MY VIEW IS OBSTRUCTED BY THE long sashes hanging over the palanquin’s open sides, so this is how I see the palace properly for the first time: in snatched glimpses, the blur of movement and color. The lowering sun tints everything in a golden haze. It looks dreamlike, and feels it, too, as though I were looking out through someone else’s eyes. I’m about to become a Paper Girl. The concept is still ridiculous and ungraspable, even though here I am, sheathed in silver, hundreds of humans and demons watching my carriage pass, craning for one look at my face.

Yesterday Mistress Eira showed us a map of the palace. I picture it now, trying to keep track of where we’re going. I haven’t forgotten about finding my mother. Maybe I’ll see something that will give me a clue as to where she might be.

The palace grounds are arranged in a gridlike system, divided into courts, which are further separated into two areas: the Outer Courts, where all the daily services, work, and residential areas are, and the private Inner Courts, where only those of certain positions are allowed. Women’s Court is in the northeast block of the palace, in the Outer Courts. We first travel south, passing through City Court, a vast, bustling area of trade, markets, and restaurants. Then we head west through Ceremony Court, the square behind the main gates where I arrived with the General, and on to Industry Court, with its smoking forges and leather-tanning houses. Next, we move up the west side of the palace. We pass through Mortal Court—Lill’s family’s home, another citylike area where the maids, servants, and low-level government officials live—and then Military Court, home to the training grounds and army barracks.

There are two areas in the Outer Courts we don’t visit. At the northwest tip of the palace, Ghost Court is the official burial grounds. It would be bad luck to pass through such a place on a night of celebration. We also avoid Temple Court, which is within the exterior walls of the palace itself. The royal shamans must never be disturbed; only with the King’s permission can one enter their holy grounds. At one point, though, when we take a perimeter road through one of the courts that takes us right up to the wall, a warm, prickly sensation ripples across my body, the thrum of magic imbued in my dress seeming to shiver and rustle in response.

Night has fallen by the time we arrive at the Inner Courts. At once, the crowds thin out. It’s still busy, with every court official and their servants out to greet us, but the grounds here are more spacious, so the effect is of a sudden dampening, like a thick fog pillowing the world. The quiet comes as a shock after the jubilant atmosphere of the Outer Courts, and suddenly I miss the noise and chaos. I watch the darkening grounds through the window with a growing sense of unease, my tongue padded and dry in my mouth.

We’re almost there.

The landscape of the Inner Courts is a mix of lantern-lit streets, elegant pearl-white squares, and manicured gardens, the perfume of flowers cloying in the air. Moonlight reflects off a sweeping crescent of water that loops in and out of sight as we travel—the River of Infinity. It flows in a figure eight through Royal Court, the area at the heart of the palace, designed to bring the heavens’ fortune on the King.

The last part of our journey is marked when we pass over the central-most point of the river where the four curves meet. A gilded bridge arches over the water, lined with onlookers. They toss red blossoms at us, the petals catching in the wind and swirling around our carriages like a blood-drenched snowstorm.

“Heavens’ blessings!”

“May the gods smile down upon you!”

Their words are well meaning, but much less exuberant than those of the Outer Courts. The closeness of all these demons makes me press back from the window. We’re almost over the bridge when there’s the thud of something ramming the carriage.

I fling out my arms as it jerks to the left.

Another thud.

This time the carriage lurches sideways, almost tipping over. I smash into the side, fingers scrabbling for hold just in time. A few seconds later and I would have fallen through the open side. As the oryx right the carriage, I steady myself, rubbing my right shoulder where it hit the wood. Yells and shouts are coming from outside. Still cradling my shoulder, I cross the floor and peer out through the fluttering ribbons.

And gasp.

A human—Paper caste, her furless, scaleless, clawless body standing out against the otherness of the demons all around—is being pinned to the ground by two guards. Her robes are thin and worn. Servants’ clothes. Paper caste servants aren’t allowed in the Inner Courts; she must have snuck in somehow.

