10. Eris
Eris
Three days ago, I would have given anything to be able to roam the mirror realm as I pleased.
Thanks to the curse Reinhilde put on my mirror, I could only leave its frame when she gave her explicit permission—and she only ever sent me to spy on others and report back.
She wanted to know tiresome things, like how her Favored talked about her in private or whether she was the most beautiful in all of Isenmere.
The only freedom I had was with my tongue. For the first month, that wretched woman believed anything I told her.
Your Favored adore you. Your praise is ever on their lips. They think only of you.
She bought it but couldn't understand why, in person, those men often acted as though they hated her.
In truth, each man would have split her skull with glee for keeping them as playthings to feed from. Just sources of blood whose attention she craved—and the only people alive who knew the truth of her particular diet.
Reinhilde spelled her Favored to the utmost secrecy. They could in no way reveal what she did with them, ever. Each time they were summoned, the queen fed. Invariably, it led to great, long bouts of sex.
I never bothered observing that. After all, even if the Favored enjoyed the effects of the queen feeding, they loathed her.
To spite the queen, I told her otherwise.
Reinhilde believed me completely…until she summoned one of her men and found him covered in love bites from a kitchen maid.
She was outraged. That maid was executed, women were banned from working in the castle—and when Reinhilde caught me stepping out of the mirror the next night of the full moon, she had me whipped until I could no longer move.
Before her, I could only become corporeal during each full moon. It was the one time I could step out of this purgatory and feel almost human as I sought answers for my existence.
Feeling anything at all was such a luxury, until that whip split through the skin of my back.
After that, Reinhilde ensured I would be held hostage in this mirror, even during full moons.
For several long years, my world has been nothing but twisting her mind in small, vindictive ways.
My only comfort in this dark isolation was watching her fall further into jealous, vain madness—until, multiple times a day, she came to the mirror for validation.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Who in this land is fairest of all?
My answer was always the same. You, my queen, are fairest of all.
Did it matter whether it was true or not? She hadn't let me leave the mirror in so long that I could recall no other face as clearly as hers.
I despised everything about the queen. Her face, her voice, her obsession with herself.
Watching Reinhilde's Favored poison her in her sleep was the best moment of my existence.
How strange it is that now, I'm impatient to see that same face.
I walk through the perpetual darkness of the mirror realm, surrounded by countless windows of light. They each represent reflective surfaces in the physical world, any of which I could peer through.
All kinds of jumbled views pass by me—a glimpse of the ocean from the window of a lighthouse, a woman trimming her son's hair in a looking glass, the undersides of faces posed above cups sloshing with liquid as they chatter merrily in a tavern.
I can occupy any reflection, but mirrors offer the clearest view of the world. Isenmere, in particular, is filled with so many mirrors that I could observe or listen to anyone I want.
So then, why do I find myself hurrying back to my former prison to check on Verena?
"This is pointless," I mutter to myself. "You know where she will be."
I step up to the mirror in the queen's chambers to find that I'm right. In the dimness, Verena is sound asleep in bed, visible to me through a crack in the sheer drapes hanging from the bedposts.
It's been a day and a half since the Huntsman left. I checked on him a while ago. The only reflective thing I could find near him was a stream he rode past on horseback, but he's nearly to the Loomdark. He should return the day after tomorrow.
So far, Verena has rested a lot. She also keeps telling me about that Michael fellow and singing a song at me about mirrors by someone named Justin in the world she hails from.
Each time a servant has knocked on her door, she's told them to push back meetings for a few days until a new chamberlain arrives.
She's tried eating regular food each time it's been brought to Reinhilde's rooms. But every time, there's no mistaking the disappointment she tries to hide on her face.
Does she not know how to sate her needs in the body of the queen?
When I saw her the first night, covered in dried blood, I'd assumed she knew already. Now, I wonder if she's just impossibly stubborn, or if I should tell her myself.
For a moment, I watch the rise and fall of her breathing under the blankets.
By the Matron, what am I doing here?
I could be off searching for others who can talk to lost souls—witchfolk, or faeries, or any number of other strange creatures.
I could go to the lighthouse south of Hamelnmark to watch sea monsters in the distance.
I could be taking in stunning sights from the wizened towers of Turnstadt, or peering through gilded mirrors in Aurefeld at any number of upper-class scandals.
Instead, I wish I could tell the sun to rise more quickly so Verena will rouse.
Maybe I should tap on the glass and wake her up myself. I've already lifted my hand, but I stop when she makes a soft sound of distress.
"Let me go," she breathes.
She must be dreaming about the Huntsman taking her to Malivant. At least, that is what I think until she rolls over, her expression crumbling into something pained.
Her words are indistinct, dream-laced. "I didn't…betray you. I don't even…N-no. Stop."
She starts to sob quietly.
The sound fills me with a peculiar new feeling. I realize I hate hearing these sobs. They irk me so much that I tap hard on the glass.
"Verena," I call. "It's only a dream. Wake up."
"You're fucking…insane. No…l-let go, let me go, let me—"
"Verena!"
She bolts upright, her breathing loud and tumultuous as she claws her way through the dark blue drapes hanging over the bed.
She crosses the room to the double doors to check that they're locked.
She pokes her head into the garderobe, hugging herself as if she's certain she'll find a monster in there.
Then Verena returns to the double doors, checking again that they're locked.
