The Prospect's Dance (Book 1, Land of Sweets)

16: Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy

The castle is a purple wonderland.

On one of my trips to gather a Prospect, I went to see a moving picture. I had never seen one before; they were relatively new entertainments for mortals, and while I'd first heard of them two visits before, I had never seen one for myself. So I took myself to see The Wizard of Oz.

Its magical land was laughable and paltry when compared to the Land of Sweets, but it was charming nonetheless. My favorite part was the horse of a different color. It was unexpected. Horses are supposed to be horses, like walls are supposed to be walls and doors to be doors. But then the horse changed colors, and I gripped the edge of my seat, spilling my popcorn on the floor. Not because the horse shocked me, but because its ever-changing nature was familiar. I had been gone so long from the mortal world that I never expected it could offer me anything relatable, anything I could understand intimately.

In the castle in the Land of Sweets, you never know what color to expect on the walls—not in the great hall, at least. I think the Queen changes it up just to keep her subjects on their toes. People take care in their appearance when they come to see the Queen. They accent their features with jewelry and take care with what little clothing they have leniency in choosing. They choose items which make them appear to their best advantage. But there is only so much they can do. The Queen has the final say.

It is popular to believe that the walls change colors by chance. It is considered outlandish conspiracy to believe the Queen controls something as trivial as the scenery. But too many times have I seen the walls turn a weak green that made the supplicant look jaundiced against it. I am too experienced in the machinations of the Queen to attribute my suspicions to an overdeveloped cynical side.

But when in doubt as to what color the Queen will chose for her castle, purple is always a good guess. She is the Sugar Plum Fairy, after all. Tonight, the walls gleam dark plum like sticky jam. It is appropriate—sticky things catch you, hold you in place, and the Queen and her palace are the jam-glue keeping us from escape. The windows are stained navy by the star-prickled sky beyond the glass. So beautiful, those stars, so pure. I think of Orion and want to shout. I want to shout at this imaginary man for looking down from his celestial perch and not doing a thing to help us. It is foolish to admonish a man made of stars, of course, for he isn't a man at all. But the only other choice is to admonish God himself, and I have already made too many mistakes. Still, it is hard to have faith in my pleas to God and the saints. What concerns do the heavens have for men so far away as me? I know the answer a priest would give, but in my heart of hearts, I doubt. Maybe that's what got me into this situation in the first place.

In glory, the Queen adorns her dais, frothed and foaming with jewels. Scented oil shimmers on her skin. She is a museum of tulle, chiffon, and sparkly things. To behold her is to behold the Milky Way's spiral arm in all its radiance, to bathe in the most intoxicating wine.

The Queen's favorites, they are there. Nut and a few others I don't recognize. The Prospects are there as well in their white clothes; I guess they haven't chosen their Schools yet. There are women—in gowns of sugar and cream, in pink ribbons, raspberry garlands, and wreathes of mint leaves—and men in tight pants and billowy sleeves with gingerbread trim and tapioca sashes. There are no Peppermints.

Our red, it makes us stand out in this room, bright as garnets and rubies backlit by the moon. But we do not look like Peppermints, either. I wear a red doublet, but a blue-green scarf belts my waist, and a custard yellow one is tied around my head. I look like a fortune teller. Claire retains her red skirt, but has ditched the underskirt, so its folds cling loosely to her legs. Beneath is her white Prospect leotard. It seemed fitting to make her Prospect garment into a costume of rebellion. A dozen or more bead necklaces hang at her throat, and that sight makes my knees weak, for they are cranberry necklaces made by my rats, who have accepted her as one of our own. Her hair, it is not bound like a ballerina's should be, but hangs wild and wavy down her back. We may wear clothes we found in the Land of Sweets, but we do not look like we belong.