"My lady?"
I turn to find a Fae watching me with concerned eyes—androgynous features, bark-like skin, hair that shifts between autumn colors. They carry pruning shears and a watering can, clearly tending to the memorial gardens.
"I'm sorry," I say quickly. "I didn't mean to intrude. I was just exploring and found this place. It's beautiful, but so sad. Who were they?"
"I am Ash, keeper of these sacred grounds." They approach slowly, setting down their gardening tools. "These are the honored daughters who attempted the Great Work before you, goddess. Each one precious, each one mourned."
"The Great Work?" My confusion deepens. "I'm not familiar with that term."
Ash's expression grows guarded, as if they've revealed more than intended. "Perhaps His Majesty should explain such matters. I am merely a humble gardener."
"But they were selected for divine transformation," I press, gesturing toward the headstones. "What does that mean, exactly? And why did they... ascend... so soon after selection?"
"Some flowers bloom briefly but with great beauty," Ash says carefully. "Not all are meant for long seasons."
The non-answer frustrates me, but I can tell Ash won't say more. As I walk back to the palace, my mind churns with questions. Divine transformation. The Great Work. Seven women who were "selected" during seasonal ceremonies—just like I was selected during my arrival ceremony.
But surely that's coincidence. I was selected for a research fellowship, not for... whatever happened to these women.
That evening at dinner, I bring up the memorial garden casually, curious about Thorian's response.
"I found the most beautiful hidden garden today," I tell him over the roasted pheasant and wine. "With moonflowers and seven memorial monuments. Ash was tending them—such a peaceful, sacred feeling to the place."
Thorian's fork pauses halfway to his mouth, and something flickers across his expression. "Ah. You discovered the memorial garden."
"Who were they? The inscriptions mentioned divine transformation, but I don't understand what that means."
"Honored members of the court who... served important roles in our fertility ceremonies," he says carefully. "Their contributions to our magical practices were significant."
"But they're dead," I point out. "All quite young, and all within months of being selected for something. What happened to them?"
"The magical arts are not without risk," Thorian replies, his tone growing distant. "Not everyone is strong enough to channel the levels of power required for advanced fertility magic. They gave their lives in service to the court's survival."
His explanation makes sense, but something about his careful phrasing bothers me. "Were they volunteers? Did they understand the risks?"
"Of course." But he won't meet my eyes. "We would never ask anyone to sacrifice themselves unknowingly."
I want to believe him, but doubt has taken root. Over the next few days, I find myself returning to the memorial garden, studying the inscriptions more carefully. I notice details I missed before—the specific dates of selection always coinciding with seasonal fertility ceremonies. The increasingly elaborate language about "divine calling" and "sacred transformation."
Most disturbing of all, I realize that Isabella Thornweaver's grave is the newest, dated just two years ago. If the court regularly performs these dangerous fertility rituals, why has there been such a long gap before my arrival?
My academic training rebels against accepting Thorian's vague explanations. I need data, documentation, real answers. So I make my way to the palace library, hoping to research the court's ceremonial traditions.
The librarian, a elderly Fae woman with silver hair, is initially helpful in directing me to texts about fertility magic andseasonal ceremonies. But when I ask specifically about divine transformation rituals or the memorial garden, her demeanor changes completely.
"Such information would be restricted to His Majesty and the court physicians," she says stiffly. "Perhaps you should speak with him directly about your research interests."
"I'm his mate," I point out. "Surely I have access to court records?"
"The sacred mysteries are not for general study, even for honored guests." Her emphasis on 'guests' stings. "Some knowledge is too dangerous for the uninitiated."
Frustrated but not deterred, I try a different approach. Over the next week, I engage various court members in conversation about the memorial garden, hoping to piece together the truth from casual comments.
Most respond similarly to Ash—respectful but evasive, referring to the women as "honored daughters" who served the court's "sacred purposes." Lady Elvinia, the court's fertility advisor, actually looks distressed when I mention them.
"Best not to dwell on past sorrows," she murmurs. "The goddess path requires looking forward, not backward."
Captain Sage is even more direct: "Those matters are not for discussion, goddess. Focus on your own blessed transformation rather than questioning the past."
