CHAPTER SEVEN
ALYSSUM
As I entered the great hall, I braced myself.
I stood atop the platform of the split staircase and assessed the room below.
An impossibly tall ceiling with exposed beams was barely visible, even with the excessive amount of candlelit lanterns.
I imagined the servants had suffered amidst the heatwave, lugging extra lanterns from the dungeons.
Weeks ago, when the first cold front had dusted the crops with frost, preparations had been made to light the hearths.
But when the heat returned, much to everyone’s dismay, adjustments were made.
The refectory table stretched almost the entire length of the great hall to accommodate even the most lavish of feasts.
A supper for three, yet the whole table was decorated: silver candelabras, flickering their light against the aquamarine napery; sizable vases, overflowing with every hue of marigold; and oversized bowls of in-season fruit no one would be tasting.
It was lined with throne chairs, each intricately carved with sections of the night sky, but none quite so extravagant or large as the king’s.
There was room for two more elongated tables on either side, but they hadn’t yet been set up in preparation for the Feast of Comets.
Even without the feasting tables, it was evident the celebration was upon us.
The tapestries depicting Lunamor’s rich history had been replaced by splashes of midnight blue, silver, and golden silk.
In each of them, the Creator placed the stars by hand and blew out comets.
For a moment, my mounting stressors faded away—I could lose myself in those tapestries for days on end.
But reality always knew how to rip me right out of them.
Linus entered from the ground floor on the opposite side of the hall.
That long platinum hair stirring in the door’s gust, his own comet’s tail.
As the familiar emotional suffocation reappeared, a sour taste filled my mouth, and I couldn’t decide if it had more to do with Hollowmire’s heir, Vacant eyes, or my brother’s existence.
He dressed as though this were court, crushed teal velvet and marigold stitching and rings that would catch the light with each lift of his goblet.
His straight-backed, pompous demeanor was worth the eye roll I disallowed.
The way he skipped down the staircase as if it belonged to him, even though it never would.
In most ways, looking at him was akin to looking in a mirror: the muted blonde hair, prominent cheekbones, too-light eyes, and faintly aquiline nose were a brand.
If our mother hadn’t married the king, we wouldn’t have been allowed in the kingdom; only the northern Scholars of Mount Sor shared our likeness, and they were banned from Lunamor, save for the King’s Scholar, Scholar Bjorn.
I didn’t mind our shared attributes, but resembling Linus in any way was absolutely—
“Alyssum,” my father drawled. “What are you doing?”
I allowed only a measured inhale before spinning on my heel with a well-practiced smile.
My father stood less than a head taller than I did, and although I was only slightly above average height for a lady, his particularly erect posture whenever we came eye-to-eye caused me to hunch my own shoulders.
His dark hair, piercing hazel eyes, and tanned skin existed in stark contrast to mine and Linus’ comparatively pallid features; we had both inherited our mother’s Soran likeness, something most had learned not to comment on.
“Father, my lord,” I began, hoping to start dinner off on a cordial note, “is that a new cloak?” I clasped my hands before me, brows upturned in the center.
The cloak was black silk and obscured most of his Lunamor-colored tunic and trousers.
I thought the black suited his personality more than the colorful hues of our flag, though I barely allowed myself to think the thought before swiping it away; it was safer to not think at all in his presence.
“Indeed.” He inhaled deeply while looking through me, as if it were the least interesting thing I could have said. His shoulder-length hair was pulled back from his face, accentuating a square jawline and large ears.
“Lovely,” I said, my smile growing tight as he assessed my outfit of choice.
Tilda would be proud. During one of the lessons I’d actually attended, she’d told me certain Hollow women had shirked their skirts and dresses for trousers.
I’d heard they were surprisingly comfortable and easier to move around in, and when I attended my first Sentinel training, I found myself in complete agreement.
Still, this was the first time I’d made such a bold choice outside of my uniform.
My father was the only one who didn’t bat an eyelash when he first saw me in the Sentinel’s dark grey tunic, trousers, and black leather boots, so I thought I could escape even mild annoyance on his part.
