Fairest: The Lunar Chronicles: Levana's Story (2 page)

Crawling from the bed, Levana pulled on a robe that had been laid out on the sitting chair. “You know very well why there aren’t any mirrors.”

To which Channary’s grin widened. She hopped up from the bed as well. “Oh, yes, that’s right. Your glamours are so becoming these days I’d almost forgotten.”

Then, quick as a viper, Channary backhanded Levana across the face, sending her stumbling into one of the bedposts. Levana cried out, the shock causing her to lose control of her glamour.

“Ah, there’s my ugly duckling,” Channary cooed. Stepping closer, she grabbed Levana’s chin, squeezing tight before Levana could raise her hand to soothe her already-flaming cheek. “I suggest you remember this the next time you think to contradict one of my orders. As you have so kindly reminded me, I am going to be queen, and I will not tolerate my commands being questioned, especially by my pathetic little sister. You
will
be speaking for me at the funeral.”

Turning away, Levana blinked back the tears that had sprung up and scrambled to reinstate her illusion. To hide her disfigurements. To pretend that she was beautiful too.

Spotting movement in the corner of her eye, she saw a maid frozen in the doorway. Channary hadn’t closed it upon entering, and Levana was quite certain the maid had seen everything.

Smartly, the servant lowered her gaze and curtsied.

Releasing Levana’s chin, Channary stepped back. “Put on your mourning dress, little sister,” she said, once again wearing her pretty smile. “We have a very big day ahead of us.”

*   *   *

The great hall was filled with grays. Gray hair, gray makeup, gray gloves, gray gowns, gray stockings. Charcoal jackets and heather sleeves, snowdrop shoes and stormy top hats. Despite the drab color palette, though, the funeral guests looked anything but mournful. For in those grays were gowns made of floating ribbons and sculpted jewelry and frosted flowers that grew like tiny gardens from bountiful poufed hair.

Levana could imagine that the Artemisian seamstresses had been kept very,
very
busy since the assassination.

Her own dress was adequate. A floor-length gown made of gray-on-gray damask velvet and a high lace neckline that, she guessed, looked lovely with the cropped black hair of her glamour. It was nothing as showy as Channary’s tutu, but at least she maintained a bit of dignity.

On a dais at the front of the room, a holograph was showing the deceased king and queen as they had once looked in their summery youth. Her mother in her wedding gown—barely older then than Levana was now. Her father seated upon his throne, broad shouldered and square jawed. They were artist-rendered portraits, of course—recordings of the royal family were strictly prohibited—but the artist had captured their glamours almost perfectly. Her father’s steely gaze, the graceful way her mother fluttered her fingers when she waved.

Levana stood beside Channary on the dais, accepting kisses on her hands and the condolences of Artemisia’s families as they filtered past. Levana’s stomach was in knots, knowing that Channary planned on shirking her duties as eldest and forcing her to give the speech. Though she had been practicing for years, Levana still had the irrational fear every time she addressed an audience that she would lose control of her glamour and they would see her as she truly was.

The rumors were bad enough. Whispers that the young princess was not at all beautiful, had in fact been grotesquely disfigured by some tragic accident in her childhood. That it was a mercy no one would ever have to look on her. That they were all lucky she was as skilled at her glamour as she was, so they wouldn’t have to tolerate such ugliness in their precious court.

She bowed her head, thanking a woman for her lie about how very honorable her parents had been, when her attention caught on a man still a few persons back in the line.

Her heart tripped over itself. Her movements became automatic—nod, hold out your hand, mumble
thank you
—while all the world receded into a blur of grays.

Sir Evret Hayle had become a royal guard in her father’s personal entourage when Levana was just eight years old, and she had loved him ever since, despite knowing that he was nearly ten years her senior. His skin was ebony dark, his eyes full of intelligence and cunning when he was on duty, and mirth when he was relaxed. She had once caught flecks of gray and emerald in his irises, and ever since was mesmerized by his eyes, hoping to be close enough one day to witness those flecks again. His hair was a mess of tightly coiled locks, long enough to seem unruly, short enough to be refined. Levana didn’t think she’d ever seen him outside of his guard uniform, which very precisely indicated every muscle in his arms and shoulders—until today. He was wearing simple gray pants and a tunic-style shirt that was almost too relaxed for a royal funeral.

