Florienne
Lesson 17 from The Vesper’s Guide: A female’s ultimate skill is to laugh delicately in the face of humiliation or danger.”
—HIGH PRIESTESS ANNOTATIONS
“Smile. It’s your wedding night.” The High Priestess yanks the brush through Lenora’s knotted blond hair, snapping her head back.
Lenora’s sobs ricochet off the Pen’s glass dome and churn my stomach. I focus on my embroidery, my fingers trembling. None of us dare look up. Twenty Vespers kneel around the bride-to-be in our white robes, heads bowed over our tasks. The pain of Lenora’s beautification ceremony pierces deeper than skin. Even the trees in the vast stone Labyrinth outside seem to shudder in response. Or laugh.
“At least stop your sniveling,” the High Priestess sighs.
The Huntsman delivered Lenora a week ago, half-feral, pale as moonlight, and dehydrated. I doubt she can even speak or read. But her tears are proof she understands.
“Listen carefully,” the priestess lectures, “and soak in as many lessons as you can before midnight, starting with this—A female’s ultimate skill is to laugh delicately in the face of humiliation or danger.” Her encouraging eyes sweep over us, a look we know too well. “Girls, explain to Lenora why we should mirror the Laughing God’s mirth.”
Every Vesper except Demaya, a particularly rebellious seventeen-year-old, recites without missing a stitch. “Our laughter is a prayer, our humiliation his delight.”
Demaya smirks beneath her curtain of brown ringlets.
I flatten my lips. We’ve talked about this. I’ve been here for ten years and know better than anyone that there’s a time and place for defiance. It’s not now. Fortunately, the priestess is too busy untangling hair to notice Demaya’s slip.
Lenora clutches her robe and stares at the wedding dress on a rack between her and the window. Calling it a dress is an overstatement. It’s nothing more than two long strips of white silk meant to drape over shoulders and cinch at the waist with a pink sash. Her only other accessories will be her underwear and the veil we embroider with silent prayers.
“If you won’t laugh, at least smile. Like this.” The old priestess’s lips stretch, changing her sour expression into something almost kind. Almost.
Lenora hiccups.
The priestess sighs again and exchanges her brush for scissors. Snip. Snip. Golden strands of hair drift to the floor in surrender. When she moves behind Lenora, her facade cracks. “What else, girls?”
“Praise his conquests?” Demaya offers with a note of sarcasm in her tone. Her large doe eyes give her an innocent look, but I know better. The young woman can’t wait to get out of here.
Unlike many Vespers, Demaya arrived at the Pen with skills already honed—hiding, stealing, archery. The High Priestessnever knew that during our quiet moments, Demaya taught me to pick locks while I taught her how to survive learning the feminine mysteries with her dignity intact.
“Is that a question, Vesper Demaya?” the priestess asks. “Or are you mocking us?”
Thunder growls outside. Everyone jolts as if they genuinely believe the Gods echo the priestess’s displeasure.
I exhale through my teeth, shaking my head at the absurdity as I weave my needle through the silk. The last thing I want is to prick my finger—one wrong move, one drop of blood, and—I force my hands to steady.
“Um.” Demaya wipes her palms down her pale robe, her embroidery slipping. Her eyes find mine, pleading for support. If the misfit pushes too much, she’ll be punished. As will we all.
I motion for her to collect herself, then straighten my spine. The Huntsman found her hiding beneath a trapdoor in a barn two months ago. Though my blue hair and boyish frame contrast her brown curls and curves, something in her reminds me of myself. I was far younger when I was thrown in here and just as irreverent. Meeting my steady gaze, her uncertainty hardens into resolve. She answers the priestess. “I meant that men bloom under flattery.”
I give a slight nod and return to my work, hating that after a decade, I can only help others avoid punishment. We’ll all have a laugh and giggle when our chaperone turns in, but it’s better to avoid conflict for now.
The priestess applauds Demaya’s advice and demands more. Vespers tumble over each other with their learned advice, eager to please. Lenora listens avidly.
“When dining, let him take the first bite,” Vesper Kallie offers beside me. “When resting, warm his bed before he lies down.”
In my periphery, Demaya pretends to vomit when the priestess is turned. My gaze drifts through the glass to twostories below. Hunters crowd the Labyrinth’s stone gates, bristling with anticipation. The entrance hedges stand neat and ordered, but deeper in, chaos consumes the darkness.
“When your hunter claims you,” Marinda calls out, “mirror his desires. Match his fervor with your response.”
Another hidden vomit sound. I roll my eyes, lips twitching. I turn to the window to avoid looking at Demaya. I know if I do, I’ll burst out laughing.
Mist obscures the Labyrinth’s tall nemeton in the distance. Twelve brides will wake there at midnight. One plucked from the Pen, eleven plucked from other worlds. What cruel theater this is. At least the Vesper bride knows her purpose.
Storm clouds growl outside. It always rains on Hunt day. They claim it’s a sign of fertility, that the Goddess Amara grants us one night of her blessing. They also claimed a rose growing from my womb’s first blood made me their prophesied queen bride. When I first arrived in this place, I began to hope that becoming queen meant I could make the Huntsman pay for kill my Dray. But then I learned I was nothing more than an ornament, a vessel. Destined to elevate the hunter who claims me to kingship.
