The Cerulean (Untitled Duology, #1)(107)

“There has not been any new moonstone in this City for centuries,” Kandra said, dazed.

“I know. Maybe it was wrong, but Sera and I wanted to keep it as something just between ourselves. We did not think it would hurt anyone. We did not believe moonstone had any special use at all. I made a pendant out of it, set in the many-pointed star. I put it on a necklace and gave it to Sera before she . . .”

Kandra’s eyes lit up with memory. “The gift you needed to give her privately. I remember. The chain about her neck. She never showed it to us, and there were so many other things to . . .”

Leela swallowed. “Yes. But now, I think they are connected—the moonstone and Sera. The vision I had, and the markings on the obelisk, and . . . and I heard Sera’s voice. Through Aila’s statue. She was laughing. Or crying. Or both. I’m not sure. But I know it was Sera.”

Kandra’s face turned mournful. “I know what you wish to believe, but—”

“There is cold air beneath the statue of Faesa,” Leela said fiercely. “And I bet beneath Aila and Dendra as well. I’m going to the Moon Gardens tonight, and I’m going to find out what’s underneath them. They are all connected, I just can’t see how.”

“No, you mustn’t. It is too dangerous.”

“Kandra?” one of the midwives called. “Where are you?”

“I have to go.” Kandra kissed Leela’s forehead. “Please. Don’t do anything foolish.”

Then she stepped out from behind the tree and called back to the midwife, joining the other purple mothers at the birthing houses.

Leela’s heart was pounding. She waited for several long moments before turning to head back home. But Kandra’s pleas had not dampened her determination one bit—she was going to find out what was below that statue, and she was going to find out tonight.

Every minute felt like an hour, every hour like a day.

Dinner was a cheerful affair for her mothers—one purple mother stopped by while they were having their tea and asked so many questions of Leela’s purple mother that Leela had to excuse herself. She couldn’t stand any more questions when she had enough of her own.

At last the house fell silent and Leela slipped out of her window and hurried to the temple. It was dark, the novices exhausted from the Night of Song as Leela knew they would be. She crept through the Moon Gardens until she reached the statue of Faesa, drenched in moonlight. She knelt and felt the cold air emanating from its base. Then she stood and looked the statue in the eye, wondering if more markings would appear. Nothing happened. She stood there, counting her heartbeats and waiting. A butterfly landed in Faesa’s cupped hands, flashing its magenta wings at her twice. Leela reached out and it flew away, her fingers curling around the smooth stone instead.

As soon as her skin touched the moonstone, her magic ignited and another vision swam before her eyes. It was a different room this time, smaller, with a large copper basin in one corner and a desk and chair in another. And there was someone in the room, someone with pale skin, turquoise eyes, and thick black curls. It was a person unlike any she had ever seen, and there was something off about her, besides her coloring, that Leela could not put her finger on. As if echoing up from the bottom of a dark well, she heard Sera’s voice.

“Leela,” she whispered. Leela’s heart spasmed and the vision dissolved in a burst of blue sparks. When she looked at the statue again, markings had appeared, running down the length of Faesa’s robe.

Show me, she spoke to the stone silently, as she had with the obelisk, but her heart was not as tentative this time, and she felt a force of will building inside her. Show me the secret that lies beneath you.

Leela stepped back as the statue of Faesa slid to the side. She peered down at a set of winding sunglass stairs, vanishing into the darkness. She had never been more frightened in her life, her pulse racing, every hair on her scalp standing on end.

“Is Sera down there?” she asked aloud, but Faesa was just a statue and could not answer her. Leela felt as if her bones had been replaced with air, a disorienting lightness filling her up.

She sent up a prayer to Mother Sun and began to descend the stairs.





38

Agnes

THE MARIBELLE THEATER WAS SWARMED.

Agnes could not control her wildly beating heart as Eneas pulled up to the theater. She had spent the ride squeezed in between her father and her brother, trying to fidget as little as possible. In her beaded clutch were the thousand krogers, the letter from Ambrosine, and the photograph of her mother. It was terrifying having such illicit material so close to her father, but it was all she would be taking with her. She wondered if Leo had anything stashed away in his tuxedo jacket, something he could not bear to leave behind in Old Port.

She hadn’t told Leo about the letter yet—there were more important things to focus on at the moment, and the letter wouldn’t matter if they didn’t make it to the Seaport. He’d relayed what Sera had told him, about Errol and Boris and the sprites. It all seemed unreal to her. So much could go wrong, so much was out of her control. If this plan failed . . . she didn’t want to think about that.

The article about Sera and the others, about Xavier’s newest venture, had been published in the Telegraph that morning, which was probably why throngs of people crowded the streets leading to the theater. There were groups of Solit protesters proclaiming these creatures to be heretical, enemies of the One True God that should be burned at the stake, and clusters of Old Port’s poorest citizens begging for Sera to heal them. If Xavier took any notice of them at all, Agnes could not tell. Her father seemed lost in thought the entire ride, staring out the window with unseeing eyes, as if his mind was on other things. It seemed odd—this was the night he had been anticipating for months, perhaps longer.