The Gift
Though she’d done her best not to show it, aware that most of Rhannon didn’t know how bad things had been between her and Harun, Sorrow had spent the last four weeks itching for the mourning period to be over so she could officially begin campaigning.
She’d been disappointed to find that there wasn’t very much to do – candidates simply gave a presentation to the Jedenvat at the beginning of the campaign, and then waited for the formality of election day to be over so they could get to work. She supposed it made sense when there was just one candidate – after all, the entire country would have to abstain in order for someone to lose, and the Jedenvat’s approval was guaranteed in the face of one candidate – but things were different this time. She’d be competing for votes. And she found, to her surprise, that she wanted to test her mettle. Rasmus had always said she was unnaturally competitive for an only child.
Luvian had told her how in Svarta the prospective fain – their version of a chancellor – would travel the land and visit the various tribes, asking what they needed and wanted and incorporating that into their campaign. And in Astria, the presidential candidates held rallies and galas to gather support. Sorrow thought both sounded like ideal opportunities to actually get out and meet the people, as well as to see Rhannon, and had asked Luvian to write to the Jedenvat, to find out how she would go about arranging it.
So when the Jedenvat had replied saying that, in honour of there being two candidates, she and Mael would give two presentations – one at the beginning for the public and one before the election for the Jedenvat – but otherwise “recommended she adhere to the protocol”, Sorrow was annoyed.
“What does that mean?” Sorrow had asked Luvian. “Is it a suggestion, or a command?”
“How on Laethea should I know?” Luvian replied.
“What’s the worst that happens if I assume it’s a suggestion?”
Luvian took a deep breath. “You lose the support of the Jedenvat for going against their clear wishes. Which, if you absolutely win the public vote, isn’t an immediate concern, but will make you the head of a council who don’t trust you. And if you don’t win the public vote, and it comes down to the Jedenvat making the final call, you’re, how should I phrase it … buggered. Utterly buggered.”
The word Sorrow uttered in response made Luvian grin widely. “My, my, Miss Ventaxis. Where did you learn such language?”
“Fine,” she fumed, ignoring him. “I’ll give them their presentations. I’ll give them the best ones in Rhannish history.”
But now the time for the first presentation was almost upon her, all her swagger had vanished, leaving her feeling desperately unready and unprepared.
“So, the presentation to the people.” Irris thumbed her way through her notes. They were in a small library, sitting at opposite ends of a plush dark-green sofa. “Stay away from anything controversial. Luvian says you should use this time to show the people you can be mature, calm and focused,” she read from the paper in her hand. “You need to show them you’re not like your father. Then the second one will be you in decisive, powerful mode for the Jedenvat. That’ll be interesting.” Irris looked up and grinned at Sorrow.
“Ha ha.”
“The important thing is to stay cool. Don’t get flustered.”
“Irri, it sounds like you’re expecting me to mess up,” Sorrow said, half joking.
Irris didn’t smile.
“Oh,” Sorrow said.
“You’re not used to speaking in front of crowds. And Mael is a consummate performer, currently playing the role of the prodigal son,” Irris added. “Who knows how long he’s been trained for this moment?”
“And if we’d found proof he was a performer, this would all be moot. We would be in Istevar, overseeing the renovations at the Winter Palace. Or finally enjoying the Summer Palace.”
“You’d still have to do some work,” Irris reminded her. “There would still be an election.”
“But I’d be the only name on the ballot.”
“We’ve found Corius, at least,” Irris said.
Sorrow snorted, remembering Luvian’s face when they’d learned the Rhyllian tailor, who’d made the suit Mael wore on the day he fell, was dead. “I’m only surprised Luvian didn’t demand him dug up and interrogated. He’s hardly dead at all, a mere matter of weeks,” Sorrow said, mimicking Luvian’s drawl with uncanny accuracy.
“If it helps, my father would probably have approved it.” Irris arched a brow. “He’s worried about how little we’ve been able to find, too.”
