She’d never admit to it.” Reggie shakes from laughter, her more-than-adequate bosom bouncing in her too-tight blouse. “But Elizabeth was quite the mischievous child. Always sneakin’ ’round the castle, searchin’ for secret passageways and trapdoors or somewhat. Found a key once. Never did learn which door it opened.” She shakes her head and closes her eyes, an endless smile stretching her worn face.
Any other night I’d be content to sit here for hours, listening to stories about Mom, letting Reg refill my mug with spiced cider and my plate with chocolate chip cookies.
But tonight is different.
I fake a yawn, hoping she’ll notice. She doesn’t, of course, continuing one story into the next.
“Did I ever tell you about the time—?”
I stand, grimacing at my own rudeness more than the pinch in my knee. “I’m so sorry, Reg, but I’m exhausted. To be continued another time?”
Her smile doesn’t falter as she dusts off her apron and rises beside me. “Course, darlin’. Don’t you mind me. Old Regina’s gotta know when to zip her trap.” She shoos me through the kitchen archway. “Scoot along now. I’ll be up in the mornin’ with your breakfast tray as usual.”
I give her a tight hug and kiss her cheek.
She blushes and sways away, humming some old country song or another. Shania Twain? Oh brother, it is. Can’t stop my own smirk. Reg is a character if there ever was one.
The easy part is over. But what comes next? Will my plan work? Preacher isn’t an idiot, and he’s not exactly the sentimental type.
“He’s not so bad once you get to know him.”
Ky can’t be serious. He and Preacher have never been on good terms. No way the real Ky would speak on the old grump’s behalf.
Still, I’m out of options. And time. It’s now or not at all. Who knows when I’ll get another opportunity like this.
Preacher trails me as we circle the stairwell ascending into the west wing. The sound echoes, acting as the overture to what I hope will be my best performance yet. If my Calling weren’t faulty, I could simply use my voice, sing him to sleep, and head straight for the dungeons. But with each passing day, my Mirror song fades. It worked at the coronation on the Guardians but just as quickly failed me when I confronted Gage. I want to brush it off as a winter cold, but I know it’s more than that.
Which is exactly why I’m doing this. I gasp and halt on the step above him. “My treble clef–heart necklace, it’s gone.” I fling my hand to my neck and widen my eyes.
“You can look for it tomorrow.” He adjusts his jacket, nudges me onward.
“No.” Stand your ground. Don’t take no for an answer. You are the queen, after all. “Joshua gave it to me. If he finds out I misplaced it again, he’ll be so hurt.” This part, at least, bears truth. The memory of his face the last time I lost it stabs at my chest.
Preacher huffs, crosses his arms, and starts back toward the kitchen. “Let’s make this quick. I don’t want to be down here all night.”
Turning sideways, I push past him, stopping a step below him this time. “It’s fine.” I can’t bring myself to look him in the eye. My poker face wouldn’t win me many chips. “You go ahead. I can make it to my suite on my own.” I slide one foot back, lower it onto the next stair.
One furry eyebrow shrugs, meets the bottom of his knit cap. “Nice try, Highness. You know the rules. You are to be escorted by a Guardian at all times.”
Ugh. Highness is almost worse than being called girl. The way he says it, as if mocking, makes me want to put him in the dungeon for a night. How can he be so insolent? Did I not save this entire Reflection from the wrath of the Void, for Verity’s sake?
I clear my throat, forcing calm into my frog-plagued voice. “I am the Verity’s vessel. A Mirror and your queen.” I hold my head high, stare him down. “I think I can make it to my room without reenacting a scene from an eighties slasher flick.”
Ky snorts inside my head.
It’s all I can do not to copy the sentiment.
“I have my orders, and they do not come from you.”
“That’s where you are mistaken.” Darn voice. Stop trembling. Sheesh.
Preacher shakes his head. Is that compassion softening his scowl? “You don’t get it.”
“What don’t I get? Enlighten me.”
His lips purse. He looks away.
“What aren’t you saying?” My heart pounds. He knows. He knows why most everyone has been acting so strange around me since the coronation.
“It’s not my place.” He pauses, shuffles from foot to foot. I’ve never seen him at a loss for words. “But the people are . . . concerned.”
I furrow my brows. “Of course they are. With the attack and—”
“No.” He rubs his nose. “What happened last week is the least of their concerns . . .” He meets my gaze then, eyes narrowing but not in the mean sort of way, as is his custom. No, this time his expression is more studious. As if trying to read what my reaction to his next words might be.
