The Cerulean (Untitled Duology, #1)(16)

“Your orange mother has been up since dawn sewing a robe for you,” she said. “For the ceremony.”

On any other day, there would have been a joke about thimbles or a reminiscence of the last time Sera’s orange mother had tried to sew her a prayer robe and it was six inches too short. But today was not just any day. The memory of that too-short robe stuck in Sera’s throat like a pebble. She took a sip of tea, but its warmth did nothing to soothe her or ease the tightness in her chest. When her green mother set a plate of eggs and tomato in front of her, all Sera could do was pick at it with her fingers.

“Sera, you really should ea—” her green mother began, but was silenced by one look from her purple mother.

They sat around the table pretending to eat but mostly sipping tea and watching the clock on the wall. It was past the hour of the serpent. The ceremony would take place at the next hour, the hour of the light.

“I am sorry, Green Mother,” Sera said, staring at her plate. The guilt hit her with sudden force, that perhaps if she had been a better daughter, this would not have happened. “You were such a good teacher to me and I . . . I was not . . . I didn’t . . .”

“My sweet girl.” Her green mother was on her knees, cupping Sera’s face in her hands. “You were a joy to educate. All the other green mothers wondered how I was able to handle your questions—and you had so many! And do you know what I told them?”

Sera shook her head, her throat too swollen to speak.

“I said, ‘Each question she asks is a gift to me.’ Some green mothers think only of the wisdom they are meant to impart to their daughter, of our ways and our history. But you showed me that true wisdom is in learning from each other. You taught me so much, my child.”

“You are not disappointed in me?” Sera asked, and she knew this was the question she was burning to have answered. She needed to know, before the end, that she had not let her mothers down.

“Oh, Sera,” her green mother said, and then her arms were around Sera, and her purple mother’s too. “No,” she whispered.

“You are our greatest love,” her purple mother said, and her voice broke. “You have changed us with your infectious joy and your expansive heart and your beautiful mind.” She clasped Sera’s hands in her own. “Remember what I said to you.”

“As long as the stars burn in the sky, you will love me,” Sera whispered. She breathed her mothers in, honeysuckle and peppermint, and tried to lock their scents away with the basil. Please, Mother Sun, she prayed, let me take a piece of them with me, no matter how small.

“Sera,” her orange mother called. “Can you come in here, please?”

Sera’s body felt unnaturally heavy as she made her way to her mothers’ bedroom. The bed was a giant circle with lots of fluffy pillows and gossamer blankets. A long, oval looking glass stood off to one side. Her orange mother seemed tired—there was a redness in her eyes and her face had a pinched look.

She held out the silky material with both hands. “I hope you are not disappointed.”

Sera turned away to put the robe on, keeping Leela’s necklace hidden beneath it so the moonstone could rest against her heart. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t told her mothers about the necklace, except that it felt like the right thing to keep it private, to keep it just between her and her best friend.

The robe was cloudspun, not made of seresheep wool like her other prayer robes, and it left her arms completely bare, the hood embroidered clumsily with golden thread. It was belted with finely woven moonsilver, and the hem was adorned with green and orange and purple thread that zigged and zagged in an erratic fashion.

“The High Priestess said it was tradition for her to make the robe for the chosen one,” her orange mother said, eyes downcast. “She would have done a better job. But I . . . I asked if I might . . .” She swallowed and pressed her lips together.

Sera had never loved a prayer robe more. “It’s perfect,” she said, wrapping her arms around her orange mother’s waist. “I wouldn’t want to wear anything else.”

“You have been our sun, Sera Lighthaven,” her orange mother said, her eyes glittering with tears. Sera had never seen her orange mother cry. “You have been the light in our world.” Her voice cracked and she began to say something else, then stopped herself. “Are you ready to go to the Night Gardens?”

Sera had never felt less ready for anything.

“Yes, Mother,” she whispered.

The Night Gardens were on the eastern point of the City Above the Sky.

As the Cerulean began to gather for the ceremony, the streets filled with women in white robes. Today, no one had spoken to Sera. No one spoke at all. She caught a glimpse of Leela in the crowd. Her friend gave her a tight smile that Sera found herself unable to return, as if the smallest movement would be too much for her muscles to bear.

Sera’s heart was beating so fast she wondered if it had been stolen during the night and replaced with a hummingbird’s wings.

The Night Gardens were resplendent as the hour of the light drew near. The colors were darker here than the bright hues of the Day Gardens, scarlet dahlias and somber purple lilacs, scattered nebula trees with their black leaves and silver bark, pure white lilies and gray roses, all intermixed with tiny, floating will-o-wisps. The Cerulean followed the shore of the Great Estuary, which narrowed as it neared the edge of the City, before falling off its end in a waterfall. At this edge was a raised glass dais that jutted out beyond the waterfall into the void of space. Sera’s stomach swooped. Many of the Cerulean were already kneeling. Sera and her mothers picked their way through the crowd to where the High Priestess stood.