Chapter Nine
There’s work to be done. I want to continue our research in the library, but Roze has other ideas.
“Where are you taking me?”
“We spent the whole morning in the library, Sinclair. It’s time to try things my way.”
“We agreed that I was in charge.”
“And how far has that gotten us?” he muses, dragging me along a corridor of the main castle, Waffles, of course, in our wake. Our fingers are linked, and the feel of his hand in mine doesn’t match how obviously exasperated he is.
“You still agreed to let me take the lead,” I grumble.
He sighs theatrically. “Fear not. I’ll get you back to your books soon enough. But humor me first. There’ll be a surprise for you if you’re a good girl.”
A strange flare of heat pulses through me at his words. But they also spark a memory from the day before. “You said you had access to books others don’t.”
He looks at me over his shoulder, his smile fiendish. “And now you’ve ruined my surprise.”
I can’t help the grin that spreads over my face. Does Roze have a secret stash of books somewhere? One that hasn’t been censored, all references to magic and Castelle removed?
We climb staircase after staircase, venturing up into the parts of the castle I’m unfamiliar with.
These areas are less crowded than the rest of the castle.
Noble families live in rooms that were once galleries, dining rooms, and drawing rooms. Their conditions are still cramped, but they’re far superior to what I grew up with, what those who live in the caverns endure.
But soon, the halls are sparser, and it’s been several minutes since I’ve seen a soul.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“Quiet, you,” he mutters. He’s distant and tense, and he won’t look me in the eye. Nevertheless, he hasn’t let go of my hand since we left Vandenberghe.
“Where is everyone? I didn’t know there was a part of the castle that was this empty.” Even where the nobles live, they are squeezed together like mealworms.
He exhales a long-suffering sigh. “It’s a simple request, Sinclair. Silence. We don’t want to run into my mother or sisters before dinner if we can help it.”
I stumble over my feet, but Roze jerks me forward.
“What do you mean? Are we … in the royal residences?”
“Of course, where did you think?”
My stomach sinks. I look around the dimly lit halls with new eyes. This place isn’t open to the public, and everything about it—the dark, ornate architecture, the masterpieces on the walls, the chandeliers that hang over my head like guillotines—tells me that I don’t belong.
Roze stops before a door at the end of a hall. “My mother should be at tea,” he says as he turns the handle. “She won’t be anywhere near her bedroom.”
“Her bedroom?”
Roze jerks me into the room, and I stagger inside.
Despite knowing that I shouldn’t be curious about the Queen’s private chambers, I can’t help but look around.
A four-poster bed takes over one wall, the dark, velvet bedding spilling onto the floor around unlit candelabras and a vast arrangement of …
roses. How does the Queen have flowers, of all things—something so frivolous that no one has bothered to attempt to grow them with our limited light and soil in two decades?
On the opposite wall is a magnificent hearth of dark marble, over which hangs a painting of the Queen and late King, and it’s …
surprising. A young Queen sits on a stone bench in a rose garden—the sort that would’ve surrounded the castle before the Mists came.
Her hand rests lightly in the King’s palm while she stares adoringly up at him.
King Alexandre stands proudly, smiling down at his wife.
I tilt my head, studying the King. This is a private family portrait, one clearly meant to portray domestic bliss between the royal couple.
But I see the stiffness of the King’s shoulders, the lines of his face, the tightness of his eyes—though he is smiling at his wife, he seems …
tired. Removed. The coldness of him is unnerving, and that’s when I realize where I’ve seen that look before.
The deadness of his eyes. The mask. Roze often wears that same expression. I shiver and look away.
In the corner of the room, Roze is inspecting a tall, stately mirror with a florid gold frame. It somehow seems oddly separate from everything else in the room. Like a spider that’s fallen into porridge.
“What is that?” I ask Roze, unable to look away from the mirror.
“This,” he says, “is how you’re going to help me. A magic mirror.”
I take a step toward it without completely understanding what I’m doing. And then I see why it seems so out of place.
There, in the glass … There’s no reflection. The glass is black as a pit, dark as the corpse-filled lake.
“How?” I ask. I’m not sure why I’m whispering.
“Look.”
He pulls me directly in front of the mirror. I’m standing before it. There should be a reflection, and yet, it is black.
“Ask it a question.”
“Like what?”
“Like what happened to my father, of course.”
I swallow, a rock forming in my stomach. “It’s not going to work,” I say.