The tunic I wore now was primarily gold—the same hue that adorned my walls—with an inky blue belt and matching pointed boots.
My pale blonde hair fell towards my navel in two neat braids, interwoven with a dark blue ribbon.
The silence elongated into something uncomfortable, so I shifted weight onto my other foot and pressed my lips together, uneasy beneath his gaze.
“It’s—it’s a common style in Hollowmire,” I managed, suddenly aware of the dryness of my mouth.
“Since when do you concern yourself with the customs of Hollowmire?” His expression was severe, and I wondered what on Morwyn had compelled me to say anything in the first place.
“Are you two going to be much longer?”
It was a rare occurrence to find myself thankful for Linus’ interjections, but as my father tore his narrowed eyes away from me and began descending the staircase, I welcomed the wave of relief.
Praise the stars, I thought, leaning against the polished banister for support. What I’d imagined to be an exciting yet not-too-disrespectful act of defiance now felt more like an act of lunacy. What had come over me?
“Alyssum,” my father prompted without looking back.
“Yes, Father,” I said, pacing brisk as I descended the stairs.
Linus raised his sharp, ice-blue gaze from the overflowing goblet he gripped possessively. The left corner of his lip lifted into a sneer.
“Must you?” His tone reminded me of the piqued way he spoke to the servant’s children.
“Must I what?” I sat in the carved wooden throne to Father’s right, straight across from Linus.
“Wear pants in the great hall,” Linus said it as though it were obvious, disgust marring his overly familiar features.
“For your information,” I started, emulating Linus’ know-it-all demeanor, “women wear pants frequently in Hollowmire. I hadn’t tried them myself until fitted for the Sentinel’s uniform—”
Linus grumbled audibly into his goblet.
“—and I found them to be surprisingly comfortable!”
Linus’ disapproval of my training as a Sentinel was well known and, if I had to guess, a widely echoed sentiment.
Even as the request left my lips over a year ago, I’d expected far worse than a passive rejection from Father.
Instead, he said he’d allow Anise to train me.
To be rendered speechless in his presence, not out of fear, but rather complete and total shock: a miracle, by Lunamor’s standards.
There were about two hundred caveats that came saddled with the approval—namely that I could only take part in the most boring aspects of being a Sentinel—but the opportunity to explore beyond the castle was worth each and every one.
“As lovely as our dresses are, they’re not as practical for everyday wear.
” It was a half-truth, which was about as much as I could hope for in the company of my blood.
I did love the dresses our tailors designed, especially with the latest import of brightly colored Hollowmire silks, but I did not love feeling my choices were limited simply because I lacked fragile, phallic-shaped anatomy between my legs.
“Well, dresses and skirts may not be as practical, but they do accentuate women’s bodies rather nicely.
” Linus’ comment was unfortunately timed for the servant who hovered above his plate, carefully transferring a game hen from a copper platter.
The flush that mottled her face was painfully evident, and it couldn’t have helped that Linus leaned back conspicuously, taking in her backside like the pig he was.
“I find pants to be quite flattering to the female form, personally,” I quipped back, unable to hide my disgust.
“Why would you have an opinion at all? I’m sure your future husband would be less than keen to hear you speak of any form other than his.” His attention left the servant, whose movements were perhaps quickened as she made her way to my side.
“It’s perfectly natural to appreciate beauty in all its manifestations, thank you very much!” I shouldn’t have sounded so defensive—I think I caused the servant to drop my hen from a higher distance than she’d meant to—but Linus beckoned my rage in half the time it took anyone else.
He turned towards our father, who was too busy studying his plate to pay us any mind. If the last few years were any indication, our bickering had become ambient noise he was perfectly capable of dismissing.
But it was clear that Linus’ frustration had reached its limit, because the next words out of his mouth silenced the room: “Imagine what Mother would say.”
My heart stilled within my chest as I dropped my head, attention fixing on my goblet. My gaze was just low enough to make evident the fear and respect coursing through my veins, but not quite so low that I couldn’t observe Linus soiling himself across the table.