The Hidden Twin (22 page)

Who knows Jey.

I turn away quickly, arranging the pincushion and scissors and measuring tape on a long side table. I keep my back to the Head Gardener, my eyes on the mirror in front of me.

“Ah, Master Fibbori,” the Empress says evenly. “I was expecting you in the Tea Room half an hour ago. I trust nothing is amiss?”

Master Fibbori clears his throat. “I regret, Your Majesty, that…”

“That what?” the Empress asks. “My goodness, you're distressingly peaked.”

“I apologize, Your Majesty,” Fibbori says. “I— It's better if I show you.” He turns to the door. “Onna!”

Onna, the girl I taught to dust the peonies. This just keeps getting better. I watch the mirror and keep still. Onna steps through the doorway, a good deal more drawn and miserable than when I last saw her. She clutches a pot containing what looks like a burning twig.

I lean forward, peering into the mirror as Onna moves into the room. What she holds is not a burning twig after all, but the most extraordinary flower I've ever seen. Its stem is long and black, with the sheen and texture of coal. Its petals—I squint—its few petals, arranged mostly vertically, are wide and vibrantly orange with shredded edges, and they
glow,
dancing in the air like flames.

But the main stalk of the plant juts at a severe angle, twisted and unsettling as a broken leg.

I turn around, mesmerized. The structure and the shape of this plant's leaves are a bit like the common bluebird orchis I have at home, but this one is bigger and wilder, with more audacious curves and curls. The leaves perk up and glow a little more strongly as I look at them.

My muscles go rigid.
This is the bonescorch orchis.
Instinctively, I grab the scissors and hold them at my side.

“Is this my orchis?” The Empress's voice is even. I am not well enough acquainted with her to know whether this is dangerous.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Fibbori says, clasping his hands. “There has been an accident.”

“That is plain. What do you plan to do about it?”

I hold my breath. The broken plant gleams weakly, the bulk of its body hanging from the shiny base of the black stalk by mere splinters. No one remarks on the glowing leaves—apparently, even if the legend is true, this bonescorch orchis is too damaged to respond to me much. I am safe, for now, from the plant that would betray me. It is an amazing stroke of luck.

And yet, when the beautiful flame leaves start to flicker as though they know they are dying, my heart grieves.

Onna adjusts the pot, pulling at a strip of burlap and rattling, “It's a simple matter of mending the stalk, Your Majesty—” She nearly drops the cloth. Master Fibbori's mouth hardens, but Onna continues blathering, her face flushed. “We apply a strip of quality binding cloth—thusly—and secure it, and—”

“Like a tomato plant,” the Empress says with an undercurrent of disapproval.

Master Fibbori nods, a little muscle in his jaw pulsing. He helps Onna wind the burlap as the orchis crunches and flutters. The Empress watches, silent and expressionless, and Monty Horro looks delightfully scandalized.

But I feel sick. The flame leaves of this stunning plant are almost dark. The sound of the broken halves of the black stalk being ground against each other as the burlap forces them into place sets my nerves on edge. I may not know this bonescorch well, but I know orchises, and they are nothing like tomato plants.

I once vowed to find this orchis and pull it out by its traitorous roots. Now, it is dying, and all I need to do is let it. But everything in me cries out in protest. Every inch of my soul scratches under my skin; my legs and fingers ache to do something. My father wouldn't let them do this horrific, lethal surgery on an orchis as noble as this. And I can't stand by and watch, either.

Clutching the scissors, I slip past everyone and hurry to the fountain in the entryway. A good dip in the boiling water, and the blades come out shining and sanitary. No one notices me as I stride back. Master Fibbori and Onna are too busy wrestling with fear and dirty burlap, Monty Horro is too busy watching them with amusement, and Her Majesty and her flock of servants are too busy sitting in judgment.

I slide over to the pot, and in one quick movement, I thrust the shears forward and cut the plant off at its base. The two halves of black stem and a riot of curving, nearly dark leaves fall unceremoniously to the floor, leaving only a tiny nub protruding from the soil.

Silence descends. Horro and Onna gape at me. Fibbori says nothing, but his beady eyes flash.

The Empress turns to me, frowning. “
Who
did you say you were?”