“Humor me, and try anyway,” he says darkly. There’s a note of warning in his voice that reminds me why he’s called the Huntsman.
I don’t want to do this. If the mirror is magic, there are things it could show … things about myself I’d rather Roze not see.
“I’m waiting, Sinclair,” Roze says.
I steel myself, knowing I have no choice. “Magic Mirror,” I say, “what happened to the King?”
Its surface remains dark as night, and I sigh. And then something like mist swirls on its surface. When it clears, I see an image—my own face, perfectly reflected, just as it is now. Roze stands beside the Mirror, that grimace still on his face while he waits.
“What am I supposed to be seeing?”
“What do you see?”
“My reflection.”
His frown deepens. “What do you mean?”
“I see myself. Like a normal mirror.”
“And it’s not … not doing anything?”
“The reflection?”
“Of course.”
I look back into my own tawny eyes.
“No. It’s just ordinary.”
Roze sighs and rubs his eyes.
“You’re a meiga. You’re supposed to be able to see things in the mirror.” His tone is full of blame and frustration.
I rip my gaze away from my reflection to glare at him. “Well, I’m sorry, Your Highness, but despite whatever wild rumors you’ve heard, that’s not a skill I possess.”
He gives me a chiding look. “That’s impossible.”
“And you’re an expert on meigas now? Tell me, how does this work, because I’ve been living with magic my whole life, and I’ve never been able to figure it out. Why does your mother even have this? Shouldn’t it have been destroyed?”
“The most valuable items were kept in the family.”
I scoff. “Of course they were.”
He furrows his brow, tilting his head thoughtfully. “What can your magic do?”
Maybe it’s the subtle note of accusation in his tone. Maybe I’m just not used to discussing my magic. Whatever the reason, I feel my face pale. “It’s not much. Just shadows.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “Just shadows?”
I nod. “Sometimes they help me hide.”
He studies me. “You’re used to hiding, aren’t you?”
I feel laid bare under his gaze, and I look away. “Can you blame me?” My whole life has been spent living in fear of what I am.
He takes a step closer to me—close enough that I can feel the warmth of him. “Sinclair,” he says, and for some reason that pulls my gaze to his. Silver irises, intense and unyielding. Like ice so cold it burns. “You were never meant to be hidden away in the shadows.”
His words choke the breath out of me. “And how do you know?”
“It’s who you are. World’s worst show-off. Defender of the victims of harmless pranks. Incorrigible know-it-all. Imagine what you could do if you didn’t have to be afraid of your magic. You’d be unbearable. Unstoppable.”
My lips tilt. “I think you might be trying to compliment me.”
“Don’t read too much into it,” he says with a glower.
“It wasn’t a harmless prank, though.” I can’t help but point that out. “I think you might’ve traumatized that poor freshman.”
Something ruthless flashes in his eyes. “That poor freshman was handing over the names of suspected meigas to my mother’s guards.”
I gape. “What?”
Roze lours. “He was greedy for the rewards and was giving them names on the slightest suspicion. I doubt if any of the names he provided were legitimate. Johnson was a slimy little rat, too immature and idiotic to realize how many lives he was ruining. Anyway, that’s why I was sorting him out.”
Of all the surprises the Prince has handed me in the last day, this might be the most shocking. “And why would you care?”
His lips go taut, and he looks away. I’ve never seen the expression that graces his face now—if I didn’t know better, I’d call it vulnerability.
He turns back to the mirror. “Try again.”
I don’t want to let it go—could Roze Roquelart, prince of bullies, actually have defended meigas? Why? I want to press the issue, but I know from the cold look in his eye that he won’t answer my questions now.
“What’s the point? It won’t help.”
He groans, tossing his head back, and I get a full view of that moth painting his neck and the smooth curve of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. “Must you question everything?”
“Yes.”
He looks at me and seems to consider for a moment. “Do it because I’m asking you to. Please.”
I’ve never heard him politely ask for anything. I suppose good behavior should be rewarded. “Fine,” I say with a sigh, and focus on the mirror again. “Magic Mirror, what happened to the King?” I brace myself, but nothing but my own face stares back at me.
“Well, there you have it,” I say. “I’ve never in my life been able to divine information out of thin air. If I were you, I would stop putting all your faith in supernatural nonsense and get back to the research.”
“Says the witch.”
I glare at him. “Don’t call me that. It’s crass. And you know I’m right. We need to be focusing on the book and on Castelle. Those are the only clues we have about your father. That’s how we’ll find out what led to his death.”