Until now.
I wouldn’t say she looks sad or afraid or even angry. Just … different. As if in a trance. And maybe that’s the state you’d need to be in to do such a thing … Sacrifice yourself for the greater good of your people. Walk straight to your death and not turn back screaming, “I change my mind!”
Because, yes, Maisy Jarrow received a medallion with a bright Sun imprinted on one side this morning, but she also agreed to be the sacrifice.
If the Offered doesn’t agree to volunteer after being chosen, another medallion is plucked from the chest. It’s rare, but it does happen. Though the fallout isn’t pretty. Those who refuse their fate face unofficial shunning. Sometimes worse. Because no one turns their back on the Sun. Or the Imperi.
Out of nowhere, a pained scream overtakes the Coliseum. The startling sound sends my heart to beat in my ears. In special seats, front and center, sits Maisy’s family: her husband, elderly mother, and teenage son. It’s the older woman who cries out for her daughter. “No! Not my Maisy!” she wails.
Maisy doesn’t react. She doesn’t face her family. She’s so incredibly focused, she strides straight to the altar and holds her hands, palms up, over the top.
Simultaneously, the soldiers slice each of her palms. Without so much as flinching, Maisy places her hands upon the sacred sunstone altar. Maisy’s blood, symbolic of her gift to the people and island of Bellona, is forever imprinted.
Her mother’s cries peter out, and when I gaze down to their seats, I see she’s slumped over herself, praying, refusing to watch.
A raft is brought in by golden cart, set afloat in the newly filled canal before the altar. It’s tethered to a stake in the ground, and a black crescent moon is carved and painted into the top, a sign that this Offering is a sacrifice for protection against the Night.
The raft, ornate and made of the finest materials, is designed to give way the hour the Sun rises next morning. This provides the Offered long enough to appreciate the Sun and reflect on their sacrifice, how they’ve given the ultimate gift for the betterment of their community. It is then the rope, tied to last a full rotation of the Sun at most, will unravel and the raft will collapse, sending the Offered to the Great Sea in recognition of the Great Flood, and as an appeal to ward off another. Everyone’s—Dogio’s, Basso’s, Imperi’s, and, I’d dare a guess, the Night’s—greatest fear.
At the sight of the raft, her final resting place, Maisy raises her bloodied hands to the sky. Her hair is light and graying, twisted into a bun atop her head, a single sunset flower placed in the center like she was born with it. Red drips down her wrists, streaking her forearms, staining the pristine petals.
The soldiers help Maisy onto the raft, where she kneels, hands lightly folded in her lap.
The last of the gold sand fills the bottom bulb of the hourglass.
A single bell rings, reverberating around the circle of the Coliseum. Birds flee from the trees behind the dome.
My skin prickles.
One slice of the rope and the raft is set free.
Slowly, the raft is carried down the canal, under the floodgate, and eventually makes its way out to sea.
Maisy the kind egg lady is no more. She’s now known as the most recent Offering. Sacrifice for protection against the Night.
I close my eyes as the floodgate is cranked closed. Under the veil of darkness—the scraping of metal on metal filling the background—I hope and pray that this one will take. That Maisy’s sacrifice will be the last. That—please, please—the Sun will be satisfied and the Night will leave us be.
But in my heart, I know it isn’t so.
I don’t open my eyes until I know she’s gone and that the gate is closed. Some will stay until the last boat back to Bellona and watch, sit at the cliff’s edge, squint and shade their eyes, until the Sun sets on the horizon and until the Offered is nothing but a speck in the distance. Many have brought blessings to throw into the sea after Maisy.
As the canal drains, the crowd stands, applauding, praising the day’s Offering.
I stand out of respect, expectation, but can’t begin to bring my hands together.
Nico finds my hand and gives my fingers a slight squeeze, sending a tingling warmth over me, but lets go just when I’ve accepted how nice it feels. If even for a second, I covet the warmth that lingers.
I glance up toward the High Regent’s balcony to gauge his reaction.
He’s vanished.
* * *
NO SOONER THAN the raft is set to sea, the inner ring of the Coliseum is transformed into a celebration, the altar and hourglass left for viewing. We’re allowed to touch the altar, and many do, believing it holds special blessings all its own, gifts from the many souls who have given their lives there.
But it’s mostly the Dogio who will enjoy the celebration today. Us Basso have much cleaning up to do. Besides, my stomach is in knots, the fresh impression of Maisy’s handprints enough to set my eyes stinging.
I can’t face the celebration, can’t begin to understand how anyone can. Carts of food line the middle of the arena, as market merchants set up around the edge and musicians play for entertainment. Right now, it’s a lyre duet. The scents are overwhelming: cinnamon-glazed almonds, grilled sausages, fresh-baked strawberry pies. Giggling children run, winding in and out of stands, waving flags, their faces sticky from sugary treats. I used to be one of them.
Things were simpler a lifetime ago.
The Sun shines down on the scene, Maisy’s memory buried beneath the bitter of curried meats, her blood on the altar, her last mark on this world gradually wiped away with each touch.
Poppy didn’t want to stay for the celebration either. He’ll wait for me at the dock while I wait for Nico to check in with his parents. Supposedly he’s going to come back to the village with us, help clean up, but I’m not sure Lord and Lady Denali will allow it. Especially after the disappearing act he pulled on them earlier.
“Sick, isn’t it?” I startle at the low murmur near my ear. I glance up to see Dorian, a hardness to his expression, completely opposite from yesterday. Still, at the sight of him, recalling yesterday, our walk through the tunnel, a couple of butterflies stir.
“Is it?” I reply, pushing the stirring away. That stirring’s reserved for Nico. I don’t want to have butterflies for anyone else right now. They’re obviously confused.
My eyes once again find the rust-red-stained altar. Though, questioning him isn’t what I intend. I want to agree, but can’t find the words, the courage to do it, especially with so many Imperi soldiers sauntering about. “It’s for the best, I suppose, especially after last night,” I hear myself say, as if on autopilot.
Besides, if I confide anything to anyone today, it’ll be to Nico. My first words? Something like, “I was a complete sneak last night, but it was beyond my control. I’m embarrassed, but I don’t regret it.” I saw too much.
Dorian raises an eyebrow. “We can only hope.”
I nod. That I can agree with.
Grabbing two fresh-baked rolls from the cart beside us, Dorian motions toward a bench away from the throng.
As we make our way through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd, my eyes are on high alert for Nico—he’ll be searching for me.
We sit on the bench and Dorian hands me one of the rolls, but I shake my head and fold my arms around my middle. “No thanks.”