So much for only staying an hour. The sun has long since sunk into the horizon, and the guests have exchanged dancing for light conversation and sips of champagne. The quartet continues to play low in the background as I take a much-needed moment of solace. I slip off my shoes and shove them beneath the throne where I sit. Wiggle and flex my toes. Seriously, I am so glad I didn’t wear heels. If my feet ache this much in flat Converse, what agony would I be in had I donned stilettos? I must’ve danced with every Guardian in the Second. If I have to do one more box step, I’ll end up with blisters the size of Staten Island. #nojoke
Resisting the urge to swing my legs over the arm of the throne and fall asleep right here, I sit a little taller and scan the scene before me. The Second’s residents are straight out of a Fairy tale, garbed in silk and taffeta, cravats and cummerbunds. Has it only been two months since these people were beggars and vagabonds? Rebels?
Joshua has done so much in such a short time to restore this Reflection to its previous state. How can I fill his shoes? Never thought I’d see Saul Preacher with a trimmed beard, minus a knit cap, plus a tux. It’s quite a sight, especially considering he keeps tugging at his bow tie like it’s an electric dog collar. He shoots me one of his classic glares. Guess being queen doesn’t matter—some things never change.
My muscles tense and a seedling of fear sprouts. It’s been hours since I felt the Verity stir. This has never happened. Could something be wrong?
I shift in my seat and move my focus to Robyn and Wren Song. They stand near the back of the room with their father, Wade, and mother, Lark. I owe a lot to this family. Wren rescued me from Haman. Robyn and Wade tended to my wounds. And Lark? She aided me when Gage tried to kidnap me. The woman offers a soft smile, the kindness behind her black and yellow eyes filling me with warmth.
Wren notices me and my insides freeze over. She glares, then flips her midnight blue–streaked hair over one shoulder.
Robyn follows her gaze. I smile and wave. Robyn does the same despite the elbow in the ribs Wren gives her.
My anxiety eases a smidge despite the Verity’s silence. I make a mental note to invite Robyn for tea next week. Mom will be so proud.
When my attention rests on Joshua, he’s already watching me. He winks from his perch at the bottom of the grand staircase.
I smile and my cheeks flame. He’s been doing this a lot lately. Flirting. Wearing his heart on his sleeve. I’m still not quite used to it. After three years as “just friends,” it feels a little odd to be so open about our feelings. And there’s this other thing, too, this ping of doubt I get whenever he looks at me this way.
What if it isn’t real?
What if his feelings are merely a result of our childhood connection—the bond created by the Verity? If we’d met under normal circumstances and he hadn’t known his soul was linked to mine, would he have seen me as anything more than a naive teenage girl with a crush?
As if reading my mind, he makes his way toward me. It’s like his goal these past months has been to prove his love. To prove his most recent Kiss of Infinity wasn’t a product of something artificial. The weight riding on his coattails is undeniable. Whenever we’re alone I sense it. In the way his brows pinch when I’m not as affectionate as he is. In the silence festering between us when I can’t think of anything to say. I don’t mean to be so insecure about us, but how can I not be? How will I ever truly know if his love for me is genuine, or if it’s just a result of our intertwined past? Did he give me a Kiss of Infinity because he loves me, or does he love me because he gave me a Kiss of Infinity?
He was a child when he bestowed it. Would he still have chosen me those years later had that been the first time we met? I’m still unsure about the logistics. What truly lies behind such a kiss? Beneath that deepest part of a person, that place in his heart of hearts he may not know exists?
All the more reason to hurry back to the library. There must be something in one of those books to help me solve this puzzle. Question upon question began to surface after Jasyn’s demise. If the Void enters the one the Verity’s vessel cares for most, why didn’t it enter Joshua, or even Mom, for that matter? Who gave the first Kiss of Infinity? Where did the Void originate? It must have had a beginning, right? And where there is a beginning, there must also be an end.
When Joshua reaches me I open my mouth to tell him I’m calling it a night, but he presses a warm finger to my parted lips. Heat spreads through my core. But it’s not from the Verity. No, this is what I have officially dubbed “the Joshua Effect,” a.k.a. going weak in the knees anytime I think he’s going to kiss me.
Because as much as it kills me, I still don’t know if I returned his Kiss of Infinity. I do like kissing him though. A lot.
But of course his lips don’t brush mine as I wish they would. As open as he’s been with me recently, Joshua is still a very private person. PDA isn’t his thing. No big deal. It’s not like laying one on me in front of the entire Reflection would help me be sure of his love.
