In a Garden Burning Gold: Book One of the Wind-up Garden series

One

Rhea

A week was too long to be a widow. Even after all her marriages, Rhea had never got used to it. The black, the singing, the veils-­it was enough to drive anybody mad. At least no one ever expected her to cry.

She leaned forward in her seat as her carriage rattled up the road toward her father's house, Stratathoma, where it was perched on the edge of a sheer black cliff. From here she could only see the thick perimeter wall and above it the peaks of the stone-­shingled roof. Somewhere inside, past the courtyards and double doors, were her siblings. Of them all, Alexandros would be most glad to see her, and she him; it was always strange being separated from her twin, no matter how many times they parted. Nitsos, their younger brother, would have barely noticed her absence, tucked away as he was in his workshop from morning until night. And Chrysanthi would be excited to see her, if only for the stories Rhea brought back from her trips.

Little Chrysanthi-­although, Rhea reminded herself, they were none of them so little anymore-gathered up the stories Rhea told about her consorts and kept them in a small tin box by the side of her bed. Sometimes, if Rhea listened closely during the night, she could hear Chrysanthi open the box and munch contentedly on a story or two, leaving crumbs strewn across her bedsheets. Well, she wouldn't be disappointed this time. Rhea had a few stored up with just the right flavor. A flavor: a sweet, spicy autumn sort of crispness. Those were Chrysanthi's favorites.

At last the carriage reached the double doors breaching Stratathoma's perimeter wall, their gnarled surface painted a deep blue, the color most closely associated with their family name, Argyros. Rhea's father was quite proud of their name and insisted that his children and his house bear his colors whenever possible. He was the country's Stratagiozi, her father, in charge of all of Thyzakos, and as his children she and her siblings each had their own responsibilities to contend with. Only hers took her away from home, to some bed in some house in some city that fell under her father's watch.

She had dawdled with this last consort. He'd made the inconvenient mistake of falling a bit in love with her, and Rhea had seen the flicker of it in his eyes and found herself somehow unable to slide her knife under his ribs, plagued by a thing she supposed she had to call guilt. It was only when the time was well past for a chill to dust across the high grasses and olive trees that she had managed, over their morning meal, to ask him to turn away from her and hold still. It had not been a clean death, and so not a clean season. It worked much better when she could get right to their hearts, as she would be sure to with her next consort-­winter's, to be chosen in a fortnight.

The carriage continued along the cobblestone path through the grounds and toward the outer courtyard, its studded wooden doors swinging back on their own, operated by a network of chains and gears. Nitsos's design obviously. He was the middle child, slotted between the twins and Chrysanthi, and while Alexandros followed Baba like a shadow, Nitsos was left to while away the time in his workshop. Windup animals with steam-­beating pulses, clockwork gardens full of fabric flowers. Tinkering with machines and mechanics to make sure everything operated smoothly, in every corner of the world.

Beyond the doors, the drive straightened out and the cobblestones turned to patchwork flagstone. Rhea pressed close to the carriage window to get a first glimpse of the doors into the private inner courtyard. They were too narrow for carriages, and the lintel hung too low to allow a single rider through. When you entered Baba's house, you entered on your own feet, with no weapons in your hands and no ill will in your heart.

A pair of women were waiting, and as Rhea's carriage came to a complete stop they darted forward, one to fetch the luggage strapped to the back of the carriage and the other to open Rhea's door. But Rhea was too eager to get a breath of fresh air after so many hours bouncing around inside a small box. She shouldered the door fully open, the first servant jumping back to avoid its swing, and hopped down, her boots landing lightly on stones still warm from the afternoon sun.

The grass was well tended here, trimmed short, and the roses that trailed across every wall were fully in bloom, as always. Chrysanthi spent a great deal of time out here tending to the landscape, painting everything in careful strokes, making sure every rose was evenly pink.

"Kiria Rhea? Are you ready to go in?"

It was always startling to hear her true name for the first time after a marriage. In the rest of...