Eris
"What do you mean, she dismissed the Favored? And this, so soon after showing up to an execution to spare a northerner child? Surely, the queen's gone madder than she already was," a man scoffs over the noise of the tavern.
"Or maybe she's lost the madness at last," another argues. "Heard she made a show of imprisoning that nasty, no-good chamberlain. My friend's uncle works as a guard at the castle and says the queen's behavior is all the nobles can talk about lately, but she hasn't left her chambers in days."
Another man grunts. "Crones. Whatever will happen to Isenmere now, if that lusty hag is trying to run it?"
"Who cares? All I know is, if that bitch is on the hunt for more cock, she can have mine. I'll fuck a pretty queen however much she likes to live like royalty as a Favored!"
That draws a chorus of laughter and loud agreements.
Irritated, I step away from the reflection of the mug in one of their hands. It's one of the few windows offering a view of the door Verena stormed out of far too long ago—but those mouthy bastards are intolerable.
Moving instead to stare at the door from the reflection on someone's shiny brass satchel button, I run my hands through my hair once more in utter frustration.
I missed something.
It happens sometimes in my shredded, limited views of the world through these windows, but I must have missed something while I went to confirm that Merrick was eating upstairs.
Why the fuck would Verena follow those drunk men outside?
They must be in some alleyway without windows or reflections of any kind, because I can't find even the briefest glimpse of them in any nearby window.
What if they've harmed her? What if she fell ill and unconscious from lack of drinking blood, and those scoundrels left the supposed shoemaker in the alley gutter to die?
Or—Crones. What if they've discovered she's the queen, somehow?
It didn't bother me when she first sent her sworn protector away, but now it's fucking annoying. If Wulf were here, he could have stopped this.
I swear and pace away from this window, then back. Again and again.
I'm used to feeling trapped.
I'm not used to worrying out of my mind about being trapped away from someone else.
The door opens, and two tavern maids walk in. I stop and watch, expecting Verena to be right behind them. Were these women out in the alley, too? I must have missed that.
But the door closes behind them, and the torture begins anew.
"Damn it all," I grit.
Should I just leave? I was just settling into the idea of helping the soul in Reinhilde's body in exchange for her help looking for a way out of this place.
I promised to teach her to read. I was even allowing myself to dream about the next full moon—what it would be like to exist in the same space as her, even for just a few measly hours.
"Stupid. You barely exist at all, you fool," I remind myself.
If I find out Verena lies dead outside this tavern, that playful light forever gone from her eyes…
My mounting horror at that thought dissipates when the door opens again.
The shoemaker walks in, that little beauty spot over the corner of his lips unmistakable.
"Thank Crones," I breathe at last, moving back to the nearest reflective cup to call to her. "Verena. What happened?"
The shoemaker's gaze moves to me for the barest moment. His unfamiliar face is impossible to read before Verena moves to sit at one of the few empty tables.
My relief at seeing her fades when the shoemaker crosses his arms on the table, burying his head like he's trying to hide from the light and the people here.
Quickly, I find the next closest window—a large metal spoon left over on the same table she's sitting at—and peer up at her.
"Are you hurt? Tell me where."
She says nothing for a long moment, but there's a soft sniff.
"Verena," I repeat, really worried now. If she's in pain, how can I possibly help her from inside here? Even if I go find the Huntsman now, he may be too far away to help. "Tell me what—"
"I just need a second to come to terms with the fact that I'm a blood-guzzling fucking monster," the shoemaker's voice says, muffled under his arms. "I…just killed someone. On accident. Again."
I breathe a huge sigh of relief. She's unharmed, and now she's no longer in danger of dropping with the queen's thirst-fueled fever very soon.
"You've finally fed, then. Good."
The shoemaker looks at the spoon I'm in, mouth hanging open in shocked disbelief. That's when I notice the bit of blood smeared on his chin.
Verena keeps her tone low so as not to draw attention, though I doubt anyone would overhear in this busy tavern.
"Good? Good? You're a fucking sociopath. I just told you I accidentally killed someone. Put yourself in this shoemaker's boots for a second and just try to imagine what I feel like right now."
"Sated, I hope." I point at my own chin to indicate hers. "You're wearing a bit of dinner."
She reacts as if I've pointed out a spider crawling on her face, swiping it away on her cloak before the shoemaker groans and buries his face again.
