Orphia smirked, pleased. "That will do." She took the lock of hair and dropped it into the mirror. It vanished instantly, leaving ripples across the starry obsidian surface.
Hair holds an unspoken power, strange as that may seem. To cut a lock from a sleeping god is a bold move; my mother could have demanded anything of my father in exchange for those strands. It would have shamed him to know she had been awake while he slept—that he had been vulnerable in her presence. But rather than making a demand of him, Zenia had used it for my horoscope instead, all to skirt around the name she would not utter.
Next, my mother pricked her finger and offered up a bead of her blood.
From there, the goddesses waited, quiet and expectant, until a constellation smoldered within the reflection of the night sky, brighter than all the others.
"Hmm." Orphia tapped her long nails against the mirror's gilded edge. Silver rings shaped like small bones gleamed on every knuckle.
"What is it?" My mother leaned forward, even though she could not scry. "What do you see?"
"A constellation made of six points."
Zenia said nothing, but her mind raced as she sorted out where I would fall in the divine courts. "Then she belongs to the Middle Court. And the lowest rung, at that."
"You're displeased?"
"No. I'm relieved. The lack of power should protect her."
"Let us hope that it does," Orphia said with a slight drawl, no doubt dwelling on the fact that my mother belonged to the High Court only because she had killed two other divines to gain more constellation points, rising through the ranks of prowess.
"And her magic?" Zenia insisted.
"The two of you have created a herald."
"A herald?"
"You sound disappointed."
"I—no. Merely surprised." My mother fell quiet, no doubt feeling the burn of poison on her tongue, the magic wrenching the truth from her. But she was thinking of taxes and patience and peace, and all the other tedious powers I could have had. Herald seemed akin to those, and she picked at her nails. "What does a herald do?"
"Your daughter will be a messenger, carrying words and tidings and proclamations from one realm to the next."
"One realm to the next?" Zenia's displeasure was now evident. "I do not want Matilda moving through the realms. Not even the mortal one. She belongs here, below, with me and our clan. It will be safer for her."
"There is safety in movement, if you truly fear for Matilda's well-being," Orphia countered. "And what you meant to say is this: you do not want your daughter to know her father's kin, far above."
"He does not even know that we made a child."
"But he will, Zenia. When he sees her, he will know she is his, and his fury at you will only wax hotter."
"When will he see her?" My mother flung out her left hand, exasperated. The moonstone ring on her thumb flashed in the firelight, as if in agreement.
"It will be many years until then, and—as with most gods—time and wine and consorts will dull his memory. She will be known as Matilda of Underling, and—"
"She cannot claim the clan's name," Orphia said with a sigh, "no more than she can claim the Skyward one."
Zenia blinked, a flush creeping up her neck. "No, she must have a clan name. A home. Something to keep her tethered. Allies she can trust."
Orphia was growing weary of her company and glanced back at the mirror.
It was impossible to look upon the goddess of death without noting her beauty—her son, Bade, had inherited none of it—but she was comely in a way no other Underling was. Death was moonlight on a sword, an ocean eddy at high tide. Ephemeral and vicious and cold, like frost over iron. Her expressions were ever shifting, heavily guarded. She only let you see what she wanted you to, but in that moment, a startled frown overtook her countenance.
Her eyes widened, dark as new moons. Her hands turned bone-white as she clutched the mirror's edge, bending her head down to study the constellations that continued to burn through the inky blackness.
"Orphia?" my mother said, her voice ringing with fear. I heard it and whimpered, but Zenia failed to notice. "Did you see something else?"
As soon as the moment had come, it was over.
The goddess of death straightened, her face placid, her fingers leaving the mirror's edge.
"I thought I saw something out of place," she said, walking to her loom. This was her way of politely dismissing visitors. Once she gazed upon the colorful threads, her attention would be snared by them. Her irritation or delight would heighten, depending on the pattern and the challenge.
"Another constellation?" Zenia asked, soft with hope. "One greater than herald?"
Orphia did not answer. She picked up her shuttle, but instead of studying the weft and warp, she looked at me, still lying on the wool by the fire.
I quieted, for even I knew better than to challenge Death's mood.
But Orphia had spoken truth that day. Movement was destined to be my armor. I was not fully an Underling, nor was I a full-blooded Skyward. I was both, and this had never happened before. I was Matilda alone. Matilda of nowhere and no kin. I would become the herald of the gods, much to my mother's chagrin. And the goddess of death had certainly seen something out of place within my stars.