Chapter 19 Taera
Taera
In the morning, I wake before Nikolai. His bedchambers seem more spacious in the yawning, yellow light, which must diffuse through the layers upon layers of glass. I feel trapped inside a growing crystal. This room would be infinitely more bearable with a window to glimpse the sand beyond.
Today, I have to pretend to be one of them.
A trickle of nerves seeps in. I sit up, craning my head.
Nikolai’s limbs are sprawled across his large bed.
Even asleep, his face is an illusion. He looks like a sculpture, with his high cheekbones and gloriously messy golden hair.
He’s wearing the same blue robes as yesterday, with no sheets on top of him.
I smirk, tightening my black silk wrappings. Creeping to my feet, I tiptoe over to the bathing chambers.
The opulence of the bathtub takes my breath away.
Last night I could hardly appreciate the curling vines along the rim of the tub, with leaves of gold.
Or the twinkling blue gemstones embedded like stars in the white glass.
A second bath so soon—especially in the desert—would be wasteful.
I turn to the sink instead. A thin stream of water spills into my palms and I wash my hands and face.
Not that I’ve acquired any dirt in the night.
I’m as pristine as when I stepped out of the bath yesterday and still seeped in exotic scents.
I catch my own gaze in the mirrored wall and take a sharp breath.
I’ve never studied my face in a real mirror.
I’m clean of silt and sand, like I’ve always wished for: a dream terribly realized.
Part of me craves this sight. But the eyes that look back are dark and wild. Lost. I press my lips together.
I can’t show any weakness.
When I return to Nikolai’s bedchamber, he’s sitting up. He stretches his arms back. Muscles shift under his robes, displaying the indecent contours of his chest and stomach.
I swallow, directing my traitorous gaze at the floor—until I notice it reflects the ceiling, which reflects him again.
“Enjoying the view?”
I won’t stoop to respond to that. Of course every part of him is appealing—it’s misleading, like the hood of a snake. Except his illusions aren’t meant to scare me away… Worse. His ethereal beauty is to lure me closer.
He winks, entirely too pleased, then hops to his feet and strides past me to his bathing chambers. A trail of sage follows him. Against my will, my eyes follow, too.
I mentally slap myself. My own shortness of breath terrifies me: I can’t even trust myself. He’s as dangerous as the desert.
I keep busy by rolling up my mat, but a knock sounds from the hallway.
Nikolai warned me never to answer, and I have no desire to come face-to-face with another magician. I slip back so the bed is between me and the door, willing whoever is on the other side to give up and leave.
Nikolai steps out from his bathing chambers, and I startle. He’s dripping, a sheen of water tracking down his chest… a towel slung low around his hips.
I stop breathing, then try to catch up again—too fast. I tear my eyes away from him, staring fiercely down at the bed—Nikolai’s bed—and the clever needlework decorating the mattress. I manage not to combust, thank the desert.
He moves in my periphery, not putting on a scrap of clothing before he swings the door to the hallway wide open.
I hold rigid.
A moment later he steps back inside with a large silver tray.
“Breakfast,” he says. He nudges the door closed with his shoulder, moves toward his bed. The entire maneuver leaves his towel unguarded, hanging precariously by a single tucked-in edge.
Then I notice what’s on the tray.
A mountain of food, arranged like a bouquet.
More common dishes, like oatmeal piled with winterberries, are displayed in crystal bowls around the edges.
Fresh buttertarts and golden pastries are heaped in the center, surrounded by colorful fruits I’ve only ever seen mid-summer: pears to plums to melons of pink and orange and green.
My mouth waters, and my stomach growls with longing. Still, I don’t dare approach.
“Enjoy.” Nikolai chuckles and pads back to the bathing chambers, leaving me alone with the magnificent platter.
I wait until I’m certain he won’t step back out half-naked before I approach the tray.
I’ve never imagined so many fruits in one place, even at the busiest market—or being able to buy them.
I wish Gramps were here. He loves sweets.
The thought curdles. The mages. The glass.
I would never wish this upon Gramps, no matter how decadent. This place is still a prison.
But I do need my strength.
I pick up the dainty silver fork and spear a berry, lifting it to my mouth. The sweetness bursts across my tongue, the zingy tartness… it’s perfect. I bite into still-warm butterbread, the fluffiest thing I’ve ever tasted. It crumbles in my mouth.
I moan, hear myself, and cut off the sound. Mortified, I glance around. Still just me.
