She looks well-fucked. The curls she spent so much time working her dark hair into are wild, the pins knocked loose.
She licks her dark, bitten lips and presses her hands to her cheeks. I can’t wait for everyone to take one look at her and know she’s just been fucked by her new husband on her way to mourn the old one.
That thought is quickly banished by the realization that I am on my way to betraying not only my sister’s sacrifice, but the sacrifice of all of the people who died to protect the fort that day. Ten years of strategizing for this chance at vengeance, and all I have to do is risk the plan we’ve built with a lie that will exonerate the very man responsible for all of our suffering.
I’m no longer just involved. Now I’m committed.
55
HENRY
The roads into Lunameade’s central square are lined with jars that hold flickering candles. It gives the illusion of a bright star exploding out from the Blood Well at the circular city center.
I suppose that’s the idea. I’m just not used to such elaborate decorations to go with the ritual.
What the fort has always lacked in extravagance, they’ve made up for in enthusiasm, but I have to admit that the lighting and the flowers strewn about the square give an eerie, ethereal quality to the solemn procession of people gathering around the mourning pyre.
Beside me, Harlow’s veiled head is bowed in deference as we climb the stairs of the ceremony stage that’s been constructed over the Blood Well. She looks haunting but lovely.
From the dais, I have a clear view of the pulsing crowd and the tall, conical mourning pyre, made of wood and huge bouquets of dried flowers, a good twenty feet in front of us. Mourners take turns securely tucking their letters to loved ones between the sticks before retreating to the edge of the crowd.
Security is present but not as robust as I expected. Several city guards stand around the pyre, watching the mourners move around it. Two men stand at the corners of the stage, their heads bowed in reverence.
“Who are they?” I ask Harlow.
“They’re blessed by Stellaria. They’ll help control the blaze,” she says, keeping her eyes cast down on the missive in her hand.
A figure darts up the stairs on the other side of the stage, and I start to push Harlow behind me until I see that it’s Kellan Carrenwell.
His face is clean-shaven, and his dark, wavy hair is still damp. Like he rushed to get here the moment he stepped out of the bath.
“Low,” he says, pulling her into a hug and kissing her cheek through her veil. “Good to see you. Sorry I cut it so close.”
She pulls back and looks past him. “What are you doing here? Where are Mother and Father?”
Kellan turns to face us so his back is to the crowd. “Slight change of plans. There’s a heavy Drained presence around both the North Hold and South Hold gates, so our parents are staying put to keep an eye on things. Rafe is doing the same up north. They want us to carry on with the ceremony without them. I will take on Father’s role—you will do the family mourning speech, Low.” He points to me. “And you will do your part at the afterparty.”
I bristle. I don’t like being told what to do by any Carrenwell, but I steady myself because I can feel Harlow’s frustration that Rafe is probably using this as yet another excuse to keep her sister from coming to a family event.
The crowd stirs restlessly in the cold night air. By now, the square is packed with so many people, they spill into the side streets. The stream of people coming forward to tuck their messages into the pyre has slowed to a trickle.
“Ready?” Kellan asks, smoothing his hands down his dark wool coat.
Harlow nods.
Kellan steps to the front of the stage and lifts his hands, and the crowd quiets. “People of Lunameade.”
As soon as he speaks, I understand why the stage is constructed this way. There are long, curved cutouts in the stone ground that extend from this central point in the square. Originally, I thought they were some kind of water drainage system, but they’re designed for acoustics, to help carry your voice to a large crowd if you stand in the right place.
Kellan continues. “We, the Carrenwell Family, welcome you to night one of Dark Star Festival. It is with heavy hearts that we come here to honor those we have lost over the past year. If you haven’t already doneso, please place your mourning letters in the pyre or pass them to the front so they can be placed for you.” He pauses for a moment as the crowd shifts, passing the remaining letters forward.
Once all of the messages have been put into the pyre, he lifts his hands again. “Thank you for coming here tonight. I know your hearts are heavy, but tonight we offer our grief up to the Divine in exchange for peace. This ceremony is not just a remembrance of those we have lost, but also a reminder of the miraculous power of the Divine. I’m happy to introduce my youngest sister, Harlow, who will play the part of Stellaria for this year’s Dark Star Festival.”
He steps aside as the crowd applauds. Harlow hands me her cloak and moves forward to take her place.
It was so bright back in our room, I didn’t notice, but the fabric that looked black in full light shimmers with silvery sparkles in the candlelight. She looks ethereal, like her gown has been sewn directly from the night sky. The fabric must be enchanted by someone with a blessing from Stellaria.
She takes a breath and speaks in a loud, clear voice. “My late husband, Marc Beckley, was a pillar of this community. He would have been our next mayor had Asher not called him home so soon.” She brings her hand to her chest, toying with the star pendant on her necklace. Then, she looks down. Murmurs of encouragement rise through the crowd, and she presses a hand to her heart and lifts her chin.
