Buried Above Ground by Leah Cypess

“May I present my sister, Princess Darriniaka of Raellia?”
    She had forgotten how fast things moved among her people. How quickly you had to respond among horses and the living. A Ghostlander would have spoken about Darri for at least ten minutes before introducing her. For a painful moment, Callie missed that quickness, and hated herself for being a step behind.
    Then Darri walked in, and she banished the thought. That was a weakness she couldn’t afford.
    Darri, too, was dressed in finery; but unlike Varis, who was simply drab, she looked ridiculous. Her pale pink gown was a cacophony of faded fashions, probably cobbled together from traders’ reports of Ghostland dress, and she walked jerkily in the tight underskirt. Her hair flowed down her back like a horse’s mane, and her skin was a sun-baked brown. Kestin leaned against the back of his throne, looking momentarily taken aback; then he composed his face into stiff politeness. Callie flushed with shame for her sister.
    But Darri wasn’t ashamed. She held her head high, her eyes darting back and forth with a hunter’s alertness despite the awkwardness of her gait. No woman of the plains would ever cut or bind up her hair, and pale skin was generally a sign of illness. To her own people, Darri had always been strikingly attractive.
    For a moment Callie saw the court through her sister’s eyes, with its elaborate stone pillars, painted walls, and floor lined with layers of carpet. She tried to remember how it had looked to her when she first arrived. Overdone, probably. Stifling. The women in their many-colored gowns had seemed grotesquely fake, their eyes scarily outlined in black. She hadn’t even known, then, that the outlining was makeup. She had never heard of makeup.
    But really, she hadn’t been thinking about any of that. She had been too focused on the women who were only half-solid, whose gowns she could see right through. She remembered the first time she had seen one of those women wink out of existence, the space she had been standing in suddenly empty. Worse, she remembered the first time she had seen a translucent woman go solid, and realized there was no way to tell who was dead and who was alive. That in this castle, anyone might be a ghost.
    She would have given anything, that first year, to hear that Darri was coming. But now she looked down at her gown—violet silk with black lace—and touched her braided hair, and wondered what Darri would think when she saw her.
    Darri stopped next to Varis and curtseyed perfunctorily, an obviously unaccustomed gesture. Instead of focusing on her hands and feet, she looked furtively around the court.
    Looking for me, Callie realized, and shrank back against her chair. Last time she had seen Darri, the two of them had been huddled together in a tent, their hair falling over each other’s shoulders, her own hopeless sobs mingling with Darri’s angry weeping. Callie remembered clearly her sister’s fierce whispers: “I’ll come for you, Callie. I won’t let this happen. I swear it.”
    She probably still intended to keep that promise. A little late. Sometimes late really was worse than never.
    Darri had been slim even at thirteen, but the saddle had burned whatever fat she’d had right off her. Now she was so thin she was almost gaunt, cheekbones slashing across her face. She looked . . . dangerous.
    A few of the ghosts had risen into the air so they could see better. Callie winced, watching Darri’s face pale, and wished the court would be a little more tactful. But then Darri saw Callie, and her whole face lit up.
    Everyone was watching. Callie looked away fast, but not fast enough to miss seeing the way Darri’s smile died.
    She spent the rest of the formal introductions avoiding her sister’s gaze. A part of her was angry: what did Darri expect, and why couldn’t she control herself in front of the court? A larger part of