Chapter 2
Gemma was not in the library but rather in her rooms, surrounded by piles of fabric: silver beadwork, fluffy peach tulle, fringed velvet shawls, some horrifically shiny gold thing dotted with pink silk roses. My baby sister stood in the middle of it all with a furrowed brow. She wore a soft green dress and a white ribbon in her long golden curls, and her arms were full of dresses. With one bare foot, she toed through a pile of satin on the floor.
I stopped dead on the threshold, suddenly remembering the most dreaded item on my list of tasks for the day.
Dress for ball.
These were all for me. I recognized a few of my own gowns in the flouncy chaos, much plainer colors than Gemma’s usual—grays and browns, shades of slate blue and dusty rose. Gemma had turned both our wardrobes inside out, determined to dress me as she saw fit for the upcoming ball.
The sight of it all nearly made me turn around and flee, but I already had Mara’s letter in hand, and Gemma was quick. She spotted me, let out a yelp, tossed the dresses she carried to the floor, snatched the envelope from my fingers, and tore it open before I could run away.
Defeated, I sank onto the tufted wingback chair by the door and listened to my sister read.
Dearest sisters,
I miss you both terribly and wish I were writing with better news. I’ll get right to the point. I’m convinced that the Mist is dying.
Gemma looked up at me, her blue eyes wide with alarm, all her excitement gone. Our gazes locked for a moment, and then she sank onto the edge of her bed and continued to read.
The Warden believes the Mist is simply going through a natural cycle. It has weakened before, she says, and its strength has always returned. As a person might, the Mist—a magical entity itself—likewise endures periods of illness and health, melancholy and cheer. The decline we are experiencing right now is unfortunate but expected, and only temporary. So says the Warden.
However, I think this is something different. Something…else. Mistfires are increasing in frequency and severity, as you already know, and they’re far worse than they were even a few weeks ago. Storms have started gathering at the northeastern perimeter of the Mistlands, horrible, fierce ones that do not abate. The sickness I explained to you previously is spreading—more citizens are falling prey to strange visions, awful nightmares, an insidious derangement. I have been keeping a catalog of the afflicted. Their symptoms, their physical appearance, the art and music and poetry they make reflecting their visions. I am keeping careful note of my findings; perhaps soon I will be able to deduce a pattern. Recurring words or images, some reason in the madness.
Meanwhile, my letters to you might become less frequent. Another unfortunate consequence of the Mist’s…sickness, as I suppose I could call it, is a general weakening, as I’ve said before. But as with the Mistfires, this weakening is getting worse by the day. Passage between realms is no longer limited to the strongest of beings—emissaries, dreamwalkers, fae, and so on—but is becoming possible for ordinary people and for lesser creatures of both realms. Our allies in the Old Country are keeping us as informed as much as they can, and we are fighting hard to limit both deliberate and accidental trespasses, but they are happening more and more, as are kidnappings and illicit trade.
As you can imagine, given the circumstances, the Order is spread thin. My unit is exhausted, and our newest recruits seem more terrified than usual, though I am trying my best to keep their spirits up.
Whether these increasing disturbances are due to our own actions in the Old Country, or to Kilraith’s, or are merely coincidence, I can’t say. But I think to assume coincidence is shortsighted. And if Kilraith is, in fact, not dead—and I cannot imagine he is—what will happen when he recovers his full strength? When will he attack again? And where, and how?
And what will happen to the Mist when that day comes?
As you can see, my head is a worried muddle of uncertainty, and I don’t know what sort of response I expect from you. I’m not sure that there is anything to do right now except keep your eyes and ears open and talk to the people you trust, even when doing so feels impossible.
I think often of your upcoming monthly visit. The thought of home brightens my every morning. I miss you. I love you. Stay safe, and please give my best to the queen at the ball.
Yours always,
Mara
Una had come to me as Gemma read and leaned her lanky fleethound body against my legs. She was now looking up at me with those sad brown eyes of hers, her lips puffing the slightest bit with each breath. For Una, this was a sign of utmost affection. Absently, I scratched the silky spots just behind her tufted white ears and waited for Gemma to speak. I was too tired to utter a word. Mara’s words sat inside my stomach like stones.
