Chapter 1

The tawny young girl, kneeling on the stone church floor, carved the candles smooth. The sheared-off drops fell to her lap, trapped in the furrow of rough cloth. As her knife skimmed along the candle's edge, she hummed. And as she hummed, she talked to the odd little creatures that lived in what they called the Candlewood.

Some were as small as ladybugs and others as large as bumblebees. The brave ones climbed up Iris's knees and snatched away tallow beads to eat. The shy ones flickered in and out of view like the flames that crowned their candle-trees. As they moved, they often sang in high tremulous voices that Iris could only understand if she peered at the world through her eyelids as if in a dream.

Today they talked about the weather, how the damp was wilting their wings, and about the three purple candles on the third highest tier. They tasted weird, like honey and clover and tears, sang a group of colorful Candlekin with double wings and shiny skin. Sighing, Iris chastised the group of iridescent dragonfly-like youths. The new votives were vigils for the Sandalmur boys who were born with their eyes closed and tiny hands cold. Lady Sandalmur herself had set and lit the candlesticks, pale and trembling and out of bed despite Doctor Frederick's order that she rest. Iris promised to the purple candle trio that she would light candles at the cemetery as an apology; the Candlekin weren't supposed to lick the votives now that they ate the scraped-off tidbits.

Iris lifted her head to a trilled-out greeting from the top of the candle rack. A Candlekin she affectionately called Tummy fluttered down to the pile of tallow drops and plopped onto Iris's lap.

"How do?" he hummed.

"Fair well," she replied, though if any townsfolk were there they would only have heard her purr and trill.

"Rain today," he noted.

"Rain most days," she replied, for it was budding summer and often wet.

Tummy grumbled, then gnawed on a ball of tallow as big as his head. Iris smiled and went back to scraping the candles clean. Rain drumming on the roof, slowly sculpting tallow smooth, Candlekin fluttering and sprightly moving: these were the simple sounds and rhythms of existence that filled Iris's eyes with soft distance and made the hours fly by.

A sudden knock at the church door and the Candlekin flickered away like dying flames, filling Iris's mind with music no more. Setting down her candles and sighing, Iris gathered the shorn pieces into her hands, the tallow pale against her brown skin, then placed them in a bowl. Setting her tools aside, she rose to greet the church's patron in her role as Candlemaiden- tender of prayers, keeper of vigils, and voice for the dead.

***

Lady Sandalmur had not chosen names before their birth- she had considered it bad luck- so their grave markers were blank but for the date of their death. Three little white stones huddled together in the damp and cold, unable to scamper away to a warm burrow-hole. Iris lit three candles stubby and short with a wave of her hand, her knees nestled down in the grave dirt as she hummed folk songs to the shiny new gravestones that near glowed in the fog.

When the moon bade her move, Iris stood up slowly. Nodding to the guardian yew, she stepped lightly through the graveyard until she came to the low stone wall at the back of the plot. Mice and moles and squirrels were tucked in their homes around the wall, though only on the side that looked down a sloping hill. At the foot of the hill was a low wide field where the children of the town often played, but, as usual, Iris's eyes caught only the sight of a rushing river of silver and gray. The river twisted and churned, writhed almost as if it were alive, and whenever Iris saw it, its image burned coolly in her mind. The river called her and repelled her, and when the children in town used to ask her to play in the field with them she had always lied and said that she didn't know how to swim.

Though it rained softly when she returned to the cottage, her three candles still flickered in the dark above three little graves that had no names.

Leaning companionably back on the gravestone, Iris chatted with Rina, who had died a few months ago. The sun had bloomed bright that morning and melted away the clouds, so Mother Hall had sent out Iris with a large wickerwork basket to gather alms in town, and Iris, as she always did, stopped by the graveyard first to talk with the dead.

Rina complained amiably about her children, who were no doubt still fighting over that silly rooster, and Iris listened as she stained her fingers green shredding blades of grass. Spirits who lingered on loved to talk, almost as if it were heavy words in their bellies that kept them from moving on. They spoke of regrets and fond memories of their children and friends and favorite pets. Iris loved to listen to them, as they gave her a taste of what life must be like.

Not that I'm not alive, Iris mused, as she pushed her back up against the gravestone, sliding her feet out and letting the sun warm her face and tickle her scalp. It's just that I don't seem to do the same sort of living as everyone else.

And it was true that Iris's life little resembled that of those in town. She had been chosen at birth for the path of Candlemaiden, raised by Mother Hall amongst the spirits of another world. Her first pet had been a drowned cat, whose violent passing had left his grumpy ghost at the mercy of young Iris, who would chase him around the garden and try to feed him carrots. Iris remembered Tommy fondly, with his fat squashed face and scraggly fur, but it always ached a bit to recall when she had sent him away, when she had lit the lavender candles that bade him leave her world.

Mother Hall taught Iris that the dead should never linger too long in life. Some spirits, like Rina, meant no mischief. It was habit more than anything else that caused them to flit between the land of the living and wherever the dead claimed as home. The occasional exposure to their old world even seemed to purify them, lighten them, until they didn't feel the need to return anymore. But other spirits, fueled by malice, were corrupted by the touch of their old home. The longer they stayed, the madder they grew, until their essence was so skewed that they forgot completely who they were and wished only to inflict on others their own selfsame pain. Iris had only confronted two such shades, both with the help of Mother Hall, and even with an almost absurd amount of extra candles, it had taken all her power to lead them and keep them out of the world of life.

She remembered weariness warring with pride when she had trooped her way back home after she had banished the first shade. She had wanted to run to the village and shout the news, share that she had by mostly her own power banished a dangerous spirit away. She had wanted to tell them that they were safer now, that the spirit would stop stealing and eating their sheep. But she had realized, with a deeper sort of weariness than the one that leadened her limbs, that the elders would thank her but no one would understand her sense of accomplishment. They would be grateful but still careful when speaking to her. Her triumph wouldn't change the way they would treat her, though it would change their lives for the better. She realized then, far too young, that there would be no glory for her in life, that she would work in the shadows and live in a world incomprehensible to most. She had gone to bed early that night, not even eating the honey cakes Mother Hall had made in celebration.

After that, Iris had felt more acutely the distance between herself and those in the village, become more aware of their differences. Candlemaidens always wore dresses and robes, which had been fine when she was young and could pretend she fit in with the children wearing long tunics. But now her yearmates were switching to pants and leggings, and Iris was beginning to feel out of place, childish. Mother Hall wore her dresses with pride, but sometimes Iris longed to wear pants just so she could fit in with other girls her age. Part of her knew that it wouldn't stop the skittish glances she got when she walked through town, but the rest of her dreamed that it would.

"Well," Rina said, gathering her thoughts and recalling Iris to the sunny day. "You tell my daughters to stop fighting over my rooster. He'll be joining me soon enough."

Iris didn't question how Rina knew that; spirits were more sensitive to the currents of life and death than even Candlemaidens.

"And tell them to stop by sometime and bring me bluebells. My grave is getting rather dull."

Not a bad thing, Iris mused as she nodded and said goodbye. Rina had been lingering since her death midwinter, and though that wasn't an uncommonly long time, Iris would feel better when Rina evanesced entirely away.

Though it would make her life just a little bit lonelier.

Shaking away such thoughts, Iris headed into town.