"I'm waiting to meet with Merrick, but I don't know if I can hold it together. I can't stop thinking about the corpse in the stable next door."
"Stable?"
"I had to put the body somewhere. Oh god, those poor horses."
I fight a smile, but it's difficult.
Through the windows of light in the mirror realm, I've witnessed a lot of violence in the physical world. Based on her night terrors, I assume her world isn't much better—yet she's this distraught, all because she killed some good-for-nothing?
Verena is just so…good.
It's endearing, but impractical.
"The horses are fine," I promise her.
"No, they're not. They know I'm a monster.
They'll have nightmares about it, and so will I.
I was just going to have a tiny taste, and then—" She cuts off with a gag.
"And what the hell is up with the queen's canines turning into fangs when she feeds?
What kind of fucked-up party trick is that?
I thought my teeth seemed weird the first time I fed—but this time I felt them and barely stopped myself from screaming and scaring the manure out of those poor horses. "
Again, with the horses?
When Verena realizes I'm fighting laughter, she sits up to glare at me through the shoemaker's eyes.
"Being pretty doesn't excuse you for being a sadist, Beetlejuice."
I've never seen what I look like, but the real Reinhilde's many objectifying comments made it evident that I'm desirable in some way. Her salacious gaze and repeated suggestions that I undress for her made my skin crawl. I longed to disappear every moment she was awake.
But when Verena calls me pretty, or handsome, or anything else…
I don't mind.
Actually, I wouldn't mind quite a lot more of it.
"I've another request for you," I tell her, toying with the ties at the neckline of my shirt.
I hoped her gaze might follow the motion, but she's still glowering about my laugh.
"You should carry a small mirror everywhere you go so I don't have to go through that brand of torture ever again.
That way, I can see whatever poor horses you may terrify in the future. "
She makes a motion at me that I don't understand, her middle finger raised. But she puts it down quickly when one of the tavern maids steps up to the table.
"My uncle said he would love to speak with you," she says, eyeing Verena with the slightest hint of suspicion. "He asked for complete privacy. Just go upstairs and turn right. Also…thanks for trying to help earlier."
"Trying being the key word, because clearly you had it handled," Verena grins with the shoemaker's face. "You're a lot handier with that knife than I am with my fists."
The tavern maid laughs. "Just remember that you're the one who said it, not me."
She steps away to talk to other tavern customers. Verena grabs the spoon and stands. This window turns and flips, showing chaotic blips of the tavern, but at least I can still hear her as she moves toward the stairs.
"She would have her choice of modeling agencies to pick from, in my world," the shoemaker sighs. "Too bad I'll be leaving soon, because I would love to design something for her."
Ah, yes. Verena did mention being a seamstress of some kind. Perhaps that's why she was staring at that shop earlier.
I suppose her determination to return to her world is only natural, but…I dislike it.
Already, I can't imagine not having her sharp wit as company. And, if she replaced Reinhilde, what if returning to her world sends the true evil queen back to Eidengrau?
Perhaps there's a way to keep Verena here.
Or preferably, a way to make her want to stay here.
I ponder this deeply as Verena walks past several tables. Bits of their conversation crowd the tavern.
"Plague? In Hamelnmark?"
"Indeed. Let's hope it stays there and keeps out of Isenmere."
She skirts around another table, where they're also talking about that distant kingdom.
"Maybe their king will find a way to end the sickness. Don't give me that look—haven't you heard? He's awakened from that sleeping curse at last. A lot of people wonder if that means everyone in Rosenwald will wake up, too. Some say it's been almost a hundred years, after all."
"Crones! What terrible things faerie curses are."
Finally, Verena hurries up the stairs, away from the chatter and clinking of utensils. She enters a quiet room with a decorative hand-painted mirror mounted on one wall.
I move to it quickly, abandoning the topsy-turvy view of the spoon in her hand. I watch as she closes the door and sits across from an older man at a table.
Merrick, I take it.
"Ah, hello," he greets with a kind smile. "So, Queen Reinhilde sent you."
Verena could pass for any simple shoemaker as she dips her head.
"Yes, sir."
"My niece tells me you are also quite brave. It seems some unsavory fellows caused some trouble earlier—I'm sorry to hear it, because this tavern is usually very respectable. Were you hurt?"
"No, sir."