Nod-nod.
“Okay … Yeah, I’m ready.”
But something’s strange. Before I can probe her for details, we turn the corner and I’m stopped dead in my tracks. We’ve stepped into a large cavern—the largest I’ve seen yet—and there are five, maybe ten times the number of Night members than Dorian and I encountered on our arrival. This time though, I’m not so much afraid as I am confused. Curious even. Slightly spooked. Because the minute we enter, the air changes. Eyes glance toward me and a hushed murmur becomes audible. It’s not overtly threatening, but notably strange, and I’d bet my only fishing pole it has something to do with me, the outsider. Maybe something Dorian said back in the cave. He did disappear fast afterward.
It’s then I fully take in the space.
There are candles on every ledge and table, some on the floor, enough to illuminate the cave like midday. Following the sight upward, I’m mesmerized by how the light from the flames cascades up the walls and laps at the ceiling. There, I spot another mural. Painted in an arc across the highest reaches of the cave is the moon in all its phases.
Walking in farther I notice there’s a large tapestry hanging from the far wall, its image covered by the crowd and shadows.
Then there’s the people, Dorian’s people. The Night. Monsters of the underworld. But they seem anything but. Sure, they stare, but not rudely. More expectantly. Like they’re waiting. Watching.
It’s a bit unsettling, but I suppose they’re as curious about me as I am about them.
Most smile as Bronwyn and I walk past. Some ask to shake my hand, introducing themselves. Others seem shy within my presence. Everyone is welcoming.
There’s food and drink, music being played on instruments I’ve never seen or heard before. They’re pieced together, hand carved, made of clay. But the music is plucky and joyful and reverberates from wall to floor to ceiling. In the oddest way, it reminds me of the Dogio Ever-Sol Feast at Nico’s house, but completely flipped upside down.
Glancing from face to face, smile to smile, a sea of black clothing beneath the shimmering glow of countless candles, I spot Dorian. From across the expanse, our eyes meet and a curious dancing takes hold of my stomach. It’s a mix of nerves and excitement, the desire to smile in his direction battling with wanting to punch him in the arm for not warning me of all this. Just a small gathering …
He excuses himself from the man he’s speaking with and makes his way over. The commotion from my stomach expands, sending prickly heat up my neck, into my ears.
Briefly, I think of Nico. How he’d feel if he only knew the way my insides suddenly swirled because of someone else.
But, no. It’s only nerves. I’m completely on edge.
As if it knows better, the spinning stills.
Just behind my eyes my last memory of Nico comes into focus. It was only hours earlier that we were caught outside before morning bells. Mere moments ago, he glanced around the soldiers through the darkness at me, expression intense, eyes set right on mine, silently pleading I run.
The stillness where the spinning had churned now pangs with guilt and sadness. I already miss him.
Dorian’s wearing the same uniform he had on earlier, but has added a black sash adorned with even more pins and military ribbons.
He stops before me, blatantly staring at my clothing, small grin playing at his mouth. “The outfit suits you.”
“Don’t gloat,” I joke, and motion to his sash. “And what’s all this?”
“Oh.” He glances down, humbly waving it away. “I’ve done some stuff.” Yet there’s a definite air of pride beneath his words.
“Oooh—moon biscuits,” Bronwyn cuts in. “I’m going to get some. Would you like anything, Veda?”
“I’m fine. Thanks though.”
And Bronwyn scurries off toward a table of food.
“No, no…” Dorian waves a hand toward his sister’s back. “I don’t want anything. Thanks for asking, Bron.” He stares after her, shaking his head.
I laugh. “She must be hungry.”
“Moon biscuits. They only come out on special occasions. Our mother used to make them.”
I nod. I’m not sure whether it’s worse to have known your mother and then lost her or to have never known her at all. “All Poppy ever makes is fish stew. And he uses ALL the parts of the fish he can. Once he tried to make seaweed cookies. They made me throw up.”
“Not much of a baker, eh?”
I laugh. “Not at all.” Then something occurs to me about the biscuits. Something he said that went right over my head when he said it. “Wait. What’s the special occasion?”
“What’s that?” He refuses to meet my gaze, eyes dancing from one corner of the room to the next.
“You just said the moon biscuits are only made on special occasions. So…?” I motion toward the celebration in full swing before us.
“Right.” He glances toward the food table. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
He’s hiding something. I wait for an explanation, but Bronwyn comes striding back, hands full of cookies. “There’s stars too.” She passes a couple to me. They’re small sugar-coated biscuits. The size of a sand dollar. One, the shape of a crescent moon. The other, a five-pointed star. A close replica of the star from the story Dorian told, the mural in the cave, all sharp edges.
Is bringing me here just another attempt to convince me to stay? But why the secrecy? Unless there’s more. Worse.
As I search my mind for bedtime stories about Night rituals, my eyes find Dorian’s.
He’s eating a cookie, as if suddenly starved for sweets, his mouth conveniently full, white powdered sugar stuck to his fingertips. But before he can do or say anything, before I can prod him for more information, for some clue, a hint into what horrors surely await, the crowd quiets, all attention centered toward one man.
“The Sindaco,” Bronwyn whispers near my ear.
The man—the Sindaco—stands still as more and more people gather around him. Hands clasped in front, he wears a sash similar to Dorian’s, but his is crowded with military pins and patches, barely an inch of black fabric showing. His dark hair is fading to silver around the edges, and he wears something no one else does. A flash of red fabric wrapped thickly around his waist, part belt, part ornament.
The Sindaco waits patiently until the entire cavern goes silent. He seems nonthreatening. There isn’t anything about his appearance that screams sinister or dangerous, but something—something—prickles the back of my neck and sends my nerves on notice. Perhaps it’s that he’s wearing Dogio and Imperi colors? I learned from a young age to watch out for black and red. Be on my best behavior in the presence of black and red. Don’t dare make the wrong move in the vicinity of black and red.
Nico, of course, was always the exception. The way he wore it was never threatening. Never with the air of authority or force. Just Nico.
The Sindaco clears his throat, unclasping his hands and placing them on his hips. “What a night.” He glances around the room. “What a celebration.” Several people shout out a “hear! hear!” and “huzzah!” Someone hands the Sindaco a drink and he tips his glass, but doesn’t take a sip. “It’s been too long, but”—he pauses for breath, almost like he’s swallowing his emotion—“well worth the wait. And we have Captain Winters to thank.” He holds his hand out toward Dorian, and I realize Captain Winters and Dorian are one and the same.