“She wants us to talk to the Basks,” Gemma said slowly. She raised her gaze to mine. “And to the queen. She didn’t say it outright, but it’s there at the end. Even when doing so feels impossible. Give my best to the queen. ” Gemma sighed, folded the letter back into its envelope, and flopped back onto her bed in a huff of pale green cotton and golden curls. “She’s angry with us.”
“She isn’t,” I said, though I wasn’t convinced. “She’s very busy.”
“She wants you to ask the queen to send aid to Rosewarren for more supplies and weapons. More fortresses along the perimeter too, I suspect.”
“I’m not going to put Yvaine in that position,” I replied, as I always did when the subject of my friendship with the queen arose.
“And when she says talk to the Basks, she means really talk with them—invite them to Ivyhill at last, actually do something with them instead of merely exchange letters.”
The very thought exhausted me. “Do something like what?”
Gemma sat up, her mouth drawn tight with frustration. “I don’t know, but we were all together in the Old Country, and we did an incredible thing there. Maybe we could do more incredible things if we were all in the same space once more. Maybe we could do something to help Mara and all the other Roses. They’re alone up there—”
“I know very well where the Order is and what they do and how dangerous it is for Mara,” I interrupted wearily.
Gemma watched me for a moment. “You can’t use Father as an excuse forever.”
I resisted the urge to touch my tender wrist. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t try to play dumb. You’re bad at it. I’m talking about the fact that in the weeks since we left Rosewarren, we haven’t seen the Basks even once. We said we were going to, but we never have, and every time I mention the idea, every time we receive a letter from them, you deflect the whole thing with some excuse about Father’s temper or happiness or some other such rot.”
“It isn’t rot,” I protested, though that sounded weak even to my own ears. “Life is easier when he’s happy. I know you don’t care much about his happiness, but some of us do care, and have to.”
“That’s unfair.”
“Not really. You’ve spoken to him perhaps three times over the past month.”
Gemma lifted her chin slightly. “I have very little to say to him.”
I saw a flash of pain in her eyes, though she’d grown much more adept at hiding it. Softening, though I didn’t really want to soften, I went to sit beside her, reached for her unscarred hand, hesitated.
Some days, when Gemma’s sensitivity to magic was particularly raw, I was afraid to even be in the same room as her, worried that some stray bit of magic would lash off of me and hurt her. I’d hoped, as I knew she had, that our trip to the Old Country and its effect on all our powers would somehow lessen that particular burden for her. But my little sister still hurt unpredictably when magic was near, and it seemed she always would.
“Can I?” I asked quietly, glancing over at her.
In answer, Gemma took my hand in both of hers, her smile lovely and beaming, the gleaming, scarred skin of her left hand—the one that had pulled the Three-Eyed Crown from Talan’s brow—just as warm and smooth as the skin of her right. If she did feel pain, she didn’t show it, and it broke my heart to see how eager she was for my touch.
“Please,” she said, “and thank you.”
We sat for a moment in silence, and then, because I couldn’t help it, because from my vantage point I could see very clearly how deeply each of them was hurting, I said, “Father is sorry, you know. I know that sounds pathetic and inadequate, but he is.”
“For conspiring with our mother to hire an artificer to alter my body from the inside out?” she said, chillingly matter-of-fact. “For mutilating me before I was old enough to understand what was happening, dooming me to unending pain, and then lying to me about it for years? For that, you mean?”
“You know he thought it was for the best.”
“I know very well what he thought and how my power frightened him, a grown man—a sentinel, for gods’ sake. He can continue to be sorry for the rest of his days.” Then Gemma paused, looking down at our hands, and said, harder now, “He hurt you.”
I snatched my reddened wrist from her, and then, as if I hadn’t already confirmed it, muttered, “He didn’t.”
“He did .”
“He didn’t mean to.”
“He’s a fiend,” Gemma said, her voice trembling. “I could kill him.” Then she laughed, a horribly sad sound. “How can you want to kill someone, and also love them, and also hate them, and also feel sorry for them, all at the same time?” A pause, and then she nudged my leg with her own. “You were born an old lady. Surely you have the answer.”