Sorrow began to smile, but it faded. “Someone, somewhere, preferably still alive, must know something. We need to know where Vespus is hiding this Beliss woman. And find the artist, Graxal…”
She and Irris had finally determined the signature on the portrait of Mael read Graxal, though that told them nothing. Sorrow had asked to bring it with her, but the request had been denied. Further questioning revealed the portraits were delivered to the Summer Palace on the eve of the bridge memorial every year, from an artist in Rhylla who wished that he, and the portrait’s commissioner, remain anonymous.
Sorrow had announced she had no intention of respecting his wishes and demanded an address, determined to prove a link between the artist and Vespus, only to be told the address had been mysteriously lost, and her best bet was to wait and see if the artist delivered a portrait the following year. Luvian had applauded her “inventive” use of language after that pronouncement, too.
“I wish it would happen a bit faster. I wish we didn’t have to be so secretive about it.”
“Well, it might be easier to find things once you’re in Rhylla,” Irris said. “Luvian certainly seems confident.”
“Luvian always seems confident,” Sorrow muttered darkly. “I wish you were coming.”
“Me too.” Irris smiled before adding carefully, “Rasmus will be at the Naming, won’t he?”
Sorrow had been trying not to think about it.
Rasmus had not attended Harun’s funeral. Caspar, prince consort, came in Melisia’s place, as Melisia had not long given birth to their much longed for second child. Sorrow had expected Rasmus to come too, given how many years he’d spent living in Rhannon, if for no other reason. But he hadn’t – Caspar had arrived with Vespus, and some other delegates whose names Sorrow had already forgotten. Sorrow was too proud to ask Vespus why his son hadn’t come, but afterwards, unable to stop thinking about him, she’d sent Rasmus a note, saying she was sad not to have seen him, and hoped he was well.
She’d waited every day since for a reply from him, and was finally beginning to accept it wasn’t coming. That he was gone from her life. The thought left a sour taste in her mouth; she still regretted how things had ended, and she hated him not being around.
All through her father’s funeral, the move to the North Marches, hiring Luvian – she’d missed him, used to him always being there, helping her, distracting her. Fixing her. His absence was a physical ache sometimes, driving every thought from her mind as she longed for him, miserable at the idea of never seeing him again. Now, six weeks after he’d left her standing in the library of the Summer Palace, the pain of missing him had faded, for the most part, but every now and then it flared again. Every now and then she would have moved worlds for one more selfish moment with him.
“Maybe he needs more time.” Irris knew what – or rather, who – she was thinking about.
“Maybe.” Sorrow didn’t believe it, and the thought of seeing him on his own territory, dressed up for glamourous events, made her feel ill.
Then something else occurred to her. “What on Laethea do you wear to a Naming? Or feasts? Irri, I don’t think I have any clothes for this kind of thing.”
She’d had new clothes made for campaigning, tunics and trousers in bright colours, and even a couple of dresses. But they wouldn’t do for something like this. Not if what Rasmus had told her of Rhyllian parties was true.
“Don’t worry. We’ll write to the Winter Palace today and see what they have,” Irris reassured her.
The following morning, a trunk of gowns arrived from Istevar, along with some other packages for Sorrow, and a young, timid-looking seamstress who could barely look her in the eye. Sorrow and Irris pulled the dresses out and lay them along the sofas in the library, looking at them with increasing dismay.
“Try that one.” Irris pointed to a silvery gown that was the least terrible of the lot.
“I look like Grandmama,” Sorrow said, staring at herself in the mirror. “In fact, this probably was hers. I can’t go to Rhylla wearing clothes that are eighteen years out of date. Or older. I need something modern.”
She saw, then, the enormity of what lay ahead of her in trying to rebuild Rhannon. The country had been frozen in time for eighteen years. No new art, music, fashion. No new inventions or innovations. They were almost two decades behind the rest of Laethea. Luvian had said Meridea was on the verge of creating some kind of steam-powered engine that would eliminate the need for carriages and make journeys that once took weeks take mere days. The Rhyllian ballet and opera were world class, with people travelling from all over Laethea to see them. Even austere Nyrssea – the only place, Sorrow realized, these dresses might actually still be considered risqué – had made great leaps in medicine over the past five years. Only Rhannon, the very heart of the world, had stagnated. Slumbered. And now Sorrow had to wake it.