He wore them like a prince.

For seven years she had known him to be the most handsome man in the entire Lunar court. In the city of Artemisia. On all of Luna. She had known it even before she was old enough to understand why her heart pounded so strongly when he was near.

And now he was coming closer. Only four people dividing them. Three. Two.

Hand beginning to tremble, Levana stood a little straighter and adjusted her glamour so that her eyes were a little brighter and the jewel in her skin glittered like an actual tear. She made herself a bit taller too—closer to Evret’s height, though still small enough to seem vulnerable and in need of protection.

It had been many months since she had reason to stand so near to him, and here he was, coming to her, with sympathy in his eyes. There were those flecks of gray and emerald, not a figment of her imagination after all. He was not playing the role of guard, for once, but of a mourning Lunar citizen. He was taking her hand and raising it to his mouth, though the kiss landed in the air above her knuckles. Her pulse was an ocean in her ears.

“Your Highness,” he said, and hearing his voice was almost as rare a treasure as seeing the flecks in his eyes. “I am so sorry for your loss. The sorrow belongs to us all, but I know you bear the weight more than anyone.”

She tried to store his words away in the back of her mind, for retrieval and analysis at a moment when he was not holding her hand or peering into her soul.
I know you bear the weight more than anyone.

Although he appeared honest, Levana didn’t think he was overly fond of the king and queen. Perhaps his grief was because he’d not been on duty when the murders happened, so he couldn’t have done anything to stop them. Levana sensed that he was exceptionally proud of his place on the royal guard.

For her part, though, she was grateful that Evret hadn’t been there. That some other guards had been killed instead.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Your kindness makes this day easier to bear, Sir Hayle.”

They were the same words she had said to countless other guests that day. Wishing she were clever enough to come up with something truly meaningful, she added, “I trust you know that you were a great favorite of my father’s.”

She had no idea whether it was true, but seeing Evret’s eyes soften made it as true as she cared for it to be.

“I will continue to faithfully serve your family as long as I am able.”

The proper words exchanged, he released her hand. Her skin tingled as she let it fall back to her side.

But rather than move on to offer condolences to Channary, Evret turned back and gestured to a woman beside him. “Your Highness, I do not believe you have ever met my wife. Her Royal Highness, Princess Levana Blackburn, this is Solstice Hayle. Sol, this is Her most charming Highness, Princess Levana.”

Something shriveled up inside Levana, turning hard and sharp in her gut, but she forced herself to smile and offer her hand as Solstice curtsied and kissed her fingers and said something that Levana didn’t hear. She knew that Evret had taken a wife some years ago, but she had given this fact little consideration. After all, her parents were married, but that had seemed to create no great affection between them, and what was a wife in a world in which mistresses were as common as servants, and monogamy as rare as an Earthen eclipse?

But now, meeting Evret’s wife for the first time, she noticed three things in quick succession that made her reconsider every thought she’d had about this woman’s existence.

First, that she was profoundly beautiful, but not in a glamoured sort of way. She had a cheerful, heart-shaped face, elegantly arched eyebrows, and honey-toned skin. She wore her hair loose for the occasion and it fell nearly to her waist in thick, dark strands that held just a bit of a curl.

Second, that Evret looked at her with a gentleness that Levana had never before seen in a man’s eyes, and that look sparked a yearning in her so strong it felt like agony.

Third, that Evret’s wife was very, very pregnant.

This,
Levana had not known.

“It is lovely to meet you,” Levana heard herself saying, though she didn’t catch Solstice’s response.

“Sol is a seamstress in AR-4,” Evret said with pride in his voice. “She was commissioned to embroider some of the gowns worn today, even.”

“Oh. Yes, I … I seem to recall my sister mentioning a seamstress in town who was becoming quite popular…” Levana trailed off as Solstice’s entire face brightened, and the look only further solidified her own hatred.