“Alas,” I sighed, grateful for the familiar joke, “I have none of the wisdom that comes with old age, but I do have the exhaustion.”
“And the fondness for porridge. And the unending grumpiness.”
Before I could grumble a retort, Gemma rose and pulled gently on my coat sleeve. “Come, sister, let’s forget about everything terrible for a while and find you a beautiful dress—oh! Here, you dropped something… Oh. ”
Gemma bent to retrieve the letter that had fallen from my pocket, and when she straightened, her pink rose of a mouth formed a perfect pouting frown. “Farrin.” She held up the envelope. “It’s from Ryder.”
“Is it?” I said blandly. “That’s helpful to know, since I’d forgotten how to read.”
“You haven’t opened it.”
“You are bursting with astute observations today.”
Gemma put her hands on her hips. “ Why haven’t you opened it? It could say something important, something about the Mist, some bit of news that their ravens have reported.”
“I was going to open it. I just hadn’t found the will to do it yet.”
“Would you have ever told me about it?”
“Of course,” I lied.
My sister was not fooled. Her eyes narrowed. “How many letters have you received from Ryder that you just tossed without opening? And without telling me?”
“You know,” I said, ignoring the question, “ever since the Vilia abducted you, and you escaped their captivity and broke an ancient curse and all that, you’ve become much harder to fool, and I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that development.”
Gemma grinned, looking quite pleased with herself. “The sex helps with that too.”
I blinked at her, stunned. “The what?”
“The sex . Gods’ honor, every time I lie with Talan, I feel more…myself. Clearheaded, and vivid, vital. It’s like he thrusts strength right into me. It’s like I ride him to some higher state of being.” A slight shadow of sadness crossed her face. “It’s more than that, of course. More than just his body and mine coming together. But they’re instruments, you see. Gifts to one another. A form of worship, really. I’m stronger with him. Not only because of him, but because through him, I’m learning more about myself.” She looked at me, thoughtful. “And he’s extraordinarily good with his tongue. That doesn’t hurt.”
“Oh, gods help me.” I plugged my ears, trying to ignore the flush of heat racing up my body. “I don’t want to hear about your and Talan’s…activities.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Sex, Farrin.” With a little skip and a jump, she was right by my ear. “Really supremely good sex,” she added, and then stepped away to open the envelope, smiling to herself all the while. Girlish, playful, but with a serenity that seemed foreign to me, unreachable.
Rattled, I put my hands on my knees and stared at my fingers, all the parts of me that had loosened during our conversation suddenly clenched up tight. I felt a headache beginning at my temples, a tight knot gathering in my chest. I should have been glad that Gemma was able to mention Talan without despairing; maybe this meant that him being in hiding wouldn’t be a constant torment for her.
But all I could feel in that moment was this sudden mire of confusion. Gods, I couldn’t even rightly name what I was feeling. Anger? Fear? Mortification? Longing?
“Well, this letter is certainly to the point,” I distantly heard Gemma say. “Ryder wants to visit Ivyhill, and bring Alastrina too, of course. He’s wondering why you haven’t answered— Farrin —any of his last five letters. Oh, and here’s a note from Alastrina.” She made a little sound of puzzlement. “She’s asking if Illaria has any of her winter scents ready for purchase and if I’ll put in a good word for her, persuade Lari to send early samples. Interesting. When she wants something, Alastrina can be shockingly cordial. She’s practically gushing with compliments for Illaria.” Her mouth twisted into a sly smile. “I may have to play matchmaker with those two. What a lovely couple they’d make, don’t you think?”
Gemma’s words jostled about in my head, rattling me like blows. It was as if some mechanism had switched inside me. Images of Talan and my sister flooded my mind—naked and ecstatic and tender, loving each other—and I couldn’t get rid of them, wasn’t sure I wanted to, and yet I desperately wished them gone.