Then again, it wouldn’t hurt either.
He lowers his finger and smiles.
“Thank you for this. It was perfect.” I don’t bother to hide my less-than-graceful yawn.
“The night has not yet ended.” He turns and claps his hands. The chatter hushes almost instantly. The ease with which he commands a room will never cease to leave my jaw slack. Is this the easygoing boy I fell for in my backyard what seems like so long ago? He’s a common Edmond Dantès turned noble Count of Monte Cristo. Will I ever gain such confidence, such presence?
“Thank you all once again for attending this extraordinary occasion. You honor your queen.”
Unexpected irritation pinches. I squint at his back. Shouldn’t I be the one thanking everyone? Why does he feel the need to speak for me? I’m queen now. And I’m standing right here.
My expression softens. Whoa. Where did that come from? I haven’t felt such anger—no, I haven’t felt any anger since taking on the Verity. Any negative emotion—darkness—that has attempted to surface has been quashed by the light. I gulp. Ignore it. It’s a fluke. A glitch. I’m just exhausted, overwhelmed by it all. Everything will be fine in the morning.
“. . . It is a tradition that has been passed down for generations . . .”
Blink, blink. Breathe. What’s Joshua saying?
“. . . The previous Verity’s vessel always bestows a gift upon the new . . .”
My vision blurs. Stomach churns. The crown upon my brow feels a million pounds heavier.
“. . . sought a unique gift. A priceless token . . .”
This is it. I’m going to pass out. My first day as queen and everyone is going to see me as weak. Fragile. Opposite of royal.
“El, did you hear me?” Joshua’s low tenor comes at me as if from far away.
My mouth is so dry, but I manage, “Huh?” Huh? Could I be any less regal? I am so botching this.
His jaw flexes and I catch a hint of the stern, cold Joshua I saw in the Forest of Night last November—er, I mean, Eleventh Month. He glances between me and the guests. The guests and me. “Will you play with me?” He lists his head toward the baby grand piano situated beside the quartet.
The fog clears. Joshua and I haven’t played music together in too long. We’ve been so busy saving the Second and then getting things back to normal, leisure has been put on the back burner.
Tears well and I blink them away as he leads me to the piano. He pulls out the bench and I scoop my gown beneath me. Sit. My bare feet are visible now, but I couldn’t care less. The ivories are slick against my fingertips. For the first time in a long time, I feel at home.
Joshua grabs his guitar from a stand behind the piano, then slips the strap over his head and strums in the same beat. When he begins a tune I’m oh so familiar with, my heart soars. It’s a duet I’ve always wanted to play together but never dared request.
I know the chords by heart and soul, have played them solo dozens of times. My fingers dance along the keys with a grace my two left feet could never muster. Accompanied by guitar the song is fuller, richer than I’ve ever experienced live. We play the instrumental tune once through before our voices join in at the chorus. The lyrics to “I See the Light” from Tangled hold new meaning now. Singing of truth and light and seeing with new eyes. The perfect Verity song. This moment should be flawless. An untainted reflection of our love.
Then why does the churning in my gut return? Why does something feel off?
I trip over my next lyric, then forget the following line altogether. I play the wrong key, then go off-key. I clear my throat. Try again. Fail.
What in the Reflections is wrong with me?
That’s when I hear it. A new melody. Haunting. Floating across the waves of my brain like “The Music of the Night” from The Phantom of the Opera. It could be that song, but it isn’t. It’s like every song and no song. Familiar and foreign. Strange and new and thrilling and I have to play it, have to get it out of my head and hear it for real.
A throat clears.
My head whips up.
Oh no.
Joshua stares at me, hurt residing in his clouded blue eyes. His mouth is turned down and I have the urge to kiss him there. To turn that frown upright again. To apologize for ruining his precious gift.
I feel the gapes boring into me from every angle. I don’t have to see their faces to know what they’re thinking.
Disappointment.
Phony.
Imposter.
But I don’t have a chance to face them. To apologize for screwing up as usual.
Pop, pop, pop. Glass shatters.
Gasp. A woman screams.
Rip. A baby cries.
This. Cannot. Be. Happening. Not today. I’m on the ground. Beneath the piano bench. Hands clasped over the back of my head. Joshua is here, covering me. It takes all of one, two, three seconds to push him off. To find my footing. To rise.
I am queen. The vessel of the Verity. I will not allow my past mistakes to define my future decisions. I will not cower like the helpless girl I once was.
