I nod, my forehead nearly touching his. “Yes.”
“Good … Good…” He hands me the cross-stitched Sun and leaves a kiss on the top of my head.
Poppy begins picking things up—a broken chair, a shattered lantern—while I tuck the rest of my altar blessings into a neat pile on the side table that’s mostly still standing.
Unsure of where exactly to start, I glance around our home. It’s stark, a blank canvas of earthen hues. Except in the room where the Night dumped buckets of paint. That spot, our main living area, is the scene of a massacre.
So much red.
* * *
THE SUNRISE BREAD is in the oven baking, filling the house with the most delicious, warm aroma, masking the ugly remnants of last night. I’m dipping the mop into a bucket of soapy, bloodred water when Poppy busts through the front door from taking out the first load of trash.
“Medallions!”
I stop dead.
The mop slips from my hands and lands with a loud whack against the floor; paint-soaked water spills across my bare feet like a fresh splattering of blood.
“Why?” I ask as he’s bounding straight for me.
Gripping my shoulders, Poppy stares firmly—lovingly, but firmly. “The Night of Reckoning was the worst yet. The Sun’s not pleased.”
I nod. “When?”
He only shakes his head, a halo of silvery hair atop his speckled brow. “Soon. The Imperi soldier’s been spotted. Just down the way.”
I push a knot of emotion to the back of my throat and take Poppy by the arm. Walking toward the front door, we sit before the Sun altar that greets us each time we enter, and light several candles.
And we wait.
One of us could die today.
Any minute now two gold medallions will drop through the mail slot in our door. If the one with Poppy’s name on it bears the stamped image of the Sun, it’s his time. If not, it’s my time.
If neither shows the Sun, we breathe easy the rest of the day. Well, in theory.
Because no one truly breathes easy on Offering days.
Time passes. No idea how much; there’s no hourglass in the compact entry to our home and I don’t bother glancing at the one round my neck. All I know is time passes slow and fast at once. Dragging but also speeding by more swiftly than I can keep track.
But all time stands still when the purposeful boot steps of an Imperi soldier march up our walkway.
Onto our porch.
There’s a pause and then the hinges on the mail slot squeal.
Large gold medallions drop. One, two.
They hit the floor. One lands flat. The other spins like a top, then slows, teeters, and falls.
Neither of us moves.
Poppy takes my hand. I give his a light squeeze. Then I stand, take a few steps, and bend down, picking up the coins, not looking too closely.
Holding one in each fist behind my back, I return to Poppy, sit before him so our knees are nearly touching.
He points to my left hand.
I give him the one in my right and he lets out a small guffaw.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Ready.”
“Three, two, one.”
We hold the coins out flat on our palms.
The medallion in my hand reads JAC ADELINE.
In his, VEDA ADELINE.
Neither shows the Sun.
“Blessed be the light,” Poppy whispers.
“Blessed be the light,” I repeat.
CHAPTER 7
As with most of Bellona’s history, the Offering dates back to the Great Flood.
The story goes that our island was birthed of the Sun. A star itself, born of the most important star, Bellona was holy, but it didn’t ascend to the night sky. Instead, it was pulled downward, toward the land below.
Ashamed, the Sun cast his only child into the sea. But the small star wouldn’t descend to the ocean floor either. It was stuck. An unremarkable speck amid vast blue.
Its fire went out, but still Bellona floated, a flat, dark disgrace of a star.
Soon it sprouted roots and came to life, bearing plants and animals and the most beautiful of trees and waterways. People even came, built a society. Lived off the shunned star.
The Sun, in his humility, instantly regretted the shame he’d felt. He vowed to protect his one and only child—a beautiful land star—for all time. For it was one of a kind.
When the island was hit with the Great Flood, it was seen as punishment, a sign from the Sun that he was displeased with his Bellona, with the people he’d chosen and entrusted to take care of it.
Thus the Offerings were born. To please the Sun, to prove how thankful they were, what a blessing it was to live on this holy island, the people of Bellona would offer their god the greatest of sacrifices. Life.
It’s said one day a new child of the Sun will be born. A star unlike any before or after.
That it will ascend into the heavens, but not before bringing about a great reawakening over all of Bellona.
I’m not sure if that’s meant to be a good thing or a bad thing.
Or maybe it’s just a nice nighttime story.
* * *
SIDE BY SIDE, my and Poppy’s footsteps echo in the stillness that haunts the air. Every soul in Bellona is required by law to attend the Offering. There’s a steady stream of Bellonians making their way toward the boats that will transport us to the Island of Sol for the ceremony. But no one speaks. The Offering is a reverent time, a time of prayer and reflection, silent respect for the Sun.
The market is secured and boarded. The iron fence surrounding its perimeter stands tall, the gates locked with a complicated metal device crowded with cranks and levers. The Sun shines down on it at the perfect angle so it blinds us with its silvery glare.
As ominous as the silence is, it’s nothing compared to last night’s destruction. Signs of the Night of Reckoning hit us around every corner.
Anti-Night postings, normally tacked to the sides of buildings, are torn to shreds and littering the streets like fallen leaves. A few of the altars for the missing have been tipped over, photos and blessings and candles scattered.
The main hourglass that controls the bells, the curfews, has been defaced. Written in black and red paint against the light pine frame are large ornate letters spelling out the words BEWARE OUR RECKONING!—the g in reckoning is a perfect crescent moon and the word beware is written in red and drips like a freshly sliced cut.
We arrive at the dock just in time to catch the second-to-last transport to the Island of Sol—a small mound of earth a mile out, the only thing there, the Coliseum. There’s nothing else surrounding Bellona save unforgiving, rough seas. Nowhere to travel. Nowhere to start anew. Nowhere to hide. It’s just us, the Night, and the Sun’s mercy.
Before too long we spot the festively colored Coliseum flags adorning the uppermost wall: red, orange, and yellow repeating along the massive circumference of the open dome. The large triangles whip with the wind.
As a child, I would jump up and down at the sight. The day was a holiday, an exciting outing when I’d wave my homemade white flag hastily embroidered with the Imperi Sun. But that was then … I didn’t know anything about the world, how things would play out, how pleasing the Sun meant someone had to die. That the Night were so cruel. Or that I’d one day be friends with a Dogio whose dimple I shouldn’t think about, whose hand I certainly shouldn’t hold.