It was not until the three had returned to their chambers, safely ensconced behind the sanctuary of closed doors, that the sisters at last allowed themselves the liberty of open discourse and vented freely regarding the events that had transpired. True to my brother’s command, not even in the privacy of their own company were the details of my corpse’s discovery broached, thus sparing Fermina from the harrowing truth.

  In some curious way, it warmed my heart to learn what they truly thought of my person. I had long known Princess’s opinions—she held tacit permission to disparage me as she saw fit, and she frequently mocked my deformities with merciless abandon—but there had been things Fermina and Rascal had refrained from expressing in my presence, which I was now hearing for the first time. None of it surprised me—merely simple, plain pity for the wretched creature I had been. Yet, amid their lamentations, they praised my intelligence and conversational prowess, despite my lethargic and halting manner of speech. They recounted the times I had brought them joy, aided them with one of my concoctions or inventions, gifted them with presents on special occasions, or offered them wise counsel. Of course, no reminiscence about me could exclude the notorious incident of Rascal dashing unclad through the snow after delicate Master had succumbed to unconsciousness. Even Princess had kind words to share—words not entirely born of pretense. She claimed she would miss me.

  As expected, uncertainty clouded their discussions of the future. The remaining members of the de Irchard family were either too young or too impoverished to provide them with shelter. My death had, in effect, deprived them of the very reason they resided in the esteemed accommodations of arguably the most distinguished Duke in Irghumin. Fermina, ever diligent, maintained that they would find a way to manage, while Princess all but hinted at a secret plan involving a stone she had stolen but since lost. If Princess had indeed taken that gem for her sisters’ welfare, and not merely for her own, then she would have earned my unquestioning forgiveness.

  Even as a passive observer, and at so grim a juncture, I found unexpected pleasure in witnessing the daily lives of others—a joy I had not known for some time. Listening to their idle conversations about attire or garden strolls in their winter coats, eavesdropping on the exchanges of guests, and watching the simple meals they partook in proved to be more diverting than I had anticipated. I would gladly embrace such a fate if this were to be my eternity. It was a marvel to think that even in death, these three orphans continued to fulfill their duty of keeping me company, preserving my sanity.

  Ah, but the meals! Through some strange and unknown means, just as I could see and hear through Princess’s senses, I could also savor the flavors upon her tongue. The experience of tasting eggs, unfamiliar vegetables, and fruity confections tinged with a whisper of alcohol was nothing short of revelatory. The pinnacle of indulgence, however, arrived when Princess managed to acquire a tartarian shortcake.

  I knew well what a tartarian shortcake was. I had caught its scent many times but had never been privileged enough to partake in its delight. Crafted with three kinds of milk—goat, cow, and ansee—and infused with frozen fruits pulverized into a cloyingly sweet powder, all encased in a delicate crust, it was truly the King of pastries! Such a thing would have killed me to eat whole, but perhaps a bite would have been worth a fortnight of an upset stomach. I had often used these treats as bribes to coax Rascal into various tasks—massaging my bony frame, reading aloud in ridiculous voices, singing bawdy songs, or pulling pranks on Princess.

  This mythical confection was not freely offered to all. Typically reserved for the Masters of the house, the kitchen safeguarded it jealously, as the rare powder essential to its creation was made from fruits imported from lands beyond the duchy. On the rare occasions when no one from the Cafligen family requested it—usually Arkin, my cousin—the kitchen could spare two or three servings for the rest of the court. Princess had procured her shortcake by wagering with a young cook, whose infatuation with her was so transparent that even someone as inexperienced as myself could easily discern it. The bet was simple: a coin toss. If the boy won, he would be granted the privilege of kissing Princess’s hand; if he lost, he would deliver her a shortcake. Fortunately for me, he lost, allowing me to savor the luxurious dessert. The nature of their arrangement led me to surmise that this scandalous game had been played many times before.

  The sisters did not spend their entire day together, and I followed Princess wherever she ventured, even when she relieved herself. It was intriguing to experience what she did, though the events were mundane—she merely lifted her skirts, seated herself, and went about her business with no fanfare.