Just then, she lifts her head and our eyes meet. I don’t know what I was expecting. That they’d be filled with compassion, maybe, a kindred connection from one human to another. But instead, her look is fire.

“Dzarja!” she shrieks. Flickering lantern-light distorts her face, making her mouth seem too wide, her cheeks sunken hollows. “Dirty sluts! You shame us all!”

Above her, a guard lifts a club.

I look away, but not quickly enough. The heavy crunch rings in my ears. The accusatory glare in her eyes just before the club was brought down on her skull shimmers on the back of my eyelids, a ghostly afterimage. Lowering my lashes, I hover my fingers at my chest, then turn them outward with my thumbs crossed: the sky gods salute for a newly departed soul.

“Mistress, are you all right?”

I jolt as a horned face, part rhino, skin thick like hide, appears through the ribbons.

I open my mouth a few times before finding my voice. “Y-yes.”

“Apologies for the disruption. You will be continuing on your way now.” The guard bows.

“Wait!” I say as he turns to leave. “The woman. Why did—why was she—”

His expression doesn’t change. “Why was she killed?”

I swallow. “Yes.”

“She was a slave. She wasn’t permitted to be in the Inner Courts. And she posed a threat to the King’s property.”

It takes me a moment to realize he means me.

“But—you could have arrested her. You didn’t have to… to kill her.”

“Guards are permitted to execute Paper castes on the spot.” The leathery skin of his forehead wrinkles. “Is that all, Mistress?”

The tone of his voice makes me stiffen. He says it so easily, so bluntly, as though it weren’t anything at all.

“Mistress?” he repeats at my silence. “Is that all?”

I go to nod, then change it to a shake at the memory of the searing look in her eyes. “The woman, she—she called me something. Dzarja. What does it mean?”

He scowls. “It is an ugly expression.”

“For what?”

“‘Traitor,’” he says, and lowers his hand, ducking his head out of the carriage, the ribbons fluttering back into place.

Dzarja. The word haunts me as our procession starts back up. How easily the guard took the woman’s life, just the arc of a muscled arm. She wasn’t that much older than my mother when she was stolen, and I get a flash of a Paper caste face—Mama’s this time—mouth wide with terror as she is pinned down by a demon guard. I’ve been so focused on the thought that all she needed was to survive the journey here that I didn’t consider how difficult it might be for her to survive once she arrived.

Ten minutes later, my stomach is still churning when we pass through a set of tall gates into a barren plaza. A single road cuts down the center. Ahead looms a grand fortress, carved from flecked rock dark as a raven’s coat. Banners marked with the King’s bull-skull symbol snap in the wind. On every balcony and along the base of the building, guards stand watch, weapons at the ready. The quiet is uneasy, and the hoof-fall of the oryx demons echoes through the desolate square, my own pulse matching the rhythm and even their weight, each beat so heavy and terse it’s like my heart is clamping around a stone.

As we make our approach, I flex my fingers, trying to bring blood back to them. My muscles are as frozen as the rock of the royal palace looks.

Our procession comes to a stop at the bottom of a grand set of marble stairs leading up to a high, vaulted entranceway. At first everything is still. Then a band of gold unfurls itself from the entranceway. In one luxurious sweep, it rolls down the staircase, viscous and fluid, like some kind of charmed waterfall, and sure enough, I pick up the telltale vibration of magic in the air.

The door of my carriage swings open. “Mistress Lei-zhi,” greets a servant, holding out a hand to help me down.

The golden spill has painted the ground around the carriages in a shimmering metallic carpet. As my feet meet the floor, I look down to see ripples flowing out around me. But despite the beauty of it, I’m still reeling from what just happened on the bridge, and I follow the rest of the girls up the stairs, eyes trained on my feet to avoid the stares of the guards.