There is something familiar about her regard—that serene self-assurance that emanates from those who have a great deal of power. I saw it in Zahi Zan, and in the Onyx Staff as well.

I drop my hands to my sides, the shears bumping my leg. “My name is Lin, Your Majesty.” The people around me are hardly breathing. Through the eerie quiet, I can hear faint birdsong and moving water from the entrance hall.

The Empress looks at the tattered remains of the plant at my feet. “I would be interested in hearing, Miss Lin, why you have chosen to cut down, before my very eyes, a rare example of the most valuable botanical species in Caldaras, especially given the fact that the Commandant and I were expecting it to be the centerpiece of tonight's once-in-a-millennium celebration.”

To his credit, Monty Horro steps forward. “Your Majesty, I take full responsibility for this. Lin is my apprentice. Her destruction of the orchis is on my head.” His voice drips danger.

The Empress regards him briefly, then returns her focus to me but doesn't speak.

An unconvincing throat clearing disturbs the atmosphere, and we all look at Master Fibbori, who is frowning at me. “Actually, Your Majesty”—he turns to her—“the orchis is not destroyed.”

The Empress raises a dark eyebrow.

“Upon further consideration,” Fibbori continues, “I believe cutting it off at the base may be its best hope of recovery.” There is distaste in his tone. “You see, the bonescorch—all orchises—are susceptible to infection when they are damaged. If the injury is severe enough, a sterile severing as close to the roots as possible is the wisest course of action.”

“I see.” The Empress gives me a thoughtful look. “In that case—well done, Miss Lin. It is a shame not to have the orchis to unveil at Crepuscule, but at least we have not lost it altogether.” She purses her lips. “You might consider employment working with plants instead of hats.” She unbuttons a lavender fan from her waist, flips it open, and says, “Now, Mr. Horro, tell me about the new beading technique you mentioned.”

“Certainly, Your Majesty,” Horro says, giving her a quick, deferential nod. “Miss Lin, would you mind very much gathering just a few fresh bluelet blossoms? If you can find any, that is. Go on.” He shoos me, and at last I am free to meet Sunny by the Long Angel Pool.

“Miss Lin,” a commanding voice says as I reach the door. I turn around. “I wonder,” the Empress goes on, “if, while you are out, you could let my son Zahi know that Mr. Horro has arrived with a disguise for him? I believe you will find him in the hedge maze. Thank you.”

I nod and hurry from the room as my blood turns icy.
Damn.
I can't disobey the Empress. I can only hope the twilight and my mask will hide my identity from Zahi Zan. But what will I say if he recognizes me? What will I do if he doesn't?

The entrance hall is bustling now as guests make their way into what I suspect is some kind of grand ballroom at the other end. I catch a glimpse of it—bright, cavernous, draped in copper fabric and golden flowers.

A hand touches my shoulder. Master Fibbori has followed me from the room, and now stands in the shadow of a tall flower bed, holding the orchis pot. He gives me an inscrutable look. “Miss … Lin, is it? Funny, you remind me very strongly of one of my less talented undergardeners.”

I stick out my chin. “You're not going to scold me for saving that plant, are you?”

He considers me for a moment. “No,” he says. “But I must ask you a question. How certain were you that you were doing the right thing?”

I shrug. “I've got a bluebird orchis at home. That's what I would have done for it.”

He nods. “Logical. Tell me, what do you know about the bonescorch?” He gestures to the severed stalk and withered leaves like dead birds lying on the pot's soil.

“Truly, not very much.”

“Well,” he says, “the specimen you saved today is the only one that has ever been found. It is more valuable than the whole of the Copper Palace. More valuable than all the treasures of Rasus.”

I inhale. “I … that makes sense, I suppose.”

“Yes,” Fibbori says. “And if you had dared harm it in front of Her Imperial Majesty, your punishment would have been instant death.”

“Boiling?” I ask hopefully.

“Hanging,” he says.

“Rasus's rotten teeth,” I mutter before I can stop myself. “Well, it's a good thing I didn't kill it.”

“Rasus's rotten teeth indeed.” Master Fibbori's voice is stern, but there is a hint of a smile underneath.

