I look at the table of veiled ones. Their faces so shining, their pale eyes staring behind their black veils. “Well how exciting to dine with them, then,” I say, though in my voice I hear fear. “Right, Lake? With the architects of our dreams? Who know their shapes and names?”
I look back at Lake. The empty tray is shaking in her hands. If she wouldn’t grip it so tight, it wouldn’t shake. All of the moonbright ones like us are standing along the walls, holding their empty silver trays like we are. Some moonbright hands are shaking like Lake’s, their faces very still and smiling. Many are looking down into their trays. As we came through the black mouth, a Statue of Cold took the black circles off the trays, revealing their shiny surfaces. Mirrors they are, our trays, the Statues of Cold told us. The moonbright ones are staring down at their reflections now, smiling, many eyes leaking salt water, overcome by what must be joy. So happy with the results. “Beautiful, Brightened, Poreless,” they whisper like a chant. But I don’t dare look down into my mirror tray. It’s something in how they’re all looking down. Like they can never stop. Never look back up again. I feel my gold bracelet tingle on my wrist. I am watchful like its painted eye.
At each of the four corners of the long table stands a Statue of Cold. They are watching over the veiled guests, watching the roses and candles as if it is their job to monitor. They each hold a very big net like for catching butterflies. Or fish. Interesting. Perhaps what we are eating at this Feast will be fresh caught? Live?
“Will they kill it in front of us at the table?” I ask Lake. “Like they do in the finest restaurants and markets? That must be what this is.”
“I hope not,” Lake says. “I hate that.”
“It’s a very fancy way,” I say.
“I don’t want a fancy way. I want to go home now,” Lake says. “My home on the hill. A house with thirteen windows. You’ll help me find it.”
“Yes, of course. It’s just… I’m not sure where we are.” I think of the long winding stair we just walked up. All those twisting corridors. We’re on the top floor, that’s clear by the night sky above, but I don’t know how far down and away the exit is. It’s comforting to look up at the night sky through the ceiling. To see the sky is to know something, however small, of where we are.
“There is sky up there at least,” I say. “Look”—but Lake won’t look. “Lake,” I say. “There’s sky up in the—”
A clearing of a throat. Then the Queen of Snow steps forward from the shadows. Smiles. I stand up straighter in my white-and-red dress. All of us moonbright ones do. It’s like the Queen of Snow’s smile has invisible threads connected to all of our spines. And when her lips curve, we straighten.
“We have a very special guest to welcome for tonight’s Feast,” she says. “One of our very best. Who has given us so much. Contributed so deeply to the Source, the wellspring of our Mission. One who has, over the ages, planted many a seed in many a Vessel and watched the Roses grow.” And she gestures to us moonbright ones along the wall. We are the Roses, apparently. Or are we the Vessels?
“In fact, this guest planted one of the Roses here with us in this very room right now. Which is why we invited him to join us tonight.”
One of us? Which one of us? I look at my fellow moonbright ones. But they are all too busy looking at themselves in their mirror trays. Even Lake is looking down now. Smiling at herself. “Beautiful,” she is whispering. “Brightened.” Salt water dripping from her eyes.
The veiled ones clap. Murmuring among them. Wonderful is a word I hear. “Oh, oh! A delightful surprise.”
I see there’s an empty seat at the head of the table. The Queen of Snow’s gloved hands are resting on the back of this chair. The sort where a king or a queen might sit. The word throne appears in the pool of my mind. Probably this throne is for this honored guest.
“I wonder who this guest is,” I whisper to Lake. “He sounds very impressive.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Lake says, shaking her head, still staring at herself in the mirror tray. She says it like I’m bothering her. She’s getting paler. The darkness around her eyes is blacker. I’m worried. Maybe she needs to eat something. Good thing we are at a feast. Hopefully once this honored guest arrives, they’ll start severing us.
Applause as someone enters the room from the dark mouth. Another person in black. A man. He wears a black-horned mask. Though I don’t see his face, the veiled ones sitting at the table seem to know who he is very well. The clapping gets much louder, is thunderous. All those black silk hands. Little gasps and squeals of delight behind the veils. The man bows slightly. I feel his smile in the back of my neck. He appreciates the claps. His stance says, Yes. I am all of this. There’s something in his footsteps that’s so familiar. I’ve heard those footsteps before in my life. Walking through the dark rooms of my life. Entering a door of glass. A door of glass?