Sabine
“I SWEAR ON MY FATHER’S bones,” Ailesse growls, tripping over the hem of her dress again. I grab her arm to steady her, and she lifts her skirt off the dusty path in the forest. “Isla made my dress too long on purpose. She’s determined to make tonight as difficult as possible.”
Odiva asked Isla to sew Ailesse’s white ceremonial dress, and I’ve never seen a finer one. The wide neckline clings elegantly to the edges of her shoulders, and the snug sleeves flare at her elbows. Isla took careful pains to fit the bodice, but Ailesse is right about the skirt. Its excessive train and front hem are hazardously long. Isla is too talented a seamstress for it to have been a mistake.
“Maybe she did you a favor.” I shrug. “Your amouré might find you more alluring in an impractical gown.” When Ailesse shoots me a skeptical glance, I add, “Remember the painting we saw carted into the city last autumn? The lady in the portrait was nearly drowning in her ridiculous dress, and the men guarded it like it was the most valuable treasure in Galle.”
“Men must be attracted to defenseless women,” Ailesse grumbles, but then her dark eyes sparkle in the moonlight. “Won’t I give my amouré a surprise? He’ll be luckier than the other dense men of Dovré.”
Luckier. I grin, but my stomach sinks. Like the rest of our famille, Ailesse believes the man the gods choose for her tonight is fortunate. One day when Ailesse dies, her amouré will greet her with gratitude for taking his life, and together they’ll live a better life in Elara’s Paradise. I wish I could stake my faith in that. Tonight would be so much easier.
I shiver as a mist creeps into the forest and disturbs the warm air. “What do you imagine he’ll be like?”
Ailesse shrugs. “I don’t let myself imagine anything about him. What good would that do me in this life?”
“You’ve never once daydreamed about your amouré?”
“Never.”
I level a hard stare at her, but she maintains her stubbornly impassive expression. “Well, I think you should take a moment to dream before you go through with your rite of passage. Maybe the gods will pay attention, and you’ll help them make their choice.”
She scoffs. “I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“Humor me, Ailesse. Dream.”
She squirms like her rite of passage dress is suddenly itchy.
“Would you like him to be handsome?” I prod, linking arms with her. “Let’s start with that.”
She grimaces. “I’ll allow him to be handsome if he isn’t in love with his appearance. Nothing’s less attractive.”
“Agreed. No vanity will be tolerated.”
“Speaking of looks . . . I wouldn’t mind if he had dimples and curls.”
“Dimples and curls—do you hear that, Tyrus and Elara?”
Ailesse shushes me. “Don’t be irreverent, or they will summon me a troll.”
“Don’t you worry. Trolls are a myth. We’re the only creatures to fear on bridges.”
She giggles and leans her head on my shoulder. “My amouré must also be passionate and powerful.”
“Naturally, or else he’d be no match for you.”
“But he should balance that strength with tenderness and generosity.”
“Or else he couldn’t handle your mood swings.”
She laughs, elbowing me. “In short, he must be perfect.”
I rest my head against hers. “You wouldn’t be dreaming if he were any less.”
We round a bend in the path and intersect a seldom-used road outside the city walls. Twenty feet away is Castelpont, the bridge Ailesse has chosen for her rite of passage. Our smiles fade. My heart thuds. We’re here. Ailesse is really doing this.
The full moon hangs over the bridge like a white eye shrouded in mist. Night insects buzz and chirp, but the sounds diminish as we leave the forest, travel down the quiet road, and advance to the crown of the bridge.
Castelpont is old and made of stone, built in the days when King Godart’s ancestors ruled the land. Back then, the Mirvois River transported inland goods to Château Creux, and the bridge’s high arch accommodated passing vessels beneath. But now the riverbed is parched and desolate. After Godart died without providing an heir, another royal family declared their right to rule. They built another home, Beau Palais, on the highest hill in Dovré, and rerouted the river. Castelpont gained its name because, looking to the west, you could once see the towers of Château Creux. And now, looking to the east, you can see the newer castle, Beau Palais. Ailesse and I have never been inside that castle, and we never will. Odiva forbids the Leurress to enter Dovré’s city walls. Discretion is essential to our survival.
“Are you sure about the bridge?” I ask. The windows of Beau Palais are like another pair of eyes staring down at us. “We’re too exposed.” This is nothing like our pastime of spying on travelers from the safety of careful hideouts in the forest.
She leans her folded arms on the half wall of the parapet and surveys the limestone castle. Her auburn hair flows soft and loose on the breeze. Concealed beneath it is her ritual bone knife, sheathed in a harness on her back. “No one can see us from this distance. We’re perfectly safe.”
I’m unconvinced. Ailesse chose Castelpont for the same reason she killed a tiger shark. Out of all the bridges in South Galle, Castelpont presents the most challenge: it’s closest to Dovré. A rite of passage here will impress the other Leurress. Once Odiva forgives Ailesse, it might impress her, too.
Ailesse twirls around and takes both of my hands. “I’m so happy you’re with me, Sabine.”
Though her smile is radiant, her hands betray a slight tremor. “I’m happy I’m with you, too,” I lie. Whether I hate this rite of passage or not, she’ll never back out of it, so I wish her to be sure and swift about her kill. If it’s clumsy and her amouré suffers a slow death, Ailesse will regret it for the rest of her life.
She unclasps her necklace, slips it off her shoulder, and passes it over to me. “Shall we begin?” The rite of passage is the only time a Leurress can access her power without wearing her bones. But she must stay on the ritual bridge.
I inhale a deep breath and offer her a small yew chest. She opens the lid. Inside, the ancient bone flute rests on a bed of lamb’s wool. Ailesse reverently withdraws the instrument, and her fingers run over the tone holes and trace the engraved symbols. The Leurress claim the flute was made from the bone of a golden jackal, but the sacred beast is mythical, at least in my mind. No one in my famille has ever seen one in Galle.
A sudden gust carries the sound of faint voices. Something rustles in the trees, and I glance behind us. “Ailesse”—I grab her arm—“someone is here.”
As she shifts to look, a silver owl swoops from the branches and arcs overhead. A nervous laugh spills out of me, but Ailesse grows solemn. Owl sightings portend either good or bad fortune. You don’t know which until the inevitable happens.
“Go, Sabine,” Ailesse says, as the owl screeches and flies off. “We can’t delay.”
I kiss her cheek and hasten away to do my part. “Good luck.” A witness does more than bear record of the ritual sacrifice. I must also bury Ailesse’s grace bones beneath the bridge’s foundations and retrieve them afterward. When she plays the siren song on the bridge, the gods will choose a man for her. Whether her promised lover is near or far, whether he hears the song or feels its music inside him, the two of them will be bonded, and he’ll be drawn to meet her. Our famille has been known to attract amourés from all quarters of Dovré, and even miles outside the city walls.