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  Princess occupied her time in ways I had not anticipated, such as weaving tapestries of birds and fantastical creatures, charming but clumsily wrought. More a diversion than anything of practical use. To my surprise, she also read. Despite my frequent chiding of her ignorance, Princess visited the library, perusing classic plays by Roshan Ghimir and Thul the Oldan. She studied a botany text and even jotted down notes for her own reference. She sang pious and tedious hymns with her sisters and occasionally paused in a common room to listen to the dialog of others. That day, she witnessed a heated debate between two courtiers contesting the effectiveness of the ancient political systems of the Eastern Empire.

  Naturally, her search for the stolen gem never ceased. She questioned anyone who ventured near her room, her gaze sharp with suspicion, hoping to detect any trace of deceit. The loss of the artifact remained a mystery to her, and we had long passed the point where I could harbor resentment over it. I wished for her to find it, yet, despite my efforts to recall every detail, I could not fathom where it might have gone.

  While still filled with glee at the prospect of this newfound existence—far more vibrant and fulfilling than the life I had endured—dusk inevitably descended.

  My father, Lord Duke Archiments, held no reverence for the divine, his reasons known only to him. He had imparted this irreligion to his sons—though not to his daughter. Nevertheless, we maintained the semblance of piety, and the house observed evening prayers in accordance with the realm’s traditions. At the appointed hour, all—be they noble or servant—ceased their labors, sat, knelt, or simply turned their faces toward the heavens to offer thanks to Ivinis for the day she had bestowed, for causing the sun to traverse the firmament, sustaining our lives with its warmth. We sang our praises, closed our eyes, traced a circle with our hands to signal the sun’s repose, welcomed the moon to guide us through the night, and returned to our affairs.

  The prayers took place at a shrine in the north wing, presided over each evening by none other than Sufferer Crescelda, my sister. In my youth, I had seldom been strong enough to attend, and as my illnesses progressed, and my appearance deteriorated, I could no longer bear to be seen in public. Suffice it to say, I had not visited the shrine in many years.

  Princess arrived with her sisters, dressed in their heavy evening gowns, cloaked against the bitter chill of Last Winter. Kyolhan stood at the forefront; behind him, the guests, council, and my father’s court, and behind them, the servants, arranged according to their own hierarchy. The day had breathed its last, and the sun had hidden behind Mount Sert. Princess knelt to say the prayer, her voice joining the monotone recitation:

  “The sun ascended, heralding the birth of a new day, waking life in all its forms. Ivinis has granted us the gift of light and warmth, and we kneel in gratitude to her unending sacrifice. Beneath the tender eyes of the Holy Widow, who guides the heavens, we dwell upon these lands she guards with watchful care. Now, as the sun seeks its well-earned slumber and the moon takes its place in the firmament, may its light shepherd us through the shadows, and may morning come next dawn.”

  The entire prayer was brief, at least in this house, the ceremony scarcely long enough to utter its words. As was her custom, Princess sang while clasping her sisters’ hands; however, as the prayer neared its conclusion, she abruptly ceased. Her body went slack, her eyes turned white, and she crumpled forward, only prevented from striking her head on the chapel floor by Fermina’s quick reflexes, who immediately cried out in alarm.

  Without warning, Princess had fainted mid-song, during the evening prayer. Aid did not come until the ceremony concluded mere moments later. Fortunately, with so many physicians residing in the manor, she was swiftly surrounded by those capable of attending to her condition. Her eyelids were pried open, and once again, I could see through her eyes. They stared blankly at the glass ceiling of the shrine, then, as if guided by my will, they shifted toward a brilliant light to the left.

  “Oh, she’s awake!” Fermina, holding Princess’s hand, was enthused with relief.

  “How do you feel, dear?” Thorban, the bearded, old court Magister and skilled physician, asked as he shone a bright light with his Artalar. “Does it hurt anywhere?”

  The proper response was to deny any pain, so I thought it, and Princess replied. “No,” she croaked. There she lay, making a spectacle of herself on the floor. I urged her to rise, but she would not comply; thus, I took matters into my own hands. I commanded her limbs—moving her arms behind our back, propelling her abdomen forward, shrinking her legs, and then positioned them so we could stand. Finally, I balanced us unsteadily with the help of Fermina and the physicians around us.

  I realized in the middle of that chore that Princess was unresponsive. She was asleep or unconscious. The one moving her body was me; I was the one driving the limbs slowly but steadily. I was the one who willed air through our nose and out through the mouth. I was the one who had to keep making sure we were standing upright and balanced. I was the one who turned to Fermina and, with a smile, stated, “I am quite alright. You can let go now.”

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