“We’ll see many Basks soon enough at the ball,” I managed to reply, hating myself, humiliated. “That will have to satisfy Ryder for now. And perhaps if he put a little more effort into writing all these letters, I’d be more inclined to respond to them.”
“He’s succinct.”
“He’s rude .”
“No-nonsense is what I’d call it. And you aren’t exactly a bastion of decorum yourself, dear sister.”
“I can write a polite letter that doesn’t sound like an order barked at a military subordinate, at least.”
Then I felt a gentle touch at my elbow and opened my eyes to find Gemma sitting beside me again, the letter discarded and her brow creased with worry. I hadn’t realized I’d closed my eyes. I hadn’t realized I’d done it to hold back tears—embarrassing, baffling, bright-hot tears.
“What is it?” Gemma asked softly. “I’ve said something that upset you. Really upset you.”
I tried to sound wry and careless. “No, it’s only Ryder. One more annoyance to deal with, you know.”
“Truly, Farrin. It’s more than that. I can see it on your face.”
Without answering her, I rose and headed swiftly for the door. I didn’t look back even when Gemma called after me. If I did, I would snap at her or say something terrible, something she didn’t deserve. She’d done nothing wrong—not that she knew of, anyway, and certainly nothing that would have sent a reasonable person fleeing her rooms in a temper. I would offer her an excuse later, some task I’d neglected to complete, an appointment I’d forgotten.
But right then, I needed the one thing in the world that I knew could soothe this sudden anger boiling inside me and scrub my mind clean.
I needed my piano.
***
She awaited me in the Green Ballroom, my steadfast love. With the exception of our library and its archives—draped with so many layers of protective ward magic that it would have taken an act of the gods to destroy it—little else had survived the Basks’ fire, but my piano had somehow, impossibly, made it through the night intact. Imagine the shock of seeing her—a perfect instrument of rich cherrywood, ornamented with carved wooden vines—standing pristine in a ruin of ashes and embers, wisps of smoke curling all around her. It had taken me days to retune the poor thing, but I’d managed it, and she played as beautifully now as she ever had.
Her survival was the one thing that kept me believing in the gods after everything that had happened to tear my family apart, even if that belief was, at times, hair thin. Something had saved my piano that night, something none of us had ever been able to explain. My mother, insatiably curious, had hired beguilers and elementals and alchemists to assess the piece. Was there any trace of protective magic lingering upon it? Was there something in the wood that repelled fire? Was it not truly a piano but rather something else altered to mimic the appearance of one? No one could ever find a reason it had survived; it was, Father decided at last, a miracle. A gift from the gods.
As a girl, I’d gotten the feeling that my mother had never been satisfied with that answer. This had irked me; couldn’t she simply be happy for me, for the marvel of it? Another grievance with her that I held inside me, one of many I clutched in a fist that would never open.
I wasted no time. I closed the doors of the ballroom behind me and hurried to my girl, who stood proud and alone in the middle of the floor, framed by towering green walls and ivory curtains. Alone, but not lonely. She preferred her solitude.
I opened the lid, unveiling the black-and-white keys, every last one of them gleaming and perfect. I slid onto the bench and immediately began to play the first piece that came to mind. I didn’t have a name for it; it felt too dear to me to be named, like a thing so precious it was best to avert your eyes from it, to speak of it only in whispers.
It was the piece I’d written about the shining boy, for the shining boy, about that horrible night and everything before and after it. How it had felt when he’d found me half dead, shivering beside a decaying wall soaked with malevolent magic, and held me, and told me not to be afraid. How he would look if I were to see him now, grown. How it would feel if his hands—the very same hands that had saved me—were to touch me again.
But the calm that ordinarily fell over me when I disappeared into my music did not come. Instead, with each arpeggio, each crescendo—here, the melody for my sisters and me, fighting futilely against the onslaught of our parents’ war; there, the opening notes of the shining boy’s theme, hopeful and heroic, coy—the tension inside me wound even tighter.