I leave the entrance hall's smells of copper, water, and tidy blooms for the outdoor scents of grass and night flowers. The sun set quickly, though Crepuscule won't officially begin until the rise of Bel. The brightest object in the night sky, Bel is known as the Queen of the Stars because she will rule for the next year.

As I move away from the Copper Palace, there are few people left on the lawns. The moon is out, and by its light I see a charming hedge maze in a corner of the grounds. The Empress said Zahi would be there.

I've never really seen moonlight before—just the weak, diluted stuff that drizzles its way through the clouds Mol spits at us in the lower city. But this moonlight is unfiltered, potent. As I walk among the flowers, it changes the color of my skin and the palace walls and the petals. A little breeze sweeps over the grass and flower beds in playful waves. It strokes my hair, lifting and winding the strands, prickling my scalp.

I know why Mol left his heart here; already this place tugs at my own. I follow the sound of water to the maze. The dark, bluish leaves of the hedges are a deeper blue at night, the walls of a secret magical land straight out of a Mother May story. As I enter the corridors of the maze, the silty ground under my feet as soft as feathers, I half expect to find an Other prince waiting there.

I smile.
Maybe I am turning into Jey.
My smile fades quickly, however. Jey is done with fairy tales now. Done with me.

My fingers trace the contours of the living walls as I venture farther in. Nearby I hear voices intermingled with the sound of a fountain burbling. My first thought is to turn away. But I pause. I was sent to fetch Zahi Zan. If I do not, it will cause suspicion. And my search for the Heart is more important than anything else; I can't jeopardize it.

I hold my breath and take a few careful steps closer until I turn a corner to find a large open space—the center of the maze.

Before me, tiny streams of water shoot upward and fall back into a pool ringed by wide stone ledges. The air is misty here, but with water vapor, not ash. Two people sit next to the pool with their backs to me, their shoulders touching, heads close together. Laughter. A young woman turns briefly to toss a flower—a delicate pearl avens, I think—into the pool behind her. Her smile is lovely, her features perfect.

She was wearing butter yellow the day I saw her with Zahi Zan on the lawn.

It is him again, next to her. I know him even from here. His hair is loose. He leans back, draped over the stone with the placid air of ownership, and says something I can't make out. The Butter Yellow Girl laughs again and rests her head on his shoulder.

I lean against the hedge. “Zahi Zan!”

Two faces turn to me. Zahi squints into the shadows. “Hello?”

“Your mother wants you in the salon! Your mask is here.”

As I turn away, I hear the Butter Yellow Girl say, “Was that a servant?”

My stomach suddenly aching, I make my way back through the hedge maze. I run across the lawn, past a row of stone servants' huts that look like an enormous, sleeping caterpillar, and past the glass dome of the Empress's garden. Hope I didn't know I had gushes away in a torrent. I have lied to myself, haven't I? Despite the cult of Bet-Nef and the Fog Walkers and
knowing
that I must destroy Mol's Heart to save Caldaras City, as I crossed the Jade Bridge this evening in that awful carriage, there was a part of me that only wanted to see Zahi Zan again.

My guts knotted, I reach the curving wall that guards the grounds of the Copper Palace. Carriages arrive one after another down the sandstone road, aristocrats in flamboyant attire alighting, laughing, venturing inside. I look out over the lawns, where the light from the palace can't reach, and the once-bright memory of Zahi's face so close to mine, his arms around me, is merely another shadow in this ghostly landscape. Now, when I shut my eyes, I am met with a brighter memory, of rippling water and a wide stone ledge and two heads very close together.
I've seen him now, haven't I?

What did I imagine would happen? I should have known as soon as I noticed him for the first time, cutting the grass in his rust-colored waistcoat, a prince disguised as a peasant. As beautiful and expensive as a bonescorch orchis.

I have been whipped, boiled, shot, isolated, and threatened. But it is only now, as I press my face into the carved jade arch that marks the edge of the grounds, that my eyebrows crinkle, the corners of my mouth tense, and tears slither down my cheeks in a ridiculous display of self-pity.

What disdain I used to have for Jey when she would come home with broken heart after broken heart, yet look at me now. I have to save the city from fiery annihilation, and I'm weeping for Zahi Zan.