Read The Girl Who Drank the Moon for Free Online

the Sisters of the Star—designed, apparently, to make people feel wobbly-­kneed and tongue-­tied and frightened and grateful, all at once—and then he was to stand in the room as the servants arrived, giving each one an imperious expression as they entered the building, before hanging up his robes in the closet and going to school.
    (“But what if I don’t know how to make an imperious expression, Uncle?” the boy asked again and again.
    â€œPractice, Nephew. Continue to practice.”)
    Antain walked slowly toward the schoolhouse, enjoying the temporary glimmers of sun overhead. It would be cloudy in an hour. It was always cloudy in the Protectorate. Fog clung to the city walls and cobbled streets like tenacious moss. Not many people were out and about that early in the morning.
Pity,
thought Antain.
They are missing the sunlight.
He lifted his face and felt that momentary rush of hope and promise.
    He let his eyes drift toward the Tower—its black, devil­ishly complicated stonework mimicking the whorls of galaxies and the trajectories of stars; its small, round windows winking outward like eyes. That mother—the one who went mad—was still in there. Locked up. The madwoman. For five years now she had convalesced in confinement, but she still had not healed. In Antain’s mind’s eye, he could see that wild face, those black eyes, that birthmark on her forehead—livid and red. The way she kicked and climbed and shrieked and fought. He couldn’t forget it.
    And he couldn’t forgive himself.
    Antain shut his eyes tight and tried to force the image away.
    Why must this go on?
His heart continued to ache.
There must be another way.
    As usual, he was the first one to arrive at school. Even the teacher wasn’t there. He sat on the stoop and took out his journal. He was done with his schoolwork—not that it mattered. His teacher insisted on calling him “Elder Antain” in a breathy fawning voice, even though he wasn’t an elder yet, and gave him top marks no matter what kind of work he did. He could likely turn in blank pages and still get top marks. Antain still worked hard in spite of that. His teacher, he knew, was just hoping for special treatment later. In his journal, he had several sketches of a project of his own design—a clever cabinet to house and neatly organize garden tools, situated on wheels so that it could be pulled easily by a small goat—a gift intended for the head gardener, who was always kind.
    A shadow fell across his work.
    â€œNephew,” the Grand Elder said.
    Antain’s head went up like a shot.
    â€œUncle!” he said, scrambling to his feet, accidentally dropping his papers, scattering them across the ground. He hurriedly gathered them back up into his arms. Grand Elder Gherland rolled his eyes.
    â€œCome, Nephew,” the Grand Elder said with a swish of his robes, motioning for the boy to follow him. “You and I must talk.”
    â€œBut what about school?”
    â€œThere is no need to be in school in the first place. The purpose of this structure is to house and amuse those who have no futures until they are old enough to work for the bene­fit of the Protectorate. People of your stature have tutors, and why you have refused such a basic thing is beyond comprehension. Your mother prattles on about it endlessly. In any case, you will not be missed.”
    This was true. He would not be missed. Every day in class, Antain sat in the back and worked quietly. He rarely asked questions. He rarely spoke. Especially now, since the one person whom he wouldn’t have minded speaking to—and even better, if she spoke back to him in return—had left school entirely. She had joined the novitiate at the Sisters of the Star. Her name was Ethyne, and though Antain had never exchanged three words in succession with her, still he missed her desperately, and now only went to school day after