Levana remembered nothing more from their brief conversation, until Evret placed his hand on his wife’s back. The gesture seemed protective, and only as they continued on did Levana notice a fragility to Solstice that had at first been hidden by her beauty. She seemed a delicate creature, exhausted from the funeral or her pregnancy or both. Evret looked concerned as he whispered something to his wife, but Levana couldn’t hear him, and Solstice was batting his attention away by the time they’d reached Channary.

Levana turned back to the receiving line. Another mourner, another well-wisher, another liar. Lies, all lies. Levana became a recording—nod, hold out your hand, mumble
thank you
—as the line stretched on and on. As her sister became less and less interested in pretending sadness and her giggles and flirtations tinkled shrilly above the low-voiced mutterings of the crowd, as the holograph of her parents accepted their wedding vows.

Monogamy. Faithfulness.
True love.
She did not think she had ever witnessed it, not beside the fairy tales she’d been told as a child and the fanciful dramas sometimes acted out for the court’s entertainment. But to be so cherished—what a dream that must be. To have a man look upon you with such adoration. To feel the press of fingers on your back, a silent message to all who saw that you are his and he—he must be yours …

When a woman with gray antlers on her head saw the tears beginning to glisten in Levana’s eyes, she nodded understandingly and handed her a crisp gray handkerchief.

*   *   *

Levana convinced herself that it was boredom that drove her out of the palace three days after the funeral, still dressed in gray for the third and final day of mourning. She told herself that she wanted something bright and beautiful to wear when the mourning period was ended and all the kingdom rejoiced as their new queen took the throne for the first time. She told herself she needed a new pair of embroidered slippers for the coronation, or perhaps a finely spun scarf for her waist. Nothing in her wardrobe would suffice for such a historic occasion.

If she’d made up a story to tell to the guards at the maglev platforms, it was in vain. No one stopped her or asked where she was going.

AR-4, the most popular shopping district in Artemisia, was bustling with court families and nobles and their servants, all dressed in shades of gray, all making their arrangements for tomorrow’s festivities, but no one recognized Levana, who was wearing the glamour of a dark-skinned goddess, tall and lithe, with a gracefully elongated neck and edged cheekbones. She did not bother with hair, not wanting to distract from the glamour’s perfectly sculpted head and figure. Only the silent palace guards that followed in her wake would have given away her identity, but the street was too crowded for anyone to notice them or the girl they were tracking.

She paid no attention to the cobblers or the dressmakers, the milliners or the jewelers, the art galleries or the candy shoppes. She knew precisely where she was going. She counted the streets that she had seen on the holographic map that morning. Her eye caught briefly on the crescent Earth that could be seen in the black sky beyond the dome’s protective sphere, but lost sight of it as she turned the corner into a lovely little side alley. The scent of roasting coffee from a small caf
é
followed her as she trotted around the flowering window boxes and stone-carved benches that lined the alley. Though it wasn’t fully deserted, it was serene compared with the bustle of the main street.

There was the shop, just where the map and directory had indicated. A simple sign hung over the doorway, showing a needle and thread, and the paned window displayed an assortment of different yarns and fabrics.

As soon as she saw it, Levana realized that her stomach had knotted itself since turning into the alley. She was nervous.

And over what? The wife of a palace guard? A mere seamstress? Ridiculous.

She gestured for her guards to stay outside, braced herself, and pushed open the door.

She found herself in a well-lit showroom. A quick scan confirmed that no shopkeeper was present, but a second door was cracked open, leading to a back room where she could hear the whir of mechanical looms.

Two holographic mannequins in the corners were modeling a variety of garments—everything from lingerie to ball gowns, three-piece suits to crocheted stockings. Every piece was magnificent. It was easy to see how even this insignificant shop in a tiny alleyway in AR-4 was building such a quick reputation for itself among the families.

Levana paced around the showroom. It wasn’t large, but there was a lot to see. Shelves stacked with embroidered towels, bed linens, and window draperies. Silk scarves so delicate they felt like spiderwebs. A dress form wore a corset-style bodice that appeared to have been woven entirely of fine silver thread and tiny sparkling gems—it was jewelry as much as it was clothing.