I touch his arm, connecting with him in a way I never believed possible.
He exhales, sending the whiskers above his upper lip flapping. “They’re . . .” He clears his throat. “We’re all concerned perhaps the Verity isn’t the best . . . match for you. David was the one—”
“Hold on.” I palm my forehead. “Are you implying . . . What are you implying? The Verity chooses the purest heart.” It’s black and white, night and day. The Verity selected me, which means I have the purest heart, which means I am fit to be queen.
The bag beneath Preacher’s right eye twitches. “Indeed. But in light of recent events, there are those who wonder if, perhaps, the Verity got it wrong this time.”
And now I’ve forgotten my line. Someone send in the understudy because I can’t even improvise this one. I don’t know which question to ask first. Who all thinks the Verity got it wrong? Obviously Preacher does, but who else? Joshua? Mom? Haven’t I proven myself? Is it not enough I killed my own grandfather? Not enough I was willing to take on the Void and sacrifice everything for those I love?
Am I ever going to be enough?
“You are enough for me.”
Tears well. Ky’s whisper is so clear, his statement so sure. My heart patters and doubt creeps in. If the Verity is capable of making a mistake, aren’t I? What if I’m not meant to be here? With Joshua? I bite my lower lip and allow the question to form, to become real and tangible for the very first time.
What if I’m meant to be with—?
“Go find your necklace.” Preacher’s concession yanks me from my epiphany. He pushes up his jacket sleeve, checking the time on his out-of-date Rolex. “I’ll wait here. You have ten minutes.” He relaxes against the curved stone wall and tugs his cap over his eyes. “A minute longer and you won’t take so much as a leak without a Guardian nearby, you hear me?”
Mouth agape, I stare at him. Why the sudden change of heart? Pity? Guilt? I guess it doesn’t make a difference. I’ll take what I can get.
“Now you only have nine minutes.”
I pick up my skirt, descend the stairs two at a time.
“I won’t be far,” he calls after me. “No Dragon games.”
I roll my eyes. I may have given Preacher the slip, but I doubt my cunning is any match for a Dragon. Or so I hear. “Okay.”
The lie ricochets up the stairwell as I withdraw my treble clef–heart necklace from my pocket, reattach it, and slip soundlessly through the archway leading into the dungeons.
During my half-star stay last November, compliments of Jasyn Crowe, I only had the opportunity to visit the highest level of dungeon cells. My mind wanders to the prisoner who helped me. The one who called to me through the wall. Did he die? Is he still there? I make a note to ask about him later.
But now is not the time.
Thanks to my snooping skills I know the prisoner I seek hasn’t been afforded such luxury. No, she’ll be enjoying much more . . . moderate accommodations. And if I happen to come across Gage, too, well then, bonus round. Maybe he can tell me where Ky is, or what he meant by “the beginning of the end.”
Maybe. If he’s conscious. Or still alive.
I creep down sconce-lit steps. The stingy light has me wary of my own shadow. Every move and shift plays tricks on my tired eyes in shades of gray on the walls. And then there’s the memory of a boy with blond locks and a cocky grin. Of how he rescued me in more ways than one.
About every thirty steps or so a new archway waits, signaling I’ve reached the next level down. I pass each one without pause, the theme from BBC’s Sherlock playing in my head. When I reach the final arch at the bottom, I exit the stairwell. How deep am I anyway? I must be at least five stories below the hill’s surface. Where are the Guardians? They can’t all have gone to the Reminiscence. At least a few must have remained behind to attend the prisoners. Right?
But the absence of a “Halt, who goes there?” assures me it’s safe to continue. I’m inspired by my favorite Broadway lead. If Wicked’s Elphaba can learn to trust her instincts, so can I, even when no one else does.
“I do.”
Ky’s constant reassurances are becoming commonplace. I almost hate to admit I wait for them. Expect them. Any moment his voice could vanish. And then he’d really be gone.
Iron doors mark my path to the right and left every ten paces. Sconces are positioned between, though only a few produce light. The doors bear no windows, just slender slots at eye level, and iPad-sized cat doors at the bottom. A familiar scent puckers my nose, and I opt to breathe through my mouth. It’s not too far removed from the pungent aroma of a subway tunnel. Urine blended with a hint of spray paint fumes and BO.
I check every peep slot, sliding them across—shick—and back again—clank. Empty, empty, empty. Faster. Five doors. Ten. Three left turns . . . now four. How vast is this level? And how much longer before Preacher realizes I’m not in the kitchen?