Hunger takes over. I can’t decide which exquisite bite to take next.
My hand moves faster than my thoughts, fork to berries, fingers to pastries, back to the fork.
A cold, crisp grape crunches between my teeth.
I nearly groan again, tortured by the indulgence of it.
It’s more than I could ever afford, more than I should accept.
Yet I can’t stop myself from shoveling more into my mouth.
“Leave anything for me?” Nikolai’s voice jolts me out of my frenzy.
The fork clatters from my fingers, and I leap away from the bed. “I’m sorry.”
He’s clothed, thankfully, but somehow even more dazzling with his attention trained on me. His green eyes glint with amusement.
“You don’t have to worry about food,” he says, picking up the lone remaining scone. “You can have as much as you want.”
Why spoil me like this… unless to fatten me up for roasting? None of the horrifying stories I’ve heard about mages include being eaten by them.
Polishing off his scone, Nikolai lets his gaze rake the black silk I’m wearing. “While I admire your audacity, you won’t be wearing that to class.”
“I’m not going to wear those robes.”
I remember how thin they are. How airy.
“Fine.” He smirks.
“I—” I blink. “Good.”
“But if you don’t follow the dress code, you might be punished.” He shrugs, turning for the door.
“Punished?”
“They’ll banish everything improper you’re wearing.”
“Banish?” I choke.
He winks. “And I mean everything.”
I laugh, high-pitched and unpleasant, before narrowing my eyes at him. “Fine.”
Nikolai grins, gesturing to his bathing room. “You’ll find a fresh set of robes in there.”
I storm off to change, slamming the glass door as hard as I dare.
The desert-cursed door is nearly transparent.
I snatch up the folded set of robes on the counter before marching as far away from the door as possible and trading my layered wrappings for the feather-light fabric.
Examining my reflection, I scowl at the exposed outline of my body, the telltale blue robes. I look like one of them.
My stomach turns. But I have to pretend. Three and a half weeks.
“Ready to go?” Nikolai calls.
“Not yet!”
Adjusting the too-thin fabric doesn’t help. I’m surrounded by mirrors; the walls, ceiling, even the blasted floor is reflective. The slightest movement is treacherous. How does anyone walk around in these?
“I’m leaving soon,” Nikolai sing-songs. Now he’s torturing me for fun.
My cheeks feel hotter than a chameleon in the sun—but unable to hide—as I step toward the door. Keeping the fabric pinched between my knees, I crack it open.
Nikolai appraises my awkward pose, his lips twitching. “Is there a problem?”
I fold my arms over my chest, attempting nonchalance, while keeping my thighs welded together. I must look like I desperately need to pee.
“Don’t magicians wear…” I clench my teeth together. “Undergarments?”
“No.” He doesn’t even blink. “It’s easier this way.”
“Easier?” I squeak.
“Changing your appearance is easier when you’re wearing less,” he says. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
The mirrored walls seem to tilt in my direction, providing a dozen reflections of my flustered, tense posture. My face is bright red.
“The floors are reflective!”
Nikolai chuckles. “We’re illusionists. We control light and shadow, reflection and refraction. People only see what we want them to.”
“How does that help?”
“Illusionists don’t have wardrobe failures.”
I glower at him. “How’s that supposed to help me?”
“If you’re afraid of having an incident, a simple illusion would do the trick. Or you can wrap your cooch: show up on your first day wearing a diaper.”
My eyes narrow. “And it wouldn’t be banished?”
“Maybe.”
My blood starts to boil. “I can’t do magic.”
His smirks widen to an all-out grin. “I can.”
I want to claw that smile right off his stupid, beautiful face.
His eyes crinkle with laughter.
I quiver with rage. “How do you do that illusion?”
“Are you asking for my help?” He cocks his head to the side, his expression going wide-eyed and innocent.
I’m seconds from combusting. I breathe. In and out—once, twice—like Mom used to tell me to do when I wanted to scream at my brother. This magician is the same: just trying to provoke me.
“Will you help,” I say coolly, “if I ask?”
“If you say please.” His eyes glitter.
I won’t let this drag out. I keep my tone even. “Please.”
“Please, what?” He doesn’t even bother hiding his mockery.
“Why are you doing this?”
“To remind you I’m doing you a favor.” He chuckles darkly. “One you might return in the future.”
“I don’t owe you anything.”
“So you don’t want my help?” He manages to look guileless, all high eyebrows and big green eyes.