How, though? It was one thing to talk about making changes, but how on Laethea was she going to pull it off?
Overwhelmed, she flopped down in the gown, eliciting an outraged squeak from the seamstress. Sorrow turned to her.
“What do you think of this dress, really?” she asked her. “Be honest.”
She looked between Sorrow and Irris, as though worried the question was a test, before she said, “You’re right. It’s outmoded.”
Sorrow nodded. “Do you like clothes? Fashions, I mean? Do you know about them in other countries? I mean, you must, to know it’s out of style.”
The seamstress paused, her eyes wide.
“It’s all right,” Sorrow reassured her. “You won’t get into trouble.”
The girl spoke hesitantly at first, her confidence increasing as she relaxed into her subject. “As far as fashions go, Skae and Svarta don’t really have them. They still wear the same old styles they’ve worn for ever. But that’s because of the climate there. And Nyrssea likes women to be as drab as possible; Astria is the same. Rhylla, though, and Meridea… I’ve seen drawings…” She stopped abruptly, aware she might have said too much.
“Black-market drawings? Don’t worry, I promise it’s not a trick,” Sorrow said hastily. It truly wasn’t. If anything, she was thrilled by the idea that, as she herself, and Shevela and Shenai at the Summer Palace had, this girl too had staged a small rebellion and pursued her passion, secretly, stealthily. Sorrow hoped that the same held true across Rhannon: that young women, and men, had sought out the knowledge and joy Harun had forbidden them. It would make her job much easier, if the younger generations had already begun laying the foundations to bring life back to Rhannon. “So, have you?”
The seamstress nodded.
“Good. Can you get in touch with the people who got them for you? Can you find out what’s fashionable there now?”
“I already know,” the seamstress said softly.
“Then do you think you can adapt them? Make new designs?”
The flash of guilt that blazed across her face told Sorrow she already had.
“What’s your name?” Sorrow asked.
“Ines.”
“Ines. Do you think in a week you could make me some new gowns according to your designs?”
“In a week?” The girl looked horrified. “Getting hold of fabric will take at least twice that, not to mention cutting patterns, and sewing…”
Sorrow’s heart sank.
“What about repurposing these old gowns?” Irris said. “Could you remodel them based on your own designs? After all, the basic shapes must be similar enough; skirt, bodice, and there are trunks of old clothes – good-quality clothes – in the attics at the Summer and Winter Palaces. We could send for them, and perhaps if you have friends who could help? You’ll be paid, of course. And there might even be future work for you?”
Ines looked over Sorrow, peering intently at the dress.
“Yes,” Ines said finally. “I think I can.”
“There,” Irris said to Sorrow. “You shall go to the ball.”
Glad the gown problem was solved, and reassured that, thanks to the illicit knowledge of the younger generations, catching up might not be so hard, Sorrow began to open the rest of the packages.
She was pleased to find letters from two former ambassadors – Stile of Svarta, and Magnir of Meridea – ostensibly writing to see how she was, but she could read between the lines enough to know they were offering to return as ambassadors if she became chancellor. She handed the letters silently to Irris, who skimmed them, and gave Sorrow a knowing look.
The final box was wooden, the joins sealed with wax, and she took it to the small desk and picked up a letter opener, chipping away at the wax covering the lid as Irris joined her.
“What is that?” she asked as Sorrow hacked at the seams.
“No idea. If there’s a note, it’s inside,” Sorrow said.
She wedged the opener under the side of the lid and pushed up.
Immediately the girls recoiled, hands over their faces at the stench that rose from the box. Meaty, sweet and thick.
Dead.
Sorrow pulled her sleeve over her nose and mouth and peered inside.
There was some kind of animal in there; she could see fur, and a small foot with tiny claws.
“Don’t touch it. I’ll fetch Luvian.” Irris sped from the room, leaving Sorrow alone with the box. She took another look, and retched. Who would do something like this?