Her breathing remains irregular as she repeats it all over again before dragging her hands over her face.
Slowly, I understand. She is looking for a monster, but not one in this world. Something unseen is tormenting her from her past.
"You're safe," I murmur. "I'd warn you if someone tried to get to you in here."
Verena glances at me, sniffling. I don't like the way her voice breaks, or the vulnerability in it that she normally hides with humor.
"Would you actually?"
"Yes. I give you my word."
"Okay. Thanks." She exhales and wipes at her face with the sleeve of Reinhilde's nightgown. "What, no cryptic follow-up reminding me again that you have an ulterior motive I should ponder?"
I fight a smile, watching quietly as Verena pulls herself together.
She opens the window curtains just as the light of the sun breaks above the horizon to the northeast, spilling across her face. It ignites her dark red hair, illuminating her cheekbones, that delicate chin, that beauty spot above her upper lip…
When her dark blue gaze swings back to me, I realize at the exact same time she does that I've been caught staring quite hard at her.
"Your hair looks a mess," I say quickly.
"Uh-huh, I'm sure." Back to her usual playfulness, she steps closer to strike a pose. "Here, is this a better angle for you? Or should I get on the bed for you to paint me like one of your French girls?"
"You knew I would have no idea what that means, yet you said it anyway."
"Don't be shy, Eris. You can tell me if you have a thing for women who haven't bathed in days," she teases. "I would never kink shame."
All I can do is give her an unimpressed look that makes her bright laugh fill the air. She turns quickly away to move toward the wash basin—but a strange pang of irritation strikes me.
I wasn't done looking at that smile.
When I move from the mirror to catch a glimpse of her through the rippling water of the basin as she leans down, Verena shrieks and leaps back.
"God, you scared me. Warn a bitch next time."
"You're not a bitch," I reply idly.
Is that why I can't stop staring at her?
Perhaps that's it. Perhaps, because she looks just like the woman I loathed, I'm mesmerized because her mannerisms and everything else about her are so extremely different.
Every little movement draws me in, even the way she rolls her eyes at me before dipping her hands into the water to wash her face. It shatters the reflection on the basin's surface, so I'm forced to move back to my mirror.
Now that she's awake, I'm craving her quick wit. Though I don't understand everything she says, thanks to her penchant for quoting things or mentioning people from her world, something about her intellect is almost…irresistible.
I blame it on the fact that I've only had the queen's company for years. I should really go look for other beings who can see me. Maybe once I do, I'll lose this bewildering infatuation I'm developing for Verena.
"What were you dreaming of, to weep so?" I ask.
She finishes drying her face and wrinkles her nose. It's unclear whether or not she's aware of how adorable that is on such a striking face.
"It's not something I talk about. I mean, I used to. I went through years of therapy to work through things. Talking about it kind of helped for a while, but…you know what I really want?"
"What?" I ask, already wondering if it's something I can acquire for her.
Or more accurately, I would convince the Huntsman to acquire it—since apparently he can see me, but he's lucky enough to be in the physical world with her.
"I want that little flashy gadget thing from Men in Black."
I sigh. "Again, you already know that I have not the slightest concept of what you're talking about, but go on."
"It erases memories from a specific timeframe. It's not actually real, but god, I wish it was. Do you have memories you wish you could cut out of your head?" she asks.
"No."
I don't have memories. Not really. At some point, I simply found myself in this mirror realm exactly as I am. I've only ever been here, aside from the full moon nights when I step out and feel as if I may have been someone, once upon a time.
Abruptly, I realize the last full moon was a couple of nights before Verena showed up in this world, meaning the next is less than four weeks away. It will be the first time I step out of the glass in far too long.
And unless she finds a way to send her soul back to her true domain, Verena will still be here.
Suddenly, I very much want that.
Her, still in this world. Me, on the other side of the glass with her.
My heart begins to pound.
Crones, I think this is the first time in my diluted existence that I've ever really wanted something, outside of my freedom. Even if it's just one moonlit night of lounging on the bed, chatting with Verena—perhaps touching her warm hand, or…her face.
Her lips.
I've never touched another being before, let alone kissed them. Considering how obsessed everyone outside the mirror realm seems to be with sex and pleasure, I'm suddenly aching to know what it feels like—even just once.
Even just a taste.
With her.
Too late, I realize I've started to rapidly stiffen in my pants. The timing couldn't be worse, as Verena is wandering back to the mirror after rummaging through the queen's wardrobe again.
She holds up a dress. "Hey, what do you think about—"
Before she can look up and see the proof of this unexpected arousal or how flustered I've become, I step back several paces from the mirror. It makes it so we can no longer see one another.
"Mirror, mirror? Eris?" her watery voice echoes throughout the mirror realm just as voices always do when I'm summoned.
I drag fingers through my hair, baffled by this urge I have to step back up to the glass for another glimpse of her.
What has this otherworldly woman done to me?
"Fine, fine. Far be it from me to cut in on your very busy schedule of drooling over all the other unwashed women of this world. Go enjoy smelly armpits, swampy asses, and oily hair to your heart's content, you kinky fucking Peeping Tom."
I bark a laugh.
At the very least, the vivid mental imagery of her small rant has killed the budding arousal that was beginning to pain me, leaving me nothing but perplexed by this newfound desire.