The Other Sister
Everyone loved Merit best. She gave thoughtful gifts and remembered every servant’s name. Once she nursed a wounded kestrel back to flight. Her laughter made you feel special, like sharing a secret. When Merit danced, people forgot to breathe.
Talent planned the mischief and spun the stories that bound their little group, but Merit was the soul. She made the stars sparkle brighter.
That night, Vaelis glittered. After yet another social ball, the adults had retired to the smoking parlor, and the house had gone still except for the faint hum of flux chandeliers.
Talent sat cross-legged at her desk, bent over a gift she’d worked on for weeks: a star map for Cordon Sennett’s name day.
Every constellation drawn by hand, silver ink for the brighter stars, deep blue wash for the sky.
They’d talked about mapping the heavens the way explorers charted new lands, once they were married.
When the last line was dry, she smiled and wrapped it in silk and ribbon. A perfect gift.
The eastern hall lay half dark, moonlight pooling over marble. A thin line of candlelight glowed beneath Cordon’s guest suite. The Sennett boys stayed here when the Council of Five was in session.
She hesitated, then knocked once. No answer. Her hand brushed the latch. The door gave a quiet click and opened just enough.
Candlelight spilled across rugs and tangled sheets. Her sister’s dark hair fell loose over Cordon’s bare shoulder. They were tangled together, whispering and laughing.
For a heartbeat, Talent couldn’t move. She forgot to breathe. Wrong. This was all wrong. Cordon was engaged to her. What would society say? She’d be humiliated. Merit had everything—why did she need this too?
The box slipped from her fingers. It hit the floor and burst open, the star map unrolling and spreading, a spill of silver across the carpet.
Merit gasped. Cordon sat up. She caught a flash of their faces—beautiful, shocked, guilty.
Talent ran. Her feet slapped the marble, the echo chasing her down the hall. Her reflection blurred—round face, wide eyes, a ribbon still clutched in her hand.
She didn’t stop running until she reached her grandmother’s study. The air smelled of ink, paper, old perfume. The window stood open to the harbor, tide whispering as it ebbed below.
Her grandmother looked up from her desk, silver hair perfectly pinned back. She frowned. “What is it, Talent?”
“I saw something,” Talent said, pausing to catch her breath. “Merit. In Cordon’s guest suite.”
“Was she—” Her grandmother’s pause was delicate. “Compromised?”
The word hung in the air. Talent hadn’t fully thought this through. She nodded. Her grandmother’s pen didn’t waver. She didn’t even set it down. The clock on her desk ticked.
“You were right to tell me,” her grandmother said at last. “Leave it. I’ll see to it.”
That was all. No questions. No comfort. Unease flickered in Talent’s chest. She’d expected her grandmother to send a servant to break them up.
Marionette Salaren rarely saw to domestic matters personally, and never gently.
But Talent knew better than to talk back.
She hovered in the doorway for a moment.
“Go to bed, Talent.”
She nodded, backing out the door. Her grandmother had said she would fix it. Cordon might not be allowed to stay here anymore, but that would be temporary. Everything would go back to normal soon, she was sure of it.
In the morning, Merit’s room was empty. Her dresses gone, combs and ribbons vanished, the bed stripped of sheets. At breakfast, her grandmother read her correspondence as the thavi steamed.
“Where is Merit?” Talent asked.
“It was best handled quietly.”
Her grandmother refused questions and would not post her letters. Talent gathered Merit had been sent to school in the south, but the staff were forbidden to speak Merit’s name. It was as if she’d been erased.
A week later, Cordon’s body was found in the river.
They held the memorial at sunset. Lanterns drifted on the water where he’d gone under, golden light flashing over dark waves. People said he died of heartbreak, but Talent blamed herself. Her choices had sent Merit away. If that’s why Cordon had taken his life, it was her fault. All of it.
Talent stood on the balcony above the harbor, watching the lights float away. She wanted to scream, to confess, to take back the words that had created his disaster. But the house stayed silent. The city glittered on.
When she turned back, the flux chandeliers were already lit for dinner, humming with steady light. The house looked the same, but something in it had gone dark.