I sputter. “What if I refuse to go to class?”
His smile turns predatory. “Try it and find out.”
My insides spit and churn. The infuriating part is I know he’s manipulating me, but it’s still working.
It isn’t worth finding out if he’s bluffing.
With cold, lucid contempt, I decide not to give him the satisfaction of showing it.
Maybe this is another test of whether I’m willing to sacrifice my pride for his protection.
I tell myself it’s worth it, but I have to unclench my teeth before I can force the words out. “Please, help me hide the unwanted reflections beneath my robes.”
“You’ll pay me back later.” Nikolai is enjoying this too much.
“You really think I’ll promise you some unnamed favor in the future?” I snap.
A smile twitches at his lips. “I did hope you’d be smarter than that.”
I glower at him.
His eyes glint. “You can decline any return favor that violates your righteous sensibilities.”
“Fine,” I mutter. “I agree.”
Nikolai chuckles, then goes to his desk where he shuffles through clinking pieces of glass. He returns with a bracelet lying across his white-gloved palm. A thin strip of leather with a single glass bead.
“Hold out your wrist.”
The idea of glass against my skin makes my heart jitter and my throat tighten, but I’ll need to overcome this aversion if I’m going to survive here.
I hold out a shaky arm, and he slips the cord around my wrist, securing it with deft fingers. The glass bead warms and hums gently against my skin, a sweet mineral scent wafting past my nose.
“Better?” he asks, smirking. I remember the mortifying purpose of this bracelet and glower at him.
“Aren’t you going to look away?” I bite out. “So I can… test it.”
“There are a lot of mirrors.” He shrugs. “It wouldn’t help.”
My indignance splashes hot across my cheeks. I keep the fabric of my robes tucked like a tail between my legs as I waddle back into his bathing chambers and slam the door behind me.
I’m still self-conscious, even behind the blurry glass door. I twirl around stiffly, making my robes flare up. And—
It’s like the floor doesn’t dare reflect anything beneath my robes. I test it again, lifting my hem, shifting into a position where it most definitely should reflect my private bits…
The floor conveniently reflects… elsewhere.
I let out a huge breath of relief. I check one more time, just to be sure, striding back and forth and swaying my hips extra, and the magic protects my modesty. But these robes really do accentuate every curve of my body, clinging to my form.
I grimace. Is there another illusion to stop my nipples from poking into little points? I’m not willing to ask.
Schooling my expression into indifference, I step out of the bathroom.
“Better?” Nikolai’s twinkling eyes are annoyingly pretty. He has dimples. I still don’t like him. Or fully trust the buzzing glass bead he tied around my wrist. For all I know, it’s also a cuff to keep me imprisoned here.
“Ready to be a magician?” he asks, turning toward the hallway. “Follow my lead.”
“Easy,” I mutter.
Bracing myself, I follow him out the door and into the mirrored corridor. No matter where I look, the walls reflect my too-thin attire. My frown multiplies on every surface. But at least nothing beneath my robes finds its way into any of the mirrors.
Nikolai strides confidently down the hall, taking turns seemingly at random, and I hurry to keep up. When he suddenly slows, I stare at him, pulse spiking.
“A few suggestions on how to stay alive…” he says, then makes me wait several long seconds before he elaborates. “Don’t say more than you have to.”
A pane of glass shatters nearby, and I jump—to my dismay—closer to Nikolai. My stomach squirms like I’ve swallowed a lizard.
“Don’t answer any questions unless a master asks you directly,” he says. “And if anyone corners you, tell them you’re mine.”
What have I gotten myself into?
“Ready to become a magician?” Nikolai assesses me in earnest.
No.
But this might keep my family safe.
“Yes,” I make myself say, pushing my shoulders back and my chin up. All I have to do is pretend to belong here. It’s just a game.
A complex, lethal game.
We round a corner and Nikolai shifts. His step morphs into a swagger radiating arrogance.
Blue robes sweep out behind him, and he stalks forward like an apex predator without a care in the world.
His lips curve upward into a cocky smirk that somehow manages to make him look both bored and dangerously sexy.
I nearly trip over my own feet.
His resulting chuckle is low and delicious. “Eyes up here.”
I flush, dragging my gaze away from his quirked lips and back up to those hooded green eyes. My shock must be written across my face.
“This way.” Nikolai strides around the corner, leaving me to scurry after him.
When I catch up, we’re no longer alone.