The Cerulean (Untitled Duology, #1)(15)
Sera stood but didn’t take the proffered hand. She did not need the High Priestess to lead her like a little child. If she was old enough to die for her City, she was old enough to walk on her own.
The High Priestess hesitated only a second. Without another word, she turned and walked off down a path between two hydrangeas. Fireflies lit their way as they wound deeper into the Day Gardens. Sera had to duck to avoid a low-hanging bough of ivy, and then they came upon a clearing at the edge of the City, where the Great Estuary spilled over. The planet below was dark, as if it too was having a moment of adoration for Sera.
“The Day Gardens represent life and new beginnings,” the High Priestess said. “As the Night Gardens represent death and endings. Your journey begins here, in the farthest spot from death. Tomorrow the celebration will be in the temple, halfway between life and death. And then the next day . . .”
“The Night Gardens,” Sera said.
“I know this is hard for you,” the High Priestess said. “But it will only be hard for a short while. By allowing the City to thank you, to spend time with you, to know you and appreciate you . . . it will be better for everyone. I hope you can see that.”
Sera thought it might have meant more if anyone in the City besides Leela had tried to know her before she was chosen. She could hear voices, the acolytes leading the way, the whispers of excitement from the Cerulean following them down the path. How many families would leave this celebration feeling uplifted? How many would stay up late into the night, whispering excitedly about the new chapter their City was about to embark on?
How many would feel even a shred of pity for her, or her mothers?
Sera had to decide who she was going to be, in this moment, at the end of her days. Would she be selfish and tell them all how she really felt? Or would she smile and thank them and give them hope?
What did Wyllin do? she wanted to ask. She imagined the Cerulean woman standing here, in this very spot, beside this very High Priestess, waiting to be adored. Did she stand tall and proud, or did she lash out in fear? Sera felt an overwhelming sense of connection to the stranger who died so many years ago. The tether Wyllin created, Sera would break.
We are the Cerulean, she thought determinedly. Our blood is magic.
Acolyte Klymthe’s face peered around the edge of a rosebush. The High Priestess looked down at Sera, as if waiting for her permission.
“Let them come,” Sera said.
6
THE SECOND EVENING OF CELEBRATION WAS MUCH LIKE the first, only in the temple this time. And before she knew it, it was the morning of the ceremony, and Sera awoke with a knot in her stomach and shards of fear lodged in her heart.
She could hear the novices singing, welcoming the start of a new day. In dwellings across the City, Cerulean were waking up and preparing for a great change. Sera could imagine the excitement, the nervousness, the giddy anticipation. And she found she couldn’t begrudge her people their joy. If she hadn’t been chosen herself, how much sympathy would she have spared for the one selected to bear this mantle?
At least there would be no more celebrations in her honor—she’d had quite enough of those. The one in the temple had been as exhausting as the one in the Day Gardens. She’d done her best to be strong, to be kind, to listen to her people as they thanked her or praised her. Some had been so effusive, an acolyte would have to step in and lead them away. Others had cried, confessing their fears of leaving this planet behind and heading into the unknown of space. Sera had found that she didn’t need to say anything, that a simple nod or a touch on the shoulder was sufficient. Which was good, because she did not know what to say.
Sera got out of bed, her skin tight on her bones. There was a dry spot on her tongue that wouldn’t go away. When she brushed out her hair, her scalp prickled.
She slipped into her dressing gown and padded down the hall to the kitchen, following the smell of garlic and tomato.
The sound of voices made her stop just before the arched doorway.
“. . . another child,” her green mother was saying.
“That isn’t the point and you know it, Seetha,” her purple mother said.
“I know.” Her green mother sounded contrite. There was a pause, and when she spoke again her voice was quiet and laced with pain. “I don’t know what else to say. I don’t have any answers. This is an agony I have never felt before.”
There was a silence—Sera assumed they were blood bonding—then her purple mother muttered something angrily. Sera caught the word curious before silence fell again, followed by the unmistakable sound of kissing.
“I know, Kandra,” her green mother said again, softly. “I know.”
Sera didn’t wish to hear anymore.
“Good morning, Mothers,” she said before walking into the kitchen, giving her mothers enough time to jump apart and pretend they were merely preparing breakfast. There were tiny goldfinch eggs boiling in a pot on the stove, next to a pan of tomatoes and hyacinth leaves simmering in garlic.
“Good morning, Sera,” her green mother said, pushing the thick discs of tomato around in the pan.
“Good morning, darling,” her purple mother said, coming over to kiss the top of her head.
“Is Orange Mother at prayers?” she asked, taking a seat at the table by the window. There was a little window box with a small herb garden, and Sera tried to memorize the scents of basil and thyme, as if she could take them with her. Her purple mother poured Sera a cup of thistle tea, then poured one for herself and sat at the table with her.