I was distracted, my thoughts scattered. Really supremely good sex , Gemma had said, blissfully unaware, blissfully happy, as I would never be. My piano, alone, not really understood by anyone—a thing to be kept apart, treasured but seldom touched by anyone’s hands but my own. The shining boy’s sad voice telling me goodbye. My father’s iron grip on my wrist, hurting me. Talan pinned to the ground by all of us in that evil house of poison, shouting obscenities at us in a voice that wasn’t his own. Mara, alone, overwhelmed, tired, fighting monsters in the shadows of the Mist.
I couldn’t bear it, being torn apart from the inside by this confusion of memory, this tumult of too many strange, frightening pains to name. Why had Gemma said anything at all? Why had the letter from Ryder fallen out of my pocket? But she had, and it had, and the nettle of it had stuck in me for some reason I couldn’t explain, reawakening every bad thought I’d ever had, making me ache, making me miserable.
A missed note here, an inelegant phrase there. My fingers wouldn’t work as they were supposed to, even with all this godly magic coursing through my blood. Was I an Anointed savant, or was I a mere fumbling child?
A volcano of anger erupted inside me. Hot and blazing, head to toe.
I slammed my fists down on the keys with a muted cry, nearly choking on my own frustration. I dashed a hand across my face, swiping at tears.
And then, from behind me, came the sound of one person applauding.
I stood up, whirled around, and saw, standing in the corner of the ballroom next to a voluminous fern, a little tin watering can at her feet, Emry the housemaid.
She was weeping.
“Oh, my lady,” she cried, clapping fiercely, “that was wonderful . I’ve not heard you play myself, my lady, not until just now, though of course I’ve heard the stories, and…oh, I’ve never heard such music, not once, not ever in my life!”
She stumbled toward me, gibbering about how glorious my music was, how divine, and I could only stare at her, fuming, not really understanding why I was fuming but knowing nevertheless that I hated the sight of her. It was as if she’d been reunited with a lost love; her sobs were joyous, giddy.
When she was close enough to touch me, she fell to her knees and touched the hem of my skirt. “Blessed Kerezen, that she should grant to us here in Edyn a gift such as the one you possess, my lady. Such music —”
“It was terrible,” I said flatly. “I played terribly.”
But on she went, praising me. Food of the gods , drink for the soul , beautiful woman , perfect creature , and so forth. It was the sort of nonsense I’d heard screamed at me every time I’d performed in front of a crowd.
My mouth turned sour with disgust, with fear. I wanted to run; I wanted her to run.
“Get away from me,” I told her. I could hear the vitriol in my voice and didn’t care; in fact, it brought me a perverse comfort. Through the haze of my anger, I heard a faint noise that I immediately dismissed. Perhaps the house, sighing in aggrieved solidarity.
Emry blinked up at me, sniffling. “My lady?”
“You saw me come in, you saw me sit down at the piano, and you said nothing. You should have made your presence known.”
The girl paled. “I’m so sorry, my lady, I didn’t know… That is, you startled me when you came in, and then you started to play, and I just couldn’t stop you, I couldn’t —”
“I do not perform my music in front of others, not without strict specifications put in place well in advance.”
“Yes, my lady, it’s only that—”
“This is my private space,” I said sharply. She shrank back from me. A slight pity jolted me; she was new, she was young, I could have looked around the room myself to ensure no one was there. But I couldn’t seem to stop talking. “If, when you are in here working, I enter the room, you are to leave at once, as quickly and quietly as possible. And you are to tell no one what you heard here today, or what you saw. Is that understood?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Good. Now, get out.”
She froze, gaping at me. She glanced at my hands, then back at the piano. I could see it on her face, a question she was desperate to ask. Can you keep playing, Farrin? Keep playing, and never stop.
Every last measure of control I’d been holding on to shattered into pieces.
“ Get out! ” I cried, scaring the life out of the both of us. She scrambled to her feet and ran, tripping twice over her own shoes. With a sob, she bolted out the doors—right past the spot where Gareth stood, watching me, wearing a dusty travel coat, an undone tie of gold, blue, and black hanging loosely around his neck, and a sad, grave expression.
My dearest friend, Gareth Fontaine, and he’d been standing there for how long? How much had he seen?
I found the piano bench and sank down upon it.
“Gareth,” I said weakly.
