting across from them in her old seat by the fireplace. She could not see it from her vantage point in the dormitory room, but she could imagine the old settee not far from her parents. The settee was carved from rosewood, covered in green velvet, stuffed with Araminta’s golden hair from her brooding time and embroidered by Demelza and her sisters with their names stitched in their favorite colors. Euphemia’s name was in burnt orange; Eulalia’s in scarlet; Evadne’s was dark blue and Eustacia’s was light, while Dulcinea opted for yellow and Corisande chose magenta and Demelza, as always, went for green. Even though she could not see the old settee, Demelza felt the raised letters of her sisters’ names and imagined the small hole in the cushion where her mother’s gold hair poked out like a thread of sunlight. She was so close to home and sofar from it, and she felt the glow of the life she had left behind as if she was returning to the warmth of a fire after a long day in the cold.
“What did I tell you, my love!” said Prava happily. “All is forgiven! Araminta, you made such a fuss over a sacrifice, but I knew she’d understand!”
“Understand?” said Demelza, outraged. “Am I so utterly expendable to you that I’m worth more as a corpse than a child? Because I refuse to be sacrificed, Father, even if it means you might finally love me as much as your other daughters!”
A shocked silence descended between the two rooms, and Demelza realized she had gone a step too far. Prava’s happy sniffles turned to the gasping breaths one took when trying to suppress a sob.
“Demelza!” said her mother shrilly.
Prava looked stricken. “Is that what you think?”
“Oh, Father, I’m sorry—”