A cluster of Guardians has formed a barrier around us. Backs toward us. Weapons at the ready.
I whirl. Jump. Crouch to see something. Anything. The source. Where is it? If this is an attack, it serves to reason there are attackers—
Pain slices my bicep. Am I bleeding? So much spinning.
“Your Highness, are you all right?” some Guardian asks. A woman? Can’t tell for all the nausea.
Blink. Focus. Do not pass out. The arched windows surrounding the throne room explode in a domino effect, raining glass one after the other. The panes land in shards on the floor, mix with melting snow and ice. The guests scatter. Some bolt for the grand staircase while others seek shelter beneath tables. Guardians beyond our cluster discard jackets and ties, withdrawing weapons hidden at their ankles or strapped to their backs.
It’s like some horrible scene from an action film. Except there’s no director to yell, “Cut!” No cameraman to stop the chaos or adjust the boom mic. This scene is in real time. No second takes. No do-overs.
Just when I thought everything was good again.
And then the most awful sound I’ve ever heard pierces the din. Rises above every other shout. Someone is crying . . . no, wailing. But the worst part? I know that cry. I’ve heard it before—in Wichgreen Village right after Ky threw a knife at Gage’s heart when he betrayed us all. There’s no mistaking Stormy’s soul-racking sobs.
The Guardians take action. They move Joshua and me toward the dais, a current too mighty to swim against. Up on the dais they form a line, and Joshua drags me to the throne. The hidden door behind the tapestry depicting a map of this Reflection grates open.
Joshua shouts something, shoves me just beyond the door. He releases me. He’s speaking, but I can’t focus on his words. I only hear her. I can’t make myself ignore the wretched sound.
I lean past Joshua, rising on my toes and swinging my head back and forth. Where is she? Where—?
There! A neon-purple pixie cut. Stormy. She’s kneeling over a very still, oversized body. A body resting in a growing pool of blood.
Joshua’s grip is firm around my waist. He pulls me back, deeper into the secret space behind the wall.
I twist. Wrench. Slip beneath his arm and stumble past him, tripping on my dress. The Guardian chain stops me, holding me back like some twisted game of Red Rover.
No, no, no. This will be just like the other times. Death will not win. It can’t.
“Release me,” I sing.
Their linked arms fall. And I run.
When I reach them, Stormy’s sobs bleed from her lips. “Help him.” She’s shaking, putting pressure on Kuna’s wound. “Pleeaase.”
I kneel and force myself to take in Kuna’s state. His breathing is so shallow. He looks unnatural this way. Big and strong and helpless, cocoa skin paled as if soaked in cream. His eyelids flutter, the whites beneath them bloodshot. Stormy strokes his bald head with her right hand, her mouth contorted.
Something warm and wet soaks through the fabric at my knees. I can’t look, don’t need a visual of Kuna’s blood staining my dress.
“Hush now,” Kuna whispers, the words barely audible. His thick fingers twiddle, and Stormy clutches them so tightly her knuckles whiten.
“Wait,” she chokes. “Wait.”
I lay my hands on Kuna, summoning the Physic within to reverse this unwarranted tragedy. I haven’t had much practice with this branch of my Calling, aside from the few scrapes I’ve healed under the castle Physic’s instruction this past month. No time for doubts though. I have to act.
Kuna needs me.
I muster all the love I have for my dying friend and sing new lyrics to my own Mirror melody. They change a bit every time, catering a new song to each situation.
“Hear my voice, my friend.
This will not be the end.
Let these words be the remedy.
Stay where you are meant to be.
Stay with us. Stay with me . . .”
I choke on the last lyric. This must be why my Mirror Calling didn’t vanish when I took on the Verity. Because my song is still needed, and maybe the Verity knew. But why isn’t it working? Why isn’t Kuna’s state changing? Healing?
“What’s happening?” Stormy’s face is trailed with tears. “Why isn’t your power saving him?”
I don’t have an answer for her. Because when Kuna’s eyes stare off into space, it seems surreal. Because when he stills I feel as if I’m watching the shocker ending to my favorite TV series. I can’t believe it, but there it is.
And there’s nothing I can do to change it.
Joshua crouches beside me then. He drags a dagger over his palm, and pure Ever blood drip, drip, drips onto Kuna’s open wound.
I’m longing for Kuna to gasp, to blink, to flinch—anything to indicate the Ever blood is taking effect. Ten seconds. Thirty. A minute. Then five. Nothing. We’re too late. Kuna is gone.