Orla Anders reached both hands across the carriage, offering one to each daughter. “I am so lucky,” she said, “to have raised two powerful girls. You both are extraordinary. Every single piece of you, from your tears to your toes.”
Sabine reached for her sister’s hand to complete the circle. She was grateful to belong to such wonderful women, to those who took the time to care for others not because they had to, but because they could. Even in the darkest times, when the Anders family had no money and very little hope, Orla had always ensured that her children had known love.
The carriage slowed as they turned onto the streets of Harborside. In the daylight, the cobblestones were calm, and to Sabine’s relief, the moth iconography was far less prevalent in this district. The neighborhood was loyal. Harborside knew she belonged to them, knew it was divinely right that the New Maiden had risen from sea and salt. Sabine could only hope that devotion would translate to support when the time for battle came.
The Anders women split up. Orla took the winding streets nearest the family home, Katrynn claimed the east side of the harbor, and Sabine set off south. The New Maiden shook off her nerves as she approached a small residence with dusty windows and red-checkered curtains. She rapped lightly on the weathered front door.
The man who answered stared at Sabine with wide eyes. He was a decade older than Katrynn, with a baby balanced on his hip.
“Hello.” Sabine beamed as the baby swatted the man’s left ear. “Do you have a few minutes to talk about Her word?”
“You’re not selling something, are you?” The man grimaced. “Rent is due, and I’ve got nothing to spare.”
“The only thing I have to peddle,” Sabine said gently, “is a place to release your anger.”
And so, the New Maiden spent the day conversing with the people of her neighborhood, asking questions regarding their health and happiness, inquiring delicately about red handkerchiefs and to whom they offered their daily prayers.
“We keep our faiths separate,” one woman said, at mention of the Second Son. “It keeps the peace.”
“Do you know what the Second Son preaches?” Sabine inquired. “Are you comfortable with your husband’s hatred of the same divinity you worship?”
The woman looked flummoxed. “I, well, that isn’t really my responsibility, is it?”
“No,” Sabine agreed. “But its consequences will come for you, someday soon. I urge you to consider, if you have ever found comfort in Her word, joining me in this fight.”
The woman stared at her hands. “I can’t.”
“I understand,” Sabine said graciously, remembering her mother’s warning. “If ever that changes, we welcome you with open arms.”
Others were far more willing to take up the call. In the next apartment, Sabine came face-to-face with a pair of young sisters, showcasing gap-toothed grins as they found a deity standing on their front steps.
“Gran!” one of the sisters shrieked. “She’s here. The New Maiden! In our kitchen!”
“Nonsense,” called a gruff voice. “The New Maiden doesn’t want anything t’do with us.”
“I swear it!” The other sister’s voice was deeper but no less excited. “She’s here!”
When their grandmother hobbled into the room and saw Sabine, she shrieked. “Why didn’t you tell me?” She chastised her granddaughters, who rolled their eyes. “I would have gotten dressed.”
“It’s a lovely nightgown.” Sabine bit back a grin. “I particularly favor the lace. Now tell me,” she said, accepting a mug of tea from the older sister, “have the moths come for you?”
“Pesky things,” the grandmother said. “Always eating through my clothes.”
“She means the posters, Gran,” the little sister said.
“Oh, those,” the old woman said darkly. “Fools, the lot of them.”
“Happy to hear you say so,” Sabine said, “because I have a proposition.”
By the end of the afternoon, the New Maiden’s voice was hoarse, but her army had grown. She’d garnered verbal commitments from half the harbor and had directed her people to the church in the Arts District where they could officially devote themselves to her army.
Harborsiders were starved for community and comfort. Her neighbors were good folk, and Sabine had been destined for exactly this—to pry open the floodgates and bring them a bounty in exchange for their suffering.
That was the true prophecy of the New Maiden. To make those without power or influence feel less alone. To amplify their voices and validate their reactions. With their anger on her side, Sabine would sow the seeds of their frustration and coax those precious blooms to life.
The New Maiden was not weak for giving in to emotion. If anything, it was proof of her strength. She would tend to the garden of Harborside’s ire and let its fury unfurl. Then she could confirm what the world pretended not to know: Those who spent their days in the dirt would be first in line for the harvest.
28
While the rest of her compatriots enacted their assigned duties, Elodie Warnou stared at the map of the Republics. In a crowded War Room, her ideas had seemed sound. But alone, with the ghosts of battles past, she was beginning to doubt herself. Rob had once accused Elodie of never having to face the consequences of her actions. This time, there was no escaping them.
Her military inexperience left her paranoid that she was not considering all necessary angles of the impending warfare. With Velle’s troops so scarce at the border, Elodie could not afford to remove General Garvey from his post in order to seek his counsel, nor could she risk having their correspondence intercepted by followers of the Second Son. In the past, she would have consulted with Tal on strategy. Once, she might have even called on Rob. While her brother was not a soldier at heart, his father had spent the last decade trying to win him over to the cause. Rob held valuable knowledge, no matter how little he wished to use it.
Still, there had to be someone left within the walls of Castle Warnou who could advise Elodie, however grudgingly, on how best to steel herself for battle.
The queen was shocked when she discovered that person to be Maxine.
Elodie stumbled upon the soldier as she wandered past the west tower. The guard was still at her post, hair braided down her back as usual. But her expression was different, the air about her less exacting and spiteful. Instead, Elodie read a different emotion, one closer to concern.
“Maxine,” Elodie said, offering the guard a curtsy. “At ease.”
“Majesty.” Maxine dipped her head but did not relax. “What business have you here?”
“Inventory of the guard,” Elodie lied, glancing down the hallway at the many open doors of the barracks. “Tal has gone, and with him half my Loyalists.” She noted the polished buttons on Maxine’s uniform. “Honestly, I’m surprised to find you here.”
The Loyalist rolled her eyes. “Frankly, Majesty, I find that assumption insulting.”
