An Embroidery of Souls

Chapter One

Jade

I can kill a man with nothing more than a needle, thread, and a lock of his hair.

My skills allow me to stitch love, embroider away death, and unspool memories. Even the most wonderful gifts aren’t out of my grasp. Beauty. Courage. Happiness. I can bestow them as I choose, or steal them away as I see fit.

And yet, for all my talents, I can’t get through tea with the queen—­or anyone, for that matter—­without my hands shaking.

The teacup rattles as I return it to the saucer, and though it can’t be loud, to me it’s a blaring screech. Queen María-­Celese Ríos sits across from me in a dress of verdant green stitched with all nature of flora, from honeysuckle to marigolds. Her gown is glorious—­no doubt made of the finest Caldistan silk—­and the chambers we’re seated in are just as lovely. Thick leather sofas and chairs, azure tiles, and walls painted to look like the jungle outside the city gates. It’s absolutely stunning.

I hate it. Hate that it’s not my small, safe cabin. My skin itches just being in this unknown place with this unfamiliar person. The fact that the queen is supposedly descended from Oro, king of Devociónism’s many gods, only makes my anxiety worse. His blood runs in her veins, and while the blood of a god has never bestowed any powers, it certainly grants status, of which the queen has reached the pinnacle. Now that status makes me squirm under her gaze, sharper than a fresh needle.

It takes everything inside me not to flinch. We’ve already exchanged pleasantries, and I’ve spent the past minute debating what to say before tossing every foolish idea aside. What do I say to a queen, of all people?

In the end, she breaks the silence. “I brought you here to ask some questions, if you would be so obliged.”

My eyes dart up to meet hers, much too abruptly, which spurs more panic. Did she notice? Is she upset with me? Her soul hovers about her, a rainbow of fragments, and my eyes stick on the burnt orange impatience before I remember she asked a question. My throat tightens, and I barely manage to cough out my next words. “Of course, Your Majesty.”

She glances at the wall, almost unsure of herself, then leans back and waves a dismissive hand. “Please, call me Celese. It’s what all my closest confidants use.”

My collar is suddenly too tight, the stitching on my ivory cotton dress unbearably itchy. I can’t imagine a world where I’m one of the queen’s closest confidants—­I’ve only just met her. My mother has worked with her, but not me. Never me.

What do I even say to that?

“Yes. I mean, okay . . . Celese.”

Gods, I’m making a fool of myself—­in front of the queen, no less. She studies me a beat too long, then says, “Let’s start with your mother. Have you heard from her recently?”

I think I might vomit all over the queen’s pretty dress. I know where this is going, and I don’t like it.

“No.” My palms are clammy as I bring them together. “No, nothing since she disappeared. I filed a report with the polesa.”

Her brow furrows, and my eyes skitter to another hue in her soul, a bright, judgmental citrine. “Didn’t you file that report three months ago?”

The blood drains from my face, both from the queen’s assessing gaze and from the reminder of that morning, when I last saw my mother—­ninety-­two days ago now.

I nearly crack then, under the weight of missing her. I still remember our last morning together so clearly—­how I found her sitting at the kitchen table, face ashen, an article on the recent murders spread out in front of her. When I asked what was wrong, she said nothing, but an hour later she hugged me tighter than normal, told me she loved me, and whispered into my ear, Don’t fret, but I have to run some errands. Pack your things. When I get back, you and I need to talk.

What about, I might never know, because she didn’t return. Not that day, or any after.

I still haven’t been able to bring myself to unpack that trunk. It’s foolish, but if I do . . . it somehow makes this real, means that she’s gone, and I—­I don’t think I can face a world without my mother in it. I’m not sure I want to live in that world at all.

My eyes sting, and I startle when the queen clears her throat, reminding me that she said something.

“Yes—­sorry, you’re right. Three months.” My voice is little more than a strained hiss. I should say more, but there doesn’t seem to be any air left inside me.

“You must know what this means, Jade.” She pauses, and everything inside me tenses. “The Crown needs a thread speaker, and with your mother gone . . .”

I’ll be expected to take her place.

And of course I will. Thread speaking doesn’t follow bloodlines—­it’s random and rare. There are barely more than a dozen of us alive today, and in the queendom of Mérecal we’re obligated to serve the crown. To gift them health, spin them happi­ness, stitch their intelligence.

To kill their enemies with the tug of a thread.

The prospect has me dizzy, and I absently reach for the pendant at my throat, imagining everything my new role will entail. Leaving the house, public appearances, crowds.

Crowds.

For a moment, I’m no longer with the queen but ensnared in a memory. In it, the cool stone of the courthouse steps digs into my back while a frenzy of hands pulls at my limbs, my clothes, my hair. I’m trapped in a fog of their breath, drowning beneath the crush of their bodies. In reality, my throat begins to close up, a warning sign that one of my episodes is impending, and—­

“Jade?”

