No one dances yet. It’s up to me to begin the festivities.
The moment I enter, the hall goes silent. Hector pauses in the threshold, giving them a chance to size up their queen. I hold lightly to his arm, and he reaches with his other hand and gives mine a quick squeeze.
Everyone bows, but their collective gaze fixes on my new crown. I give them a defiant smile in return and wait the space of a few beats for them to fully understand what they see.
I gesture for everyone to rise, and Hector and I resume our procession. The crowd breaks into a flurry of low-voiced conversations. I catch the words “Godstone” and “sorcery.” I hold my smile easily, knowing the crown has had its intended effect.
At the end of the hall, my throne dais has been rolled away to reveal the massive Hand of God, a masterwork of marble sculpture we gaze upon only once each year. My Godstone leaps in rapturous response. I calm it with my fingertips, mumbling, “Stop that.”
The man who carved the hand, Lutián of the Rocks, spent his whole short life working on it. They say he was overcome with God’s spirit, that he carved with fevered frenzy, stopping only for occasional food and drink and sleep. When he finished at the age of twenty-one, he pronounced it good and promptly collapsed of a burst heart. He bore a living Godstone, like me, and carving this giant hand was his great service.
With Hector’s help, I climb the steps leading to God’s cupped fingers. I step across them carefully, for they are as rounded and ridged as real fingers. I spread the skirt of my aquamarine gown around me, and lower myself so that I sit cross-legged in the giant palm.
The crowd hushes in expectation.
I close my eyes, lift my hands to the sky, and intone the Deliverance blessing.
In you our ancestors put their trust,
they cried out and you delivered them.
Yea, from the dying world they were saved;
in you they trusted and were not put to shame.
Bless us, O God, as we remember your hand;
your righteous right hand endures forever.
“Selah!” the crowd thunders.
The musicians resume, dancers float onto the center floor, and the Deliverance Gala has officially begun.
From below, Hector gestures for me to come down. Normally, the monarch would sit in the Hand of God for several dances, absorbing luck and blessing. But it is too dangerous for me to be exposed for so long.
Holding tight to his hand for support, I navigate the steps, mindful of my full skirt. My foot has barely reached the floor when I am accosted by my first partner.
“May I have this dance, Your Majesty?” asks Prince Rosario. He bows with the ease of long practice, his small fingers outstretched in gentlemanly supplication.
“Of course!” I say with genuine enthusiasm, taking the offered hand.
His head does not even reach my chest, and I’m tempted to lead him, but he seems determined to do the job credibly, so I let him.
“Did your nurse put you up to this?” I ask.
He peers up at me from beneath thick lashes—his cinnamon eyes are so like his father’s—and says, “No, but Carilla wants to dance with me.” With a quick tip of his chin, he indicates a young girl with wild curls and satin ruffles standing at the edge of the crowd, no more than nine years old. Rosario wrinkles his nose. “She tries to kiss me. It’s awful.”
I laugh. “So you told her you had to dance with me instead.”
He nods solemnly. “Even though you are a terrible dancer. Dancing with you is better than dancing with Carilla.”
With equal solemnity, I say, “Excellent decision. You will be a wise king one day.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “Wiser than Papá. Everyone says so.”
My heart breaks for him a little. “We should drift across the hall so that you are far away from Carilla when the song ends.”
He brightens. “Good idea!”
As we dance, I ask him about his studies, which he loathes, and his swordsmanship lessons with Hector, which he loves. By the time our dance ends, we are laughing together over his favorite pony, who can nose his way to a syrupy date even through three layers of clothing. I don’t step on Rosario’s feet even once.
When we separate, he bows. “I thank you for the dance, Your Majesty,” he intones.
“It was a pleasure, Your Highness,” I respond. Several people around us applaud lightly, as if we have put on a bit of theater. And I suppose we have. I hope it has cheered them to see their queen and her heir having a good time together.
A hand grasps my elbow. I look up into Hector’s worried face. He whispers, “Please. Do not drift through the crowd while dancing. Stay close to the edge, where I can see you.”
The music changes to a slow, rhythmic bolero.