“Let me see.”
I move aside, allowing Ky to glimpse the view. “We’re in the eastern wing, but this tower doesn’t open onto her floor. She isn’t far. We just need to move deeper into the main part of the wing.” Gripping my hand, he leads me down the stairwell. At once this feels familiar and yet far removed from the night he rescued me. So much has changed since then.
With reserved breath I trail him, our hastened footsteps echoing off the walls. At the stairwell’s end, a door blocks our path. Breathe in, breathe out. One thing at a time.
He presses his ear against the wood.
I hear nothing aside from my intensified pulse. No hint as to what waits on the other side.
Ky nods, touches a finger to his lips. Three. Two. One. He turns the knob, pulls.
An empty hall stretches before us, ends in a T at a balcony overlooking a magnificent throne room with arched windows and marble columns. The path splits right, then left, forming a rectangle all the way around and joining at the other end where a grand staircase fans to a shiny hardwood floor. A set of double doors waits adjacent to the staircase, probably leading outside. I look up, down. Two floors above and two below.
“This way.” Ky tugs me left. “Stay close. It’s late. Aside from the night-shift guards, everyone will be asleep.”
Doors and windows deck the balconies framing the throne room below. We pass door after door. I keep one hand on the weapon at my hip and an eye on the periphery the entire time. When Ky opens a door leading to a new set of serpentine stairs, we duck inside and climb to the next floor.
The moment we exit onto the new level, Ky shoves me into an alcove, presses me against the wall. He ducks his head, shielding me with his black-clad self. Our breaths become one. His thigh presses against my hip.
What is it with guys always smelling good no matter the circumstance? Why can’t he smell like garbage or sewer or leftover Chinese food? Why am I inhaling so deeply, attempting to memorize—?
Footsteps. Whistling. Click. Someone’s coming.
Five seconds, ten. I’m just tall enough to see over Ky’s shoulder. A beam of light bounces over the floor and balcony railing, getting smaller, closer.
I hold my breath. Will my pulse to quiet.
The guard walks right by.
One, one thousand, two, one thousand, three . . . A full minute passes before Ky’s rigid stance relaxes. He leans over me, propping his forearm against the wall over my head. “Listen, Elizabeth’s door is just around the corner, situated in another alcove like this one. She will have at least two guards at this hour, maybe three. I’ll lure them away, then you sneak in and transport her out. I’ll circle back in time for you to take me through too.”
Sounds like a decent plan. The only plan. But what if it doesn’t work? What if Ky gets left behind?
No. Think happy thoughts. Find Mom.
“Wait for my signal.” He leans away, cranes his neck, gaze focused beyond our shadowed refuge. “When I whistle, it means the door is clear.”
“And if you don’t whistle?”
He fixes mismatched eyes to mine. “Then find the nearest window and get out of here. Do not come back for me, understand?”
I nod, though my emotions stage a protest. I’ll scale that obstacle when I come to it.
“Don’t die.” Ky draws the knife at my hip and thrusts it into my palm. Then he’s gone.
Alone I wait, heart hammering, temples throbbing. The knife slips in my sweaty hand. I wipe my palm, clutch the hilt until I’m sure a blister will form. Feels like hours before I hear it. A distant, high-pitched whistle.
“This way,” someone calls.
I peer around the wall. Two guards jog across the balcony on the other side. I watch them turn a corner, delay until I hear nothing but the sound of my pulse in my ears.
I exit the alcove and creep against the wall. Five yards. Ten. When I reach the next alcove, I freeze at its edge. It isn’t vacant. Someone is breathing only a few feet away.
Double-crud, what now?
I back up a few feet, reach into my pack, withdraw my cracked phone. Good-bye, old girl, you’ve been good to me. Then I chuck it. Hard. It bounces off the railing, descends to the throne room floor.
Wait for it . . .
Smack!
If it wasn’t broken before, it sure as crowe is now.
The lone guard does just as I’d hoped. I shrink against the wall as he abandons his post and walks in the opposite direction, back turned toward me.
Here’s my chance. I jet into the alcove, open the door, and click it closed behind me.
“Eliyana?”
TWENTY-NINE
Could Be
Mom is a yard away, sitting at a small table in a replica of the room Jasyn duped me into seeing. Except no windows. No mirror. A four-poster bed at the center, a fireplace, Persian rugs, silver and silk.
Mom’s forehead pleats. Her chin tips up. Again, she appears older. Warier. The pigment of her cheeks is no longer dawn pink, but overcast gray. And . . . has she gained weight? I count a full minute before her expression turns silken. She sits, resumes her previous activity—drinking tea. Wearing an emerald-green mermaid-style gown, she’s drinking her regularly scheduled cup as if all is right with the Reflections.
A consternating chill wraps around me. I flip the lock. “Mom.”
What’s the matter? Why is she just sitting there?
She doesn’t look up, though her temple muscles tremor the way they always do when something irks her. “Go away, Father.”
My breath escapes in a whoosh. She thinks I’m Jasyn come to toy with her sanity. I can’t blame her. This might be harder than I anticipated.
“It’s really me. Eliyana.”
“Nice try. Next time you should have your assistant conduct her research more thoroughly. If you knew anything about my Eliyana, you’d know she doesn’t wear her hair off her face. You might as well advertise your farce right there.” Mom stares into her teacup, steam moistening her cheeks. Or are those tears?
I twirl a loose strand around my finger. It hadn’t even crossed my mind how different I might appear. And not just my ponytail, but my clothes, the way I’ve begun to carry myself lately. I go to her, kneel by her side. “Mom.” I circle my arms around her waist, savoring her warmth and forever-fabric-softener scent. Haman didn’t get to her. Jasyn hasn’t hurt her.
She peels my arms off one by one as if they’re leeches. Rising, Mom turns, lifts her rustling skirt, and moves toward the room’s opposite end. An unfinished painting of a black-and-white Second Reflection rests on an easel in one corner. She lifts a brush, dabs it in a puddle of gray on her palette. “Just go,” she says, her tone bitter.
“Mom, I—”
She twirls, her French-twisted hair loosening, cascading past her symmetrical shoulders. “Enough, Father! I have already agreed to your terms. What more do you want from me?”
The bottom-dwelling cockroach. Jasyn’s messed with her mind so much, she doesn’t even recognize her own daughter. Mom’s back turns to me again. How can I prove my authenticity?
I inspect the area, scouring for an idea. My Aéropostale sweatshirt, the one Mom took at the Pond, is folded on a nightstand. I slip my pack off, shrug out of my jacket, and don the fleece-lined hoodie. Zip. Fits like a glove.
Mom peeks over her shoulder. “What are you doing? Please, don’t touch that.”