Around a fifth corner I careen, stop dead at the brink of yet another identical hallway accommodating more doors, which I have no doubt also host vacant cells. Is it designed as a labyrinth on purpose? Maybe that’s why I haven’t come across a single Guardian. Who needs them when I can’t even locate one measly prisoner?
Hmm, better retrace my steps, see if I missed something. Retreat, run right, sprint right, jog right, walk, ouch-my-knee, limp, slow down—
Wait . . . Is this the way I came? Whirl. Squint. Crud. Nice plan. Maybe everyone’s right. If I can’t navigate a dungeon, perhaps I do need a babysitter.
Shallow breaths and dizziness take precedence. My knee is really starting to throb now. I half expect my heart to beat right out of the pulse residing there. If I just sit for a minute, regain my bearings, I’ll be fine. Using the wall for support I slide onto my rear, good leg sprawled in front of me, bad one bent to my chest. The earthy floor cools my thigh through the fabric of my skirt. I press my palms to my cheeks, swipe sweaty cowlicks from my temples. Drip, drip, drip. A leak plinks into a pot somewhere, washing a memory to my mind’s shore.
To think I believed Jasyn would put me up in a penthouse suite. It had all seemed so real. The comfy bed, the crackling fire, the French pastries. What a joke. I’d been in a dungeon cell the entire time. Thankfully, it didn’t take long to see through his tricks—
My body rigidifies, and my head smacks the wall. Ouch and duh. I rub the sore spot through my thick tangles. Why didn’t I see it? I rise and search the surrounding space. An Amulet has put a façade over this level. Has to be. But I’m usually quick to catch an Amulet’s work. I see through façades before most. It’s one of my strengths as a Mirror.
Fear spreads deeper, winding its roots around my gut. Something is definitely wrong with my Calling. Stormy had trouble with her Magnet when we were with Gage. Joshua couldn’t heal Kuna. Who else has been affected? And how is this possible? If the Callings are sourced by the Verity—
My breath ceases. How did I miss it?
If something is wrong with the Callings . . .
Then something is troubling the Verity, causing it to remain stagnant . . .
Which means the problem lies within me.
This is the reason for the whispers and stares in the halls. Why Joshua won’t let me help. Why Preacher believes the Verity may have been in error.
A wave of nausea sends my hand to my mouth. Something is . . . wrong with me. The thought makes me feel unclean. Could Preacher be right? Did the Verity make a mistake? What if I’m like cancer and something about me is eating away at the Verity, hindering it from empowering the Callings?
Gasp. And the Thresholds. They’re sourced by the Verity as well. Whatever happened at Dawn Lake wasn’t an accident or a mere case of someone walking on too-thin ice.
Fury spreads like wildfire through the fabric of my soul. Just when I was getting used to my mirrormark—accepting it as strength and beauty and so uniquely me. This is almost worse than a blemished reflection. Because true beauty comes from within, from the person you are. And if my soul is weakening the Verity, what does that say about me?
My eyelids migrate south, and I inhale a controlled breath to quell my shaking limbs. The truth is so clear it slaps me in the face. Is this fate’s design? To keep me the forever screwup? My greatest fear comes to life. Concrete. Final. It’s one thing to hate my reflection, to think I’m ugly, or to worry about how others perceive me. It’s entirely another to realize, deep down, I was right all along.
I am damaged. And not just on the surface. Not just where others can see.
My very soul, my essence, my heart is not good enough to house the Verity. I’m no better than the person I came down here to find.
“Em, no. You’ve got it wrong.”
I ignore the sadness in Ky’s voice, rise with leg shaking, and move forward. But instead of turning around the next corner, I walk straight through the wall before me. Within moments I’m in a new hallway. Terra-cotta tiles replace the grimy floor, and track lighting above sheds a homey glow. Two doors await ahead, plain white with a tiny window in each like at a hospital. Situated between the doors, a C-shaped nook sinks into the wall, privacy curtain pushed to one side. A cot topped with a ratty comforter and a single flat pillow sits at the back. And there, sitting with legs crossed and red lips sneering, is none other than Quinn Kelley in the flesh.
I release an exaggerated sigh. At least someone’s Calling is working fine. “Knock the Shield off, Ebony.”
She stands but doesn’t approach. Plants pristinely manicured hands on her hips. She may look like my ex-bestie with her platinum hair and ice-blue eyes, but it doesn’t matter what persona she takes on. Deep down she’s just my traitorous half sister.
Her eyes narrow. “What the bleep took you so long?”