The queen’s voice is the mental slap I need. She’s looking at me, and her hand twitches, fingers spinning her signet ring. The symbol there catches my eye, familiar after years of seeing it on my mother’s desk, stamped in wax on the queen’s letters. A crescent moon over a river, haloed in a ring of feathers. A mark each: feathers for the god she’s descended from, a moon for the one she’s named after, and a river for her surname—Ríos.

Her movement abruptly stops, and I realize I’ve been staring. “What were we talking about again?”

My voice squeaks, and another wave of nausea rolls through. What if I upset her? I fight a wince as she bites her lip, appearing almost . . . uncomfortable as she studies me. “I need a thread speaker.”

I shrink at what she’s implying, realize I’m squeezing my pendant, and drop my hand to my lap. “But my mother will be back soon.”

You are strong, capable, and wonderful. Don’t ever forget it. My mother used to tell me that. She may have adopted me after learning of our shared gifts, but she loved me for me. Even so, she was wrong—­I’m not any of those things, least of all strong. I’m too afraid of the world to ever truly join it.

The queen’s next words are gentle, a kindness I wouldn’t have expected from her. “If she was coming back, she would’ve returned by now.”

At first I don’t recognize the strange, creaking sound. Then I realize it’s me, a sob twisting its way out of my throat. I clamp a hand over my mouth, but it’s too late. The queen’s already heard.

Her eyes flick to the wall again, and the lilac compassion in her soul pulses before she looks back at me. “Perhaps I could grant you an extension.”

It should be a relief. It is a relief. Any extra time is a gift. And yet days, weeks, years . . . it doesn’t change the fact that my mother is gone. I can’t afford to sound ungrateful, though, so I nod, and the queen’s voice is soft as she replies.

“How about sixty days? If your mother isn’t back by then, you’ll assume her duties.”

Sixty days. It’s not nearly enough time to prepare. Logically, I’ve always known I’d be called on to take my mother’s place, but that’s always been a far-­off concept. I never thought I’d be in this position at seventeen.

But Queen María-­Celese has already budged—­a truly surprising concession. My mother didn’t reveal much about her work with the queen, but she did offer one piece of advice: to never disobey her. Which is why even as my stomach gives a sudden, violent twist, I nod. “Of course. I understand.”

What else can I say? That I’d run away to avoid these duties, if only the prospect of leaving wasn’t so terrifying? Sixty days, though. That’s not nothing. Perhaps my mother will return.

Or maybe I could find her.

It’s not like I haven’t already tried. I’ve written letters to the hospitals, morgues, even prisons, searching for her. But all my efforts have been in vain, and none have required me to leave the safety of my home.

Every night I dream of finding my mother, bringing her back. But come sunrise, when reality hits, I’ve always been too afraid. Cowardly. This deadline, though . . . Soon I won’t have an option. If I don’t search for my mother now, there won’t be time later, not as thread speaker to the crown.

“There’s another matter.”

The queen’s tone is unexpectedly soft, and something about it makes me lift my head, look at her and not simply the soul hovering around her. She’s young for a queen, still in her early thirties. She was only sixteen when a fire ravaged her home, killing her parents and older sister. The official story claims it was nothing more than a horrible tragedy, but the rumors . . . they speak of something more malicious. Of a killer and ill intent. Personally, I’m not sure what I believe, but regardless, the result was the same. Celese became the queen, one of the last remaining monarchs in a world increasingly possessed by democracy.

The years since have transformed her into the woman in front of me. She’s clearly well pampered, all manner of creams and powders applied to her face, smoothing her skin and making her dark eyes glisten. But it’s strange. There’s no luster to her hair. Her nose has an unexpected bump. The blades of her cheeks aren’t quite as sharp as I would’ve predicted.

Perhaps I’m superficial, but I expected her to be more beautiful, in the way only those altered by thread speaking can achieve. Her face on the dineda coins certainly suggests as much, and I could’ve sworn my mother stitched her beauty years ago. I must be thinking of someone else, though; it’s a common request, after all.

She shifts in her seat, almost . . . nervous, but that can’t be right. “I also wanted to discuss the murders.”

Oh.

The words settle between us like a lead weight, and too much silence passes before I realize I should’ve said something by now.

“What about them?”

My voice comes out too high, but the queen graciously ignores my awkwardness. “I was hoping you might be able to aid in the investigation. The polesa are doing everything they can, but it’s been months, and they still have no suspects. I understand this is a stretch, but I wondered if your unique talents might lend themselves to the case. At this point we’re desperate for any help we can get.”

Oh. I hadn’t expected that, though I can see why she’d ask. I’ve been reading the papers, absorbing the details of the case the same way roots might soak up poisoned water. The bodies have been discovered across Mérecal, their eyes gouged out, bloody tears striping their cheeks. No one is safe. Peasants, businessmen, preachers, even a member of the polesa—­all have been killed, and anyone could be next.

The polesa insist the killer’s a madman, the reporters speculate the murders are tied to gang activity, but the people whisper. They say it’s the wrath of the old gods. That Vada’s become greedy, and her dog is running amok. That Oro’s disappointed in our declining faith, and that’s why he isn’t stopping her.