Page 5 of Embrace the Serpent
“That went well,” Galen said cheerfully. “I think we’ll have some new customers!”
2
The crowds had thickened along the main road. It seemed less a sea of individuals and more a beast of a single mind.
“Oi, Gally boy!” A shout came from above, a balcony overlooking the street. A red-faced man leaned out, and the wine in his cup sloshed onto the heads of the unlucky sods below. “Oh, sorry!”
Galen saluted with his cane. “Hey-o, Rosh.”
“Come on up. We’re having a little to-do. The girls want to watch the Serpent King, but there’s hours yet, and they’re getting bored.” Rosh winked in a way that he probably thought was saucy.
Galen gave him a thumbs-up. “Saphira, why don’t you go on ahead? I’ll drum up some business with Rosh’s crowd.” He patted his hair to check that it hadn’t deflated. “How do I look?”
“Presentable,” I said.
“Would it kill you to give a compliment?”
“I thought you didn’t want me to lie to you.”
He rolled his eyes. “You have a real talent, you know. You could convince Helen of Troy she had a face like a tortoise. You could convince a stallion that it was a donkey.” His eyes sparkled; he was getting into it. “You could convince the Emperor—the Emperor—oh, dash it, I’ve lost it.”
“I got the picture,” I said.
“Oh, it’s on the tip of my tongue—blast it. It was a good one. But it doesn’t matter. Thing is, it’s all right. You couldn’t sell a jewel if your life depended on it, but that’s what I’m here for.” He looked at me fondly. “What would you do without me?”
“Die in the streets, probably.”
He laughed as if it were a joke and stole a glance up at the balcony.
That’s my cue. “Good luck with business, boss.”
We parted ways. Cutting a diagonal path through the crowd took me to a side street, which, with a hop and scamper, let out into the interconnected alleys that were the domain of trashmen, grocers, and delivery people. The kind of people who were gloriously too busy to pay attention to anyone. But today, the side streets were empty. Even the mice had gone to try their luck on the main road.
My guard was down. Idly, I picked up nice-looking rocks to gift to Grimney, my only friend and connoisseur of ordinary, unprecious stones, but my mind was on Mirandel.
Even at six years old, she was memorable. She and I had been on the same transport wagon to the Imperial City, but I didn’t notice her until they stripped us and bathed us, shaving our hair of the matted knots and lice we’d picked up on the weeks-long journey. There was a beast-like roar and a thud. A boy began to cry. And a girl with a gremlin’s face shouted, “He deserved it. He called me ugly.”
That was maybe the first time I’d almost smiled since I’d been taken from home.
We were settled into the Rose Palace—not the glittering main wing where Lady Incarnadine and her Chosen lived, but the other, older wing, the one the children calledthe thorns. In those first fewdays, the fleet of women caretakers—all of whom we were told to call Nanny—gave us musical instruments, well-worn chessboards, charcoal and slate to draw with. We were bade to dance, to craft, to recite poetry.
And then Lady Incarnadine came. Incense smoke preceded her, so thick that it made the air dim, so fragrant that my head began to spin. The servants carrying the incense braziers stood aside. Her eyes seemed to me pinpricks of fire, looming from the dark.
I clutched my mother’s ring and inched back until I hit the wall.
The Nannies read from a scroll, calling forth one by one the children who were deemed most beautiful, most talented, most valuable. They showed their skills, some proudly, others through their tears. With long fingers tipped in gold, Lady Incarnadine gesturedcomefor the ones she chose, andbegonefor those she didn’t.
And then one of the Nannies called my name.
My heart was in my ears. I didn’t answer.
The Nannies scanned the crowd, and the children shifted uneasily.
Lady Incarnadine began to turn—
Mirandel jumped before her. It was like a gargoyle had crept out of the shadows, newly come to life, with only a vague understanding of how to smile. She bowed before Lady Incarnadine and shouted at the top of her lungs, “I am Mirandel.” And marginally quieter, an accusation: “You forgot to call me.”
She squatted and stomped around like a three-legged horse. A stunned silence, broken by nothing but her heavy breathing and the thuds of her feet on stone. At last, drenched in sweat, Mirandel stopped. “That was a dance,” she announced, and comprehension dawned on us all.
