The nation says hello to itself on Counting Day. It frees itself in the Parade. It dances with itself at the Ball.

And on Naming Day, it chooses itself. We choose it.

- The Political Standard by Empress Adleenia d'Jurian

My quill flows over the parchment. I've composed this letter a dozen different ways this morning, and a dozen more last night.

"My lady," Keighlia interrupts softly. "You're going to be late."

"Not so." I dot the last period, flick my eyes over the wording one final time, and nod, satisfied. Keighlia folds and seals it for me, and I clean the ink off my hands with a wet cloth she laid on the corner of my desk. "Mother," I explain, "will be busy wrangling the Twins for at least another ten minutes, at which point they will either give in or Father will intervene. We have that long at least."

I rise from my chair and drift into my dressing room for one final check. The anger of last night has given way to a kind of solid serenity, as if the fire forged armor for me. In the mirror, the light of the morning paints gold over me, bathing me in glory. My wide silk-and-tulle skirt waves around my frame like the leaves of a grand, ancient tree. At either hip hangs a pennant banner featuring the gem-and-sword of the Emeriald Crest. They're secured to a pearl belt, cinched tight. Above it, my fitted bodice shimmers with more pearls, crushed like stardust. Finally, drooping, gossamer sleeves give way to the most important feature of all: the long, sweeping train.

The train was a last-minute addition that I begged off of dinner for. A letter to my mother gave a brief apology for my 'miscommunication' about the palace and also explained I had one last fitting before Counting Day. After all, if it weren't for the train, I wouldn't have a good excuse to cart Keighlia along.

My gloves, deep green with silver embroidery, lie on a cushioned pedestal near the mirror. I slip them on, checking my makeup and jewelry one final time. My eyeliner elongates the corners of my eyes, paying homage to my distant elven heritage. My lipstick is darker today, like the blood of a battlefield. The subdued circlet I wore yesterday, tiny in deference to my father, has been replaced with a glittering tiara a thumb-span high.

I frown. Mother's tiara will be twice as tall, but it is an injustice I must bear only this week.

Soon, we'll wear much the same.

As satisfied as I can be, I step back. "You have my letter?" I ask Keighlia without turning.

In the mirror, she nods and pats the cleverly concealed apron in her black attendant dress. "Yes, my lady."

A cloud shifts, sending sunrays skittering off her pendant of the empress before dimming the room.

"Then let us away."

Two elephants await outside our front door. The morning sunlight dapples the emerald tents on their back, and finely arrayed drivers stand at the ready beside.

Father is under the wide marble portico already, also waiting for us. He stands with his arms behind his back as if he were in the military again, gazing out with the tense ease of a general before a battle.

His clothes are much simpler than one might expect for the occasion. Since it's the only time biennially that the nobles are all together, most take the advantage to show off. But Father wears little different than he usually does. His Crest is emblazoned large on his tunic, yes, but in a dark pattern that you'd only notice if you were studying him. His normal gem-pommeled sword rides at his hip. The crown he rarely wears, fit with its rightful emerald, does adorn his head. But that's all.

He glances over as I come out. "We missed you at dinner."

Keighlia helps carry my train across the threshold. "Didn't Mother pass on my letter?"

"We missed you all the same," he says with the same stiffness that he turns toward the elephants with. I'm not sure if he's reprimanding me or if he actually missed me and lacks the expressiveness to show it. For once, I don't care.

"Am I riding with you or the Twins?" As firstborn, my place has always been ahead of Serran's. But with him coming of marriageable age this Census, things have changed. He is independent; I am not and will likely never be—not legally at least. He is b'Reiv and I am simply d'Reiv. A dependent. A child. And worse yet, a child in her father's bad graces.

His voice softens, but his gaze is still straight ahead, toward our ride and the capital beyond. "I have no wish to dishonor you, songbird, if you do not dishonor yourself."

As if I would. "Dishonor only arises from honesty," I say, quiet as the breeze, "and you and Serran are the only ones I have been foolish enough to be honest with." The same two who turned their backs on me.

Father spares me a glance and a rare, worried frown. But now it's me facing the capital.

"Will you help me up?" I ask.

He nods his assent and walks with me to the first howdah. As he takes my hand to lift me up, though, he pauses. "Next Census," he says slowly, "will come sooner than you think."

It's the closest I'll get to an apology from him—partially because he's not really sorry. If he was, he would reverse his decision and let me help. But he thinks he knows best. He always does.

I nod stiffly and climb up.

Keighlia passes my train up to me and mounts with the driver's assistance, while Father returns to waiting for the others. They come along not long later, Serran first, his aura still a storm. He marches to the second howdah and swings up. Then the Twins, with Mother chasing along behind. They're thirteen, but they might as well be three for as well as they behave. Mother and I used to joke that they received more elf-blood than the rest of us. They scamper into the second howdah with Serran.

Father gently takes Mother's hand and brushes it to his lips. She strokes his cheek lightly, her frantic aura slowing to the hum of a lazy summer day. Her green, gossamer dress dances in the wind as he hands her up, and then he's inside himself, calling orders to the driver.

The ride is silent, each of us occupied in our own worries. Father's aura is stone, but Mother pats his hand occasionally, so I know she knows he's troubled. Which makes it all the more idiotic to cut me from his team, and for what? Because I wouldn't bow and scrape to him?

Mother's head tilts, and she goes from worrying over Father to worrying at me. She Sings slightly, a question, and I smooth my emotions back out, let go of the anger. Feelings have no place in business, and that's all this is anymore—business. The cool armor of serenity settles back over me, and Mother offers me a tight smile. My chin dips back.

The closer we get to the capital, though, the more Mother's aura wavers, chittering like birds before an approaching storm.

Father squeezes her hand when we're not far out. "Nothing to worry about," he tries to convince her. "Just stay by my side."

She nods and straightens her shoulders. With the tiniest frown, I wonder if that's where I get that tic from.

"You too, Sylnavi," he says, and my eyes flick over to him, surprised. "Stay close."

Don't wander off is more what he means. But I saw that coming, so I keep the disdain from my lips and simply incline my head. "Yes, Father."

Today isn't even Naming Day, when we cast our votes. Today is just Counting Day, when we register for the vote and rub shoulders and scheme. Mother is nervous because we'll be cooped up with nobles who like to use her lack of political savvy against her. Father is nervous because anything can change this week. No matter how tightly you cling to what you love, it can slip through your fingers.

And I'm nervous because I'm about to ride their fears to victory.