Camouflage
Over the next week Marina the Selkie slowly begins to shed her fear when she’s around Diana, Wynter, Aislinn and me. And new friendships have been formed—Rafe, Cael, Rhys and Andras have fallen into an easy camaraderie and are now hunting together. There’s even been tentative conversation between Yvan and my brothers when they’re discreetly in their lodging.
Yvan stealthily speaks to me now, asking about the Selkie if we have a brief moment in the kitchen alone, quietly helping me with kitchen tasks when it will go unnoticed. I nearly fall over the first time he gives me a warm half smile, my heartbeat turning erratic.
But we have to be careful. Careful not to show that we’re rapidly becoming friends.
* * *
I’ve decided to put my Gardnerian silks back on, wanting to blend in with my people and remain above suspicion—Marina’s life might depend on it.
Marina watches me, her ocean eyes steady as I pull one of my fine Gardnerian-black, silken tunics over my head for the first time in a long time, my jaw clenched with resolve as I tug at the fabric and mentally beat back a swelling nausea. The shock of seeing myself in the washroom mirror sets me reeling even further.
A true Gardnerian—right down to the silver Erthia orb around my neck.
The very image of Her.
I glance over toward Marina, and the Selkie’s trusting gaze sends shame coursing through me. Tears stinging at my eyes, I turn away from her and struggle to tie up the tunic’s laced back, my fingers fumbling.
I hate Vogel, I want to tell her in a way she’ll understand. I’m nothing like my cursed people, even though I look like this. I don’t want to look like this.
The Selkie’s fingers come over mine, gently taking the laces from my hands and deftly tying them tight as tears spill over and streak down my cheeks.
When I emerge from the washroom, Ariel catches sight of me and flinches back as if struck, then gives me a scathing look of pure hate.
“I have to fit in,” I try to explain to Ariel, my palms out in surrender. “I have to dress like them. You know I’m not like most Gardnerians. But we’re hiding a Selkie,” I gesture toward Marina. “It’s important that I fit in. You must see that.”
A wave of guilt washes over me as Ariel ignores my words and scuttles clear across her bed, huddling against the wall and glowering at me. Her dark look is only mildly assuaged by Wynter taking a seat beside her, murmuring soothing words as Ariel buries her head against Wynter’s chest, the Elfin Icaral’s dark wings coming protectively around them both.
Wynter’s eyes rest on Marina for a moment, the Selkie taking a seat on the floor by the fire, next to Diana. Wynter turns to me, takes in my garb, then nods once, her silver eyes full of steeled understanding.
Diana casually throws her arm around our Selkie and looks me over, a shrewd gleam lighting her gaze. She raises her amber eyes and gives me a wide, sly smile of approval, baring her teeth.
I take a good deal of comfort from this—I can count on my Lupine friend to fully understand strategy in a fight.
I pick up my new white armband and turn to Diana. “Would you help me put this on?”
Her dark, knowing smile doesn’t flinch. Diana gets up and strides toward me. She takes the Vogel band and cinches it securely around my arm.
* * *
Priest Simitri smiles broadly when I come into his History class early, pale rays of wintry light spearing through the windows. He takes in my conservative attire, complete with a white Vogel ribbon pinned around my arm.
“Ah, Mage Gardner,” he observes with obvious relief. He’s been dismayed for weeks by my dark brown, barely acceptable woolen garb, his vocal support for Vogel mirrored by his own ribbon. “You stand now in courage,” he tells me. “Even though you have been forced to labor with Kelts and Urisk, and to live with Icaral demons, you have the courage to stand apart. To let your dress proudly declare both your faith and your support of our beloved Priest Vogel. I applaud you.”
It’s not courage, I think darkly, my stomach now a constant knot. It’s camouflage.
* * *
“The armband, too?” Yvan snipes at me as he loads wood into the stove next to me that evening.
I’m deeply stung by his harsh tone. “Don’t you think it’s smart?” I snipe back.
He stares at the flames, his jaw flexing with tension. “It’s smart.” His green eyes flash at me before he throws the iron door shut and stalks away.
Anger burns at my insides.
I’m not these clothes, I want to yell after him, aware of the newly stoked hatred bearing down on me from all the kitchen workers, Iris’s brazen look of hostility the most open manifestation. I can feel her look clear across the room.
I’m not this white armband, or these black silks, or this face, I continue to rail at Yvan wordlessly as he exits out the back and shuts the door with a sharp slam I feel straight down my spine.
I’m not Her, I continue to rage toward him, an angry flush burning at my cheeks. You know I’m not.
I’ll never be Her.