Burning Kingdoms. Lauren DeStefano

ask,” I repeat firmly. “If we were to offend our host, we could well be tossed out into the snow, and then what?”

      Pen walks around me, dragging her finger through my hair so it rises and falls. It’s so straight that it falls immediately back into formation. “What if he killed his wife? What if we’re next?” Pen says.

      “Are you always so grim?” Celeste says.

      A knock at the door silences our chatter. I loop my arm around Pen’s.

      “Excuse me.” It’s one of the children. A girl. “Dinner is being served downstairs.”

      The thought of food nauseates me. For just a moment, I nearly forgot the magnitude of this ordeal, but that strange affectation in the child’s voice has reminded me.

      “Thank you,” Celeste says sweetly.

      “Should we try to eat any of it?” Pen whispers into my ear. “What if it’s poisoned?”

      I’m not eager to relive the experience of the poisoned sweetgold. “We should at least pretend to,” I say.

      “Let’s let Her Highness eat it and see if she survives.”

      Celeste, who is fixing her braided crown, pauses to glare at us in the mirror.

      Jack Piper is a man who strives for order; that much is clear. His children do all things in order of height, which includes taking their places at the largest dinner table I’ve ever seen. He gives them a nod, and they shake open their folded napkins and lay them in their laps.

      “I have to compliment you on your gold curtains,” Celeste says. “We don’t see much gold fabric back home.”

      Back home. What a notion.

      Riles’s snorting laugh says he think we’re the strangest things alive. “You don’t have gold fabric?” he says.

      “What else don’t you have?” one of the younger girls asks.

      “Don’t be brats,” Nimble tells them.

      “Yes, gold is popular down here,” Jack says. “It’s a precious metal.”

      I’ve never thought of any one metal as being more special than the next. They all come in handy for something or other.

      “Do you have ham?” the smallest one, Annette, asks. She isn’t teasing; she really wants to know. “Because that’s what’s for dinner.”

      “I don’t think so,” Celeste says. She doesn’t seem to mind speaking on behalf of us all. “What is it?”

      “It’s from a pig,” Annette says. She presses her nose upward with her finger and makes a snorting sound.

      “We don’t have those,” Pen says, speaking before the princess can get in another word. “And we don’t eat animals very often. Only on special occasions.”

      Annette looks at her like she’s never heard such a thing.

      “That’s enough inquisition,” Jack says. “Our guests have come a long way and they’ve earned an evening of relaxation. There will be plenty of time for all of us to get acquainted.”

      Lex and Alice are missing from the table, as are Judas and Amy. I look through the doorway, and all I see are infinite doors, and a staircase that leads to even more of them.

      A fireplace is crackling. I can feel the warmth of it from the next room. It’s an effective enough way to stay warm, but most of the buildings on Internment have been outfitted with electric heat in the past decade, thanks to the sun’s energy being harnessed by the glasslands. I’d thought the ground would be much more advanced than we are, given that we borrow so many of their ideas through our scopes, but we seem to be on par, if not a bit ahead.

      One thing the ground does have is space. A house practically the size of a whole section of Internment, and as many children to a family as they please. Dozens of windows and curtains, and closets fat with clothes, no matter if anyone can be bothered to come along to wear them.

      The food is brought out by a young woman in a black dress that is dripping with metal buttons. She lays each plate on the mat with precision, and uncovers all the hot dishes, which are heaping with enough food to feed twice as many people as are seated.

      The smallest Piper volunteers to say grace, which means we all bow our heads as she recites some sort of poem that begins with “Thank you, God” and goes on to list all the things at the table. She adds in “please” and “bless” copious times. It ends when she says, “And bless Mother, too. And tell her to please send a telegram.”

      “We don’t ask for things like that,” Riles says.

      “Says you.”

      “I thought it was a fine prayer,” Nimble says. He winks at his littlest sister and she grins.

      Everyone wields utensils and begins helping themselves. Pen, Basil, Thomas, and I take a modest portion of everything, but we aren’t brave—or perhaps stupid—enough to try eating it.

      “Your accent is lovely,” Gertrude says, forcing the words out all at once as though she’s been building the courage to speak. She’s the second oldest, with soft rosy cheeks, and hair that covers one eye as it falls over her shoulder in waves.

      “Accent?” I say.

      “Yes. You don’t know that word? It’s the way that you speak. Everything has an upward inflection. You all sound so inquisitive. I think it’s pretty.”

      “Thank you,” Celeste says brightly. “Where we’re from, everyone speaks the same way. It hadn’t occurred to me there was any other way.”

      “There are lots of ways to speak,” Nimble says. “Though King Ingram prefers to war with the one nation that speaks the same language we do.” He looks at Celeste. “You come from a political family. Does that seem smart to you?”

      “That’s enough,” Jack Piper says, dabbing his lips with a cloth napkin. “Your depiction of our king is unwelcome in this home, Nimble. We’ve discussed this.”

      Nimble’s gaze rolls from one side of his lenses to the other. The younger children are giggling soundlessly at their plates.

      “Are you at war?” Celeste asks.

      “The dinner table isn’t the place to discuss politics,” Jack Piper says. “Perhaps tomorrow, once you’ve all had a chance to rest.” He leans back so that he can see under the table. “And speaking of inappropriate, what have I told you about rolling your stockings, Gertrude?”

      She blushes. “Yes, of course,” she says. “Sorry, Father.”

      During the meal, Jack explains to us that this building is something called a hotel during the warm seasons. It’s winter now, he says, and so it’s closed for business. There’s something called a theme park nearby, and people will travel from all across the nation in a season he calls summer to visit it and catch a glimpse of the floating island. They have scopes here on the ground, too, though Internment’s position and altitude prevent them from seeing much besides the bottom of the city.

      “It’s flattering to know you’ve taken such an interest in our humble city,” Celeste says. “I—we would all love to see this park.”

      “Well, then I—we—will have to show it to you,” Nimble says, and the way he’s looking at her actually makes her blush.

      After dinner, Basil and I find a moment alone in the hallway that holds my bedroom. We’re standing in something called the east wing. His room is in something called the west wing. So many words for one building.

      His eyes meet mine, and at the same time we both blurt out, “Are you okay?”

      He puts his hand on the wall by my head, and I feel so safe, so very safe in his shadow and in the smell of him, like home and bottled redolence and sunlight.