He closed the doors and came to me. The afternoon light glazed his spectacles and messy blond hair with gold. Normally, the sight of him would have lifted my spirits to the sun, but now I could only stare at my feet and blink back tears. Every part of me felt thick and miserable, weighed down by some tacky phantom substance that made it hard to breathe.
Gareth knelt at my feet and turned up my chin with one finger. “Farrin,” he said when my eyes met his. “What in the name of the gods was that all about?”
Something about the tone of his voice made me bristle. “I’m not a child, Gareth. Don’t talk to me like one.”
“I don’t know. You yelled at that poor girl like a child might have. A child with an exceptionally bad temper.”
Grasping for any weapon I could find, I landed on change of subject . “What are you even doing here?”
“I’ve come to stay until the ball, conduct some research in your family’s archives.” He cocked one blond eyebrow at me. “About the ytheliad curse. Don’t you remember?”
I did, at last, thinking of the scrawled reminder in my notebook from weeks ago, buried beneath pages upon pages of reminders, accounts, lists, needs, demands.
“Oh.” I sat back against the piano. Thinking of Gareth’s work and how I must look to him in that moment made me feel small and raw, utterly ashamed. “Right. I’d forgotten.”
And then something reared its head in me, a nasty little monster with thorns on its tongue and a mind of its own.
Its words burst out of me. “I suppose you were too busy bedding barmaids and getting in pissing contests with your colleagues over whose brain is bigger to send me a note reminding me of your visit? But I shouldn’t expect you to extend such a common courtesy to me if you can’t even find it in you to send a letter to your poor mother.”
Silence fell between us like an ax. After a long moment, too horrified to apologize, I dared a look up at Gareth and felt sick. He was smiling, but his eyes, normally so full of mirth, were ice cold.
“You know, Farrin,” he said evenly, “bedding barmaids can be a fantastically fun time for all involved. Maybe if you tried it on occasion, you’d actually be pleasant to be around.”
We stared at each other, and I saw the regret on his face, and the hurt. He hadn’t wanted to say that to me, not really, but I didn’t blame him for it. We knew better than perhaps anyone else in the world how to hurt each other, and we’d done it—fast and lethal, like knives thrown by a sure hand.
He broke first, blowing out a soft breath. “Farrin.” He rubbed a hand across his brow. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. Tell me what’s happened. You’re clearly not yourself today.”
But I was. I was myself, whatever that meant. This muddled, angry, sad woman was me, and I couldn’t bear for her to be in the same room as Gareth for another second.
I found my notebook on the floor, stood shakily, and put my hand on Gareth’s sleeve. I’m sorry. I squeezed his shoulder; I couldn’t yet speak. I hoped he would understand. I fled upstairs, clutching my notebook to my chest.
***
That night, I tried it. I tried , as I hadn’t in ages.
Maybe if you bedded a barmaid.
I lay in my bed, naked, sweating—not with desire but with nerves, with exhaustion. I’d been touching myself for nearly an hour, and all I’d earned for my trouble was soreness. My fingers were shriveled and clammy, my cunt dry and tired. Cunt . I forced myself to say the word into my pillow, hoping the vulgar shock of it would do something, awaken some latent spellwork buried deep within me. I imagined bedding a barmaid, Gareth, Talan, poor sweet Emry, my stolid lady’s maid, Hetty. Even Byrn, our whiskered groom. My mind was a fever of bodies and mouths, hands and whispers, none of it focused, all of it frantic.
But even though every muscle in my body felt wound tight with desperation, the feeling of release everyone went wild about—the feeling I’d read about exhaustively, the feeling I craved —remained, as ever, out of reach.
At last I subsided, damp and miserable in my bed, my chest lit up with remnants of the day’s anger. I curled into a knot and burned quietly, watching the dying fire in the hearth, listening to Osmund’s cat snores at my feet.
Tomorrow I would wake before the dawn, and it would all begin again.
Exhaustion at the thought of enduring such a thing brought me the oblivion that touching myself never did. I fell asleep hoping I would dream of ecstasy, and knowing from experience that I would not.