After dinner, Lill picks a vivid orange cheongsam for me to wear to the performance, gold embroidery shimmering across the fabric. She adds a slash of vermilion paint on my lips. Then she slicks my hair back into an intricate braid, twining it with flame-colored ribbons.
“Now you match the leaves,” she grins, moving back to admire her work.
I lift a brow. “Isn’t this is a bit… much?”
“Mistress,” she says, serious, “the King still hasn’t called you since that night. Don’t you want him to notice you? To want you again?”
I quickly turn my cheek to hide my grimace. Sometimes I forget how young Lill is, but times like these remind me that she is just a girl. I recall how black and white the world seemed at eleven. How clear-cut life was, everything divided into good and bad, right and wrong, like two sides of a coin, and the edge between almost nonexistent, no bigger than a sliver. Lill believes I want the Demon King’s attention. That my earlier slip was just a mistake, a moment that overwhelmed me. She thinks I want him because surely I must.
Because I am a Paper Girl and he is my King.
We make the now-familiar journey to the Inner Courts. Shadow play is a long-standing tradition in our kingdom. In Xienzo we had performances during certain festivals, with wooden cutout puppets on sticks moved by actors hidden beneath a makeshift stage. A small brazier created the fire that silhouetted the puppets against the rice-paper screen. As we arrive at the theater and enter a tall, stepped room with a wide stage and columns of billowing silks hanging from the ceiling at staggered intervals, it’s clear that this will be a very different version of shadow play from the one I’m used to. Around the edges of the stage runs a deep recess, flames dancing from within.
“I’m a bit nervous to see the King again,” Aoki admits as we take our seats toward the back of the theater, her voice almost swallowed by the noise as the audience streams in, snatches of conversations and bursts of laughter rising around us. She frowns. “He seemed different at the koyo party. Do you remember?”
Of course I remember. The King’s drunken swagger. The human slaves he offered to the attending demons like a twisted kind of party favor.
“He hasn’t asked for any of us since then,” Aoki says. “He must be busy.”
I shrug. “It’s probably to do with the rebels. Or maybe the Sickness,” I add, sending a mental thanks to both for keeping him away.
Wren leans in on my other side. “The King talked to you about that?” she asks sharply. “What did he say?”
“Not much. Just that it’s getting worse. That nothing seems to be helping.”
She turns away, a glazed look frosting her eyes.
“What?” I press as Aoki turns to talk to Zhin beside her.
“It’s been going on for a while now,” Wren murmurs, her nose pinched in thought. “All the clans are concerned. Just before I came to the palace, my father was arranging a meeting with the most powerful clans from every province to discuss how to manage it.”
“Does he know what could be causing it?” I ask.
“Nothing for certain. One of his theories is that it’s to do with qi-draining. Some overuse of magic that is putting Ikhara out of balance. But he has no idea who might be behind it.”
“The King thinks the gods are punishing the kingdom.”
The look she gives me is pointed. “For what?”
“I have no idea.”
Wren turns back to the stage, the furrow in her brow deepening. “Me neither. But the reason doesn’t really matter. The problem is that the King believes it. And I’m worried what it’ll lead him to do.”
To my other side, Aoki is still chatting with Zhin. “The King won’t notice me in this at all,” she mutters, picking at the draped sleeves of her beige ruqun, the fabric patterned with gold embroidery.
As Zhin starts to reply, Blue’s voice sounds over her. “Of course he won’t,” she says crisply, glancing over her shoulder from the row in front of us with a toss of her hair. “That color makes you look ill. You should tell your maid to avoid it in the future.”
“I think she looks beautiful,” I say with a glare.
Blue’s eyes flick to me, her chin tilted. “Looks like Master Tekoa was right about all that fire, Nine. You’re practically a human lantern.” The corners of her mouth tug up. “Such a shame how some girls have to be so obvious to attract the King’s attention. At least little Aoki doesn’t need to try so hard. You know, the King tells me her company is surprisingly pleasant.”
To my surprise, Aoki beams at this. When Blue turns back round, she grabs my knee, leaning in. “Did you hear that? The King enjoys his time with me!”
I grimace. “And that’s a good thing?”
Something darts across her face—hurt.
“I told you at the party, Lei,” she says, shifting back. “He’s kind to me.”
“Only because he’s getting what he wants!”
After my night with Wren—the softness, the fierceness, the tenderness of the hunger I felt in her lips, so different from how I felt under the King’s touch—I can’t imagine how Aoki could actually enjoy her time with him. And for the King to call her company pleasant. Pleasant. A word dull with mediocrity. Nothing like the dazzle and burn I felt at Wren’s kiss. The way I hope for every girl to be thought of by her lover.
I open my mouth to say more, but just then the lanterns in the hall blow out. A hush falls over the crowd.
“I thought you’d be happy for me,” Aoki whispers. Her face is shadowed in the now-dark hall, but I don’t need light to know her expression. Even in the darkness, her eyes glimmer with tears.
My face twists. “Aoki—” I start, but she turns to face the stage, inching away.
Wren presses her shoulder gently to mine. “We of all people can’t judge Aoki for what she feels,” she says under her breath, chin tilted down. “Or for whom.”
I go to retort, but the heavy beat of drums echoes through the room, silencing me. A lithe gazelle-form woman dances onto the stage. Unlike the typical shadow play performances I’ve seen, where the actors hold up puppets, this actress is the puppet. Her body is wrapped in a wooden cage mimicking her own form but making it twice as tall. A jewel-eyed gazelle mask perches at the top of the elongated wooden neck arching from the dancer’s back. As she moves behind the rippling sheets of silk, her exaggerated horned shadow arcs and turns with every movement.
Murmurs rise among the crowd.
I shoot Wren a sideways look. “Where’s the King? He should have been announced—”
A shout cuts me off.
At first I think it’s part of the play, that the noise is coming from the stage. But then there’s another shout, and another. In a handful of seconds, the whole theater erupts with cries, and I realize—this isn’t a performance.
Something’s wrong.
Panic floods the hall, a physical thing, buzzing and spilling over the edges with the rage of a monsoon tide. All around us, the crowd is scrambling to their feet, demons and humans, court members and their companions, stumbling over cushions and even one another in their rush to escape.