The world seems to grow even quieter when we enter the palace, though maybe I’m imagining it, the hush that sinks over us, reverent almost. As we march, I take in our surroundings in silent awe. There are echoing halls and narrow corridors. Indoor gardens with magical ceilings that mimic the night sky. Long staircases that wind steeply from floor to floor. Everything is carved out of the same black stone as the exterior, and though undeniably beautiful, it gives the place a clammy, imposing feel, like a mausoleum.

I think of the Paper Girls who came before me. The dreams of theirs that might have died within these very walls.

We have been walking for over twenty minutes when we are finally told to stop. A vaulted archway looms before us, the room beyond hidden by a heavy black curtain.

We’re still in a line ordered by our names. In front of me, Chenna’s thick hair falls down in its usual braid, though tonight it has been threaded with tiny silver flowers that make it look as if she’d been dancing between the galaxies, catching stars. Her shoulders rise and drop with shallow breaths. I’m about to step forward, offer some words of comfort, when there’s a groan behind me.

“Oh, gods,” Mariko moans. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

I pivot round to find her doubled over, her face white.

“Take a deep inhale,” I say, laying a hand on her arm, but she shoves me away.

“I don’t need the help of a peasant!” she snaps.

I draw back. “Fine, then.” I’m about to turn away when, over Mariko’s bowed head, Wren catches my gaze.

I freeze. She looks so astonishing it’s almost unreal, as though she’d slipped out of a painting perfectly formed, a thing of beauty, of art—of bright, vivid life in this cold, still place. The design of her cheongsam is the exact opposite of mine. Where the collar of mine is high, hers runs low, exposing the deep shadow of her cleavage. My dress has a slit up the side; hers is tight all the way down her legs, emphasizing their length and muscled shape. Unlike my sheer fabric, hers is a dark gunmetal silver, dangerous and enticing, evocative of armor.

Faintly, I remember what Lill said about our dresses representing our personalities. Underneath my wonder at her beauty, curiosity stirs.

As usual, Wren is the one to break eye contact. But to my surprise, she does so to lean forward to speak into Mariko’s ear. “I don’t know about you,” she murmurs, “but I have never seen a peasant who looked like that.” She looks up at me, a half smile touching her lips. “Now you look ready,” she says, just as a gong sounds from beyond the archway.

I whip back round to see the curtain floating aside. “Heavenly Master and honorable members of the court,” a magnified voice announces from the room beyond. “Presenting this year’s Paper Girls!”

In front of me, Chenna straightens, rolling her shoulders back. I follow her resolve, releasing a long exhale to steady myself as best as I can despite the spike of my pulse as, one by one, we step through the archway.

We emerge into a columned hall, deep and cavernlike, draped with garlands of vermilion silk. The walls look hollowed out of a marble cave. Rows of sheer steps on all sides lead down to a sunken pool. Ink-black water glitters with the reflection of lanterns overhead. From balconies ringing the room, hundreds of demon faces leer down at us. Our steps echo as we fan out in a row at the top of the steps, and I find it difficult to move, as if the expectant hush of the watching crowd had a weight, a solidity that thickens the atmosphere, lends an extra tug to gravity just here in this hall.

At first I keep my eyes low, trained on the floor. But something soon pulls their attention. Something draws them down the steps, across the pool, and to the podium on the far side. And I know before I see him what—or rather who—it will be.

The Demon King.

Lounging, almost, on his marbled gold throne. Or at least, there is something casual in the way he occupies it, some smug, almost irreverent quality to the way he sits, hips sloped a little too low, arms slung over the sides, head tilted back just enough to make it seem as if he were looking down at us even though we are much higher up the steps.

This is the first thing about him that surprises me. The King’s pose is particularly at odds with the formal, straight-backed stances of the three soldiers flanking him—a gray wolf-man, a huge moss-colored crocodile-man, and a white fox female, all Moon caste.

