The sixth bell rang out in the courtyard. It was answered by a small chime sounding in the High Wing’s hall.
“We must get you dressed,” Laurelle said. “Matron Shashyl sent me in here to fetch you. She said you were suffering a headache and she didn’t want to disturb your rest until now.”
Dart glanced to the cold cup of willow bark tea, untouched. She had feigned illness to escape to her chambers after the bloodletting. Shashyl had seemed to understand, nodding and taking her under her thick arm. She must have suspected, like Laurelle, that Dart had been overcome, perhaps swooned.
A part of Dart felt a stab of irritation. She had performed the bloodletting without mishap. Did they all think so little of her ability? Had she not accomplished her studies with dutiful alacrity?
That bit of fire helped steady Dart’s legs. If she could stab a god, she could face the gathered Hands. Even the black-and-silver-haired Yaellin de Mar. He had given no indication that he recognized her from the gardens. And why should he? She had nothing to fear.
So she allowed Laurelle to tug free her shift, and together they searched her wardrobe for proper attire.
“Not too fine,” Laurelle said. “We mustn’t come off too pompous. But then again, we don’t want to appear as drab either.” Dart soon found herself in a ruffled white dress with a crimson sash. Though only of moderate splendor, it was far better than any of her clothes back at school. She felt like a mushroom masquerading as a flower.
Laurelle gave her one final look, fixing back a few loose curls. “Perfect.”
As if timed, a knock sounded at the door. Matron Shashyl called from the hall, “How are you faring in there? Dinner is being brought up to the commons. Master Pliny will not leave a quail’s wing to split between the two of you if you keep his ample appetite waiting.”
Laurelle hid a giggle behind her fingers. It was a common jest across the High Wing that Master Pliny, the Hand of Chrism’s Sweat, was more a servant of his belly than his god.
Dart and Laurelle crossed to the door. Laurelle took her hand. Dart found comfort in the familiarity and support. Laurelle leaned over and gave Dart a fast peck on the cheek. “As long as we’re together, we’ll always be fine.”
Dinner lasted past the eighth bell. Course after course had been marched into the common room: a soup of roasted butternut squash sprinkled with sweet cheese, a sour stew of boar’s meat and ale, an oven full of gravy pies, platters of spit-turned rabbit and quails, a huge haunch of roasted boeuf seasoned with peppered apples, and lastly, spun confections of sugar and cinnamon shaped into fanciful creatures of lore.
By the end, Dart’s head whirled amid the chatter and flows of wine.
Laurelle kept at her side, bolstering her up. Skilled with a charmed tongue, she had no trouble keeping up conversation. Dart was left mostly to watch, nibble, and sip.
All the Hands were in attendance. It had been many seasons since any new Hands had been brought into the fold. The six other men and women seemed more family than fellow servants. They squabbled, they pointed forks, they laughed, they taunted with jokes that originated in their shared pasts. Dart sensed it would take considerable time to blend in with this bunch.
But Laurelle tried her best. “And when all the illuminaria shattered, the looks on the other girls’ faces were shocked to the point of speechlessness. And Healer Paltry, I had never seen him so shook up.”
Dart had only been half-listening up to this point, having been caught up in a conversation between Master Pliny and Mistress Naff about the price of repostilaries. It seemed the flow of Grace between borders had been slowing of late, due to growing turmoil and odd behavior among some of the realms. Dart had listened intently, only to be drawn back to Laurelle at the sound of her own name.
“Dart looked the sickest of them all though. So green of face that you could barely note the mark of purity on her forehead.”
“I can only imagine Healer Paltry’s countenance,” Master Munchcryden mumbled. The diminutive man, the Hand of Yellow Bile, dabbed the corner of his lips with the edge of his sleeve. “How I would’ve liked to have been in that chamber to see that eternal smile of his break.”
Laurelle turned to Dart. “You know best. You should tell this story.”
Dart felt an icy finger of terror trace her spine. She knew Laurelle was only trying to include them in the table’s talk, to share anecdotes of their own shared past. Everyone knew Healer Paltry here, as he served as the High Wing’s healer and physik. To gently gibe him seemed to please the table.
Dart found one set of eyes falling with studied intent upon her. No amusement shone in Master Yaellin’s dark eyes. He wore a silver shirt with an ebony surcoat over it, adorned with raven feathers stitched into it as shimmering accents. The reminder of ravens unsettled Dart further.
“What reason did Healer Paltry give for the shatter of the illuminaria?” Yaellin asked. The casual manner of his words did not match his eyes.
Dart found all attention upon her. Under such weight, she lowered her gaze, fixing her attention to her wine goblet. “He said such things sometimes happened. That ofttimes the illuminaria would flare brighter with certain testings.” She attempted to punctuate her disinterest with a shrug. She ended up bobbling her wineglass and spilling it across the white linen.
A maid quickly scurried forward and dabbed up the pool. The distraction helped divert attention. Other conversations started. Still, one set of eyes remained focused on her.
Yaellin de Mar’s.
“Are you all right?” Laurelle asked.
Dart pushed back her chair. “It’s just the wine. I’m not accustomed to such richness of fare. I think I should retire to my room.”
Laurelle stood, too. “I’ll go with you.”
Mistress Naff lifted her wineglass to them. She was lithe of form and generous of bosom, dressed in a gown of red and brown silks, matching the drape and braid of her hair. Though rich of cloth, it was also somewhat chaste, laced to the neck. Naff was the Hand to Chrism’s seed. It was whispered back at school that some such Hands would occasionally bed their gods to collect the vital humours, but these rumors were mostly told among the boys, amid snickers and rude comments. It was in fact not the manner. Once monthly, a god would spill his seed or her menstral bleeding into a crystal repostilary. Sometimes a Hand would attend, more often they would merely be called in to collect the crystal receptacle afterward. As such rare humours allowed Grace to be blessed upon a living person, they were second only to blood in importance.
Mistress Naff nodded to them. “Sleep well. And welcome to our small family.”
Dart gave a half curtsy. She recognized a certain sadness in Mistress Naff’s eyes. Did she see her own lost youth in their young faces? Mistress Naff had served Lord Chrism for only eight years, but already Grace had aged her countenance with early lines and sags. The humour she served was said to be the hardest burden to bear. Though handled only monthly, its Grace was attuned to living people, wearing its servant more than the others.
The other Hands acknowledged the departing girls with raised glasses, except for Master Pliny, who grunted and lifted a honeycake, dusting crumbs from his full belly.
Here was their new family.
Master Fairland and Mistress Tre stood up, too, and announced their departure. They were the most silent of the Hands, barely speaking, seldom smiling, a twin brother and sister, both chosen at the same time, representing the humours of saliva and phlegm respectively. They kept mostly to themselves, even shaving their dark heads to match, a custom among the steamy jungles of the Fourth Land. They were also the newest Hands, besides Dart and Laurelle, having been chosen three years ago.
The assembly continued to disperse in the wake of Dart and Laurelle’s departure. Dart heard the well wishes and good nights spreading among the others. She glanced over one shoulder as the twin Hands departed toward their neighboring rooms.