“Eating cakes again, Megari?” She swept right past me, as if I didn’t exist. “Aren’t you tired of persimmons by now? Persimmon cake, persimmon soup, persimmon tea. The last time you ate so much, you were sick for days.”
“I was tired, not sick,” Megari said flatly. “And it’s my favorite fruit.”
“Yes, and I’d say you’ve had enough of it.” Zairena surveyed the crumbs on the plate with a wrinkled nose. “Besides, what does an A’landan like Chiruan know about making sweets? The only desserts worth eating are from Chajinda.”
Zairena set down the tray and poured a cup of tea for the young girl. “Perhaps when winter is over, I’ll send for monkeycakes. I could use a taste of home.”
Monkeycakes were Chajinda’s most famous dessert. Even my brothers, who didn’t have a predilection for sweets, always sought them from the stalls at the Summer Festival. I liked them, too. They reminded me of the cakes my mother used to make. Cakes I doubted I would ever taste again.
Megari lowered her moon lute cautiously. “Will you, really?”
“Yes, but only if you finish your tea. You’re on the mend, Megari, so long as you eat your vegetables and stop inviting wild girls into your chambers.”
I’d finished cleaning the spill, and Zairena at last acknowledged me with a glare. “She’s a demon worshipper. Didn’t you hear your mother?”
Megari struck a loud, jarring chord. “My mother didn’t say that. Hasege did.”
“Just as well.”
“Hasege’s an idiot. You used to think so, too.”
“When I was your age,” Zairena said tersely. “Then I learned to have more respect. Hasege is out there risking his life to search for your brother. He might be Takkan’s only hope of making it home alive.”
Megari’s shoulders fell, and Zairena refilled her tea. “That’s a good girl. Now, continue practicing your music. I’ll see that Lina returns to the kitchen.”
Before Megari could protest, Zairena grabbed me by my sash and dragged me out.
Once we were down the hall, she snatched the persimmon from my pocket. “Stealing, are we?”
She lifted a hand to slap me, but I’d had enough of that from Mrs. Dainan. I caught her wrist, holding it high, and her eyebrows shot up with shock.
There we stood, in the middle of the cramped hall, locked in a furious standstill. I raised my chin, daring her to call for the sentinels.
What I didn’t expect was for her to drop the persimmon. It fell to the hard wooden floor, and she smashed it with her foot, pressing down with all her strength. When she stepped away, all that remained was a mess of pulp.
Stunned, I let go of her hand, and she spun on her heel, knowing that in some unspoken way, she had won.
Snow fell that evening, the first I had seen, but not the first of the season. A reminder that my birthday, the first day of winter, had passed during the week I’d been in the castle dungeon. I used to start counting down the days and weeks as soon as the Autumn Festival passed, but this year I had completely forgotten.
I closed my eyes, pretending I was home and imagining the celebration banquet—the musicians and dancers, the entire palace smelling of pine and cedar, the roofs decorated with carpets of snow. I imagined arriving in a festive palanquin with plush silk satin cushions, attired in a scarlet jacket with a long brocade sash, and a headdress woven with silken plum blossoms and all the flowers of winter. And the food…
Braised pumpkin with pork and ginger, rice cakes with pureed red beans, sea bass marinated in sweet wine with pickled carrots…It was so real in my mind I could practically taste the dishes. But my belly wasn’t fooled, and the only guests at my birthday “banquet” this year were the rats squeaking around my slippers.
To celebrate, I set aside the starstroke, giving my hands a day of rest. I lay in the fish cellar watching moonlight pierce the gaps between the bricks and catching the flecks of melted snow that slid through the roof slats.
Only a few months ago, I had to remind everyone I was sixteen, not a child. If I were ever to return, I doubted anyone would make that mistake again. These last few months had stretched on like years. I could hardly believe I was only seventeen.
Halfway through the night, something tickled my nose. I swatted at my face, thinking it was a fly.
Is that how you greet me, Shiori, when I’ve come all this way to wish you happy belated birthday?
Kiki!
I bolted up. My little bird perched upon my hand, and I cradled her close to my chest.I missed you so much.
I followed you, but—She showed me her wing, which had become bent.From the storm.
Oh, you poor thing.I straightened the crease, thumbing the silvery-gold etchings on her wing, so delicate they looked like feathers.There, good as new.