Also unexpected is how slender he is. Particularly in comparison with the crocodile demon who towers behind the throne, the King’s muscles are lean, roped, a bull’s strength bound through manlike limbs, and hidden under layered black robes with gold trim. In a fight between him and his crocodile guard, I wouldn’t rate the King’s chances very high… except. There is an energy about him. Coiled and alert, a magnetic pull that commands attention and power. Ice-blue eyes watch from under long lashes. Above his ears, thick horns unwind, etched with grooves inlaid with gold. And as I take in his face from a distance, there is a third thing that surprises me.

The King is handsome.

I was expecting an old King. Some weary, war-torn bull. But he looks young, not far past his teens. There’s an elegance to his face. Whereas General Yu’s was an ugly clash of imposing bull features, the King’s face is long, almost delicate in shape, with a defined jaw and wide, graceful mouth, a cupid’s bow peaking perfectly in its middle.

A lazy smile sharpens into a grin. The King leans forward, lantern light lending his walnut coat a glossy sheen. “My new Paper Girls,” he drawls. “Welcome.”

His voice is deep, heavy as night.

Quickly, we drop to the floor in low bows. The marble is cool against my palms. I feel the King’s gaze upon us like a touch and keep my head down, breathing hard.

“Presenting Mistress Aoki-zhi of Shomu!” comes the announcer’s voice.

There’s the sound of Aoki getting to her feet. Her tentative footsteps, then the unmistakable swish of water as she enters the pool. Mistress Eira told us that the water is part of the ritual, symbolic of purifying our bodies before we meet the King. It’s been enchanted so it won’t affect our appearance. A short while later Aoki’s wavering voice rings out with the greeting Mistress Eira taught us.

“How sweet,” comes the sound of the King’s voice, quieter now but still heavy and deep. “What a cute nose.”

I grind my teeth. He makes it sound as if she were a toy, a plaything for him to toss aside once he grows bored.

Which is exactly what she is, I remind myself, pressing my fingertips firmer against the cold stone.

What we all are.

The King takes more time with Blue, who is called next, and with Chenna, until all too soon, the announcer sings, “Presenting Mistress Lei-zhi of Xienzo!”

I get to my feet, awkward in this ridiculous dress, my right shoulder still stiff from where it bashed into the carriage wall earlier. The chamber is deafeningly quiet. The silence seems to spool around me, catlike, coaxing my nerves. I walk forward, trying to mimic Mistress Eira’s light way of moving. But my steps are heavy. Like in the carriage, the whole situation has a dreamlike tint to it, and my heart surges with the hopeless desire for that to be all this is.

I’ve learned how to live with nightmares. I could cope with one more.

Though I keep my eyes firmly tracked on the stairs I’m making my way down—it’s all I can do not to trip over in this ridiculous dress—I sense the eyes of the crowd following me. Dzarja. The word bounds into my head. Is that what I am? Is that what the demons see, a girl who is a traitor to her own people?

When I reach the bottom of the steps, I let out a relieved puff of air—just as I take my first step into the pool and stand on the hem of my dress.

The crowd gasps as I lurch forward. My arms fling out inelegantly, and I grimace as I hit the surface of the water with a smack. It’s cold, a fist of ice. I expect to choke, but the water is like viscous air, and I wrestle my panic down, regaining my composure. Or at least, whatever passes for composure when you’ve lost all traces of dignity. I scramble up and stride on, the dark liquid of the enchanted pool flowing around me like smoke. I do my best at getting out the other side somewhat gracefully. When I climb onto the podium, I drop to my knees at the King’s feet without daring to look at him.

“I—I am honored to serve you, Heavenly Master,” I recite into the shocked silence.

More silence.

And then the room erupts with the King’s laughter.

“Look at the poor thing!” he cries, his sonorous voice echoing off the cavernous walls. “Dressed like a queen when she cannot even walk a straight line. How much liquor did you ply her with to calm her nerves, Madam Himura?” he jokes, and the crowd joins in, the hall reverberating with demon laughter as a servant darts forward to hurry me on, and I stumble away, face burning.