I trail Jasyn’s course. The hedges are a maze, weaving out from the courtyard and back in again. “How did you heal me?”
“I did not simply heal you, my dear. I brought you back from the dead.”
“Impossible.”
“Is it?”
He’s lying. No one is that powerful.
“I have access to many rare remedies. One of the many perks of being king.”
You’re no king. “How long have I been here?”
“Two full nights.”
I count backward in my head. It’s Wednesday. Three days since Joshua died.
Since I died.
“Who undressed me? Brushed my hair? Bathed me?”
“One of my female servants.”
Phew. If he’s telling the truth.
“Where did you get your fancy suit?” He looks as if he stepped out of an Armani catalog, nothing like the other residents I’ve seen.
“I have the means to conduct commerce with some of the other Reflections. My favorite is yours, the Third. So much luxury and frivolity there. I send my personal assistant, and she brings me back whatever I request. If you like, I can have some peanut butter M&M’s sent to your room. I know they are your favorite.”
How did he—? “No, thank you.” Don’t fall into his traps. Move on. “Haman promised Isabeau he would give her my mom’s . . .” Gah, how do I say this? “He promised something of my mom’s.” Is hers one of the lit windows? Is she looking down on me now?
He frowns. “Haman said what he had to in order to get past the Troll.”
“He seemed serious. Made some kind of weird, hand-kissing vow.” When Jasyn shows no sign of concern, I add, “I don’t want that night crawler anywhere near her.”
Waving me off, he says, “Do not worry about Haman. I have made it explicitly clear to all my servants no harm is to come to you or my daughter.”
I stop, cup my hands on my hips. “Well, harm did come. Haman and Ky killed Joshua, and they almost killed me. If you’re my grandfather, as you claim, how could you let those things happen?”
Jasyn pivots, inclining his head. “Tell me more about Joshua. He was your Guardian, correct? You two were close?”
My arms relax, and I march past him. “It’s none of your business.” How does he know so much about my life? “You’re avoiding my question. If you’re my—?”
“My business is whatever I choose.” He falls in step beside me. “Were you in love with him?”
“How did Ky get me here? We were in the middle of the sea, about to be eaten by a Leviathan.”
“The girl works for me, of course. She brought you and Kyaphus here.”
That was no girl.
“The Leviathan brought you up the Stae River, which borders Gnol Island on one side and the Forest of Night on the other.” He extends a hand toward the shadowed trees. His explanation comes out like a speech. Formal. Professorish. No way I’m related to this guy.
We reach the courtyard again. A crow caws and lands on the fountain’s lip, then pecks at the ice and shudders before it takes flight once more. Jasyn sits on a marble bench, crosses his legs, and smiles wide.
I don’t sit next to him. His friendly act won’t work. “If you don’t want to kill me, what do you want?”
“You get straight to the point. I admire that.”
What is this, an interview? Enough patronization. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“In time I will. For now, let us enjoy getting to know one another.”
I want nothing to do with you. I need to see Mom. “I’m actually kind of tired. I’d like to go to my room.” So I can formulate a plan of escape.
Jasyn lifts one eyebrow. “Certainly.”
He escorts me back inside without any further attempts to get me chatting. We walk a different route than before. Beautiful paintings, some portraits, some scenery, adorn the white-walled halls. One rendering in particular stops me, turns my blood reptilian. It’s a teenage girl portrayed from empire waist up. She’s lovely, with curls like chocolate shavings heaped high and bonbon eyes to match. I’d know her anywhere.
It’s true. He wasn’t lying.
“Your mother the day she turned sixteen.” His voice falters a bar. “I was not present for this particular birthday.” Was he freeing the Void at the time? “It was a time of distress for our people.” The Revolution? “By the time I gained a handle on things, I was quite grieved to learn she had run away.” He casts a sidelong glance. “Now I know why.” He picks up his pace.
I linger by the painting. Run my fingertips along the custom-gilded frame. It’s all coming together like a dress rehearsal the day before a show opens. Mom was sixteen when she had me. Jasyn didn’t know Mom was pregnant because he was too busy playing tyrant.
When I catch up to him and enter my suite, Jasyn shuts the door. He doesn’t say good-bye. Click.
I jiggle the handle. Locked. So I am a prisoner.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound doesn’t come from the door.
Knock, knock, knock.
The second set is louder. Where? I do a 360. Wait for it. The knocks play again. I inch toward my bed. Again. I’m getting warmer. There they are. The wall behind the headboard. I rush over and press my ear against it, pounding back in response.
“Hello? Is someone there?” The voice is faint, muffled, but distinctly male.
“I’m here. Who are you?”
“It isn’t real.”
“What do you mean?” I press my ear harder. I can barely hear him, whoever he is.
He’s saying something.
I don’t understand. “What?”
“The mirror. Look in the mirror.” Cough. Hack. Wheeze.
The vanity across the room. I took care to avoid it when walking by. Like most opportunities to gaze upon my reflection, I simply turned it down.
I take hesitant steps across the room and place myself directly before the mirror.
A gasp escapes me. That girl isn’t me. She’s beautiful with frizzless hair and airbrushed skin. No birthmark mars her porcelain face, no red vines crawl along her cheek. But her eyes, a warm, hot-cocoa brown. Mom’s eyes. My eyes.
And Jasyn’s.
I stumble backward, my heel catching on the lip of a rug. I reach out and grab the bedpost before I land on my rear. I can’t look away. That can’t be me. I wish it was.
At the wall I yell, “Are you there? What’s happening? I don’t know how, but my reflection—”
“Look again.” He sounds tired, old. “Not with your eyes, though. See with your heart.”
How am I supposed to do that? I try anyway. I stand before the mirror again and gawk at the beauty reflected there.
See with your heart.
I close my eyes. No matter how much I want it to be true, the beautiful girl with her unblemished face isn’t me. I know how I look, and it doesn’t come close to her.
My eyelashes flutter open. I swallow, taking in the full measure of the transformed image. The birthmark is back. But that’s not what has me quivering, sweating, my jaw plummeting to my collarbone.
I whirl, taking in my new surroundings.
The lavish, kingly bed is gone, replaced by a toddler-sized cot with brown stains on the sheetless mattress. All the furniture has vanished, too, aside from a low stool in one corner. There’s no door leading off to a bathroom, just a bucket against a wall where the door used to be. I don’t even want to think about what the bucket is for. Sick.