Long enough to get some things done at least. Back to business, I sit cross-legged on a woven rug. My fingers run over the threads in lilac and azure, indigo and sky. Same colors the Nitegrans wear on the corners of their garments. Colors representing the Verity.
My perfect-shade-of-semisweet-chocolate hair falls into my eyes. The braids have loosed throughout the day, leaving me with what can only be described as travel hair. I remove the ties from my ends, comb my fingers through the new waves. My hair has always done exactly what I wanted. Photo ready at any and every moment. Never needing much product or teasing. My hair just is. The envy of other girls, but still never good enough for my mother.
“Why did you have to look like him?” she’d scream on one of her rampages through our trome at the time.“You know I wanted to name you Star? Then you were born and I took one look at you and realized you aren’t a star at all, but a black hole sucking the life out of everything.”
Five. I was five the first time she said that to me. A five-year-old black hole of a girl whose name matched the color of her mother’s heart. And, soon, my own.
Now the colors are returning. Scarlet lifts my cheeks with each blush. And yes, I’ve got stars in my eyes every time Tide looks my way, though I can always hope he’s got Oblivious Guy Syndrome and fails to notice. Maybe it’s time I add a new shade to the mix.
I tear off a fraying strip of fabric from the rug’s edge, then fashion a braid from my chin-length bangs, using the fabric as the third strand. When it’s secure I tuck it behind one ear. What would my mother say if she saw me now?
Correction—what will she say? Because I am going to find her. And she will give me answers about who or what I am, on top of answers about everything else we’ve failed to discover about the Void and the Verity. If it’s the last thing I do. Which it just may be.
Now that everything’s in its place, I snatch Once Upon a Reflection from Rhyen’s pack. I’ve been dying to get my hands on this book since I learned the story Rhyen read to us in the Fourth was actually about my mom. Then there’s the new info about the Rose, a.k.a. Fountain of Time. I need to read more. To see if there are other passages that can give me some clue as to who she is and was—
The open tome slides forward over my calves and the spine hits the floor. I already know who she is, don’t I? Why do I need some storybook to tell me? Do I really believe I’ll find something hopeful among children’s tales?
Yes and no.
I mean, for the love of lace, this very tent reeks of her bloodstained fingertips. We were offered the humble accommodation by one of the Nitegran men. He lost his wife today. His pregnant wife. With twins. The man couldn’t bring himself to sleep here without her. I reluctantly accepted his kindness, though the pain covering his face cut me deep.
My witch of a mother did this. How much hate must consume her soul?
A flipping truckload, that’s how much.
My own soul softens. That’s the thing, isn’t it? She hates because she was hated. She tortures because she is tortured. She must really believe if she’d given Tiernan a son, he wouldn’t have left her. But El’s mom said it was finding out what my mother is capable of that scared my father away. Isabeau probably doesn’t want to admit as much to herself, though. I sure wouldn’t. Much easier to believe a son would’ve solved all her problems than to accept she was merely one of Tiernan’s playthings.
I feel sorry for her and I don’t, all in the same emotion. Do I have any chance of breaking through her wall? I’m either the most likely person to reach her or the last person in the Reflections she’ll listen to.
Guess I’ll find out which one I am soon enough.
Khloe stirs, rolling onto her stomach and cocooning herself in the wool blanket against the far side of the tent.
Tide sneezes just outside.
I stare down at the tilted open book. To read or not to read. Does it make a difference?
“You girls okay?” His head looks like it’s floating apart from his body. Does he ever stop hovering?
“We’re fine.” My eyes widen. Get the point already.
“I’ll guard my girls with my life. Don’t forget it.” Then he vanishes once more.
I give him five minutes before he pops his head back in. The guy is like a puppy.
A cute puppy.
So what if I flushed when he said “my girls”? I won’t admit I wish he’d left the s off.
My girl. His girl. Tide’s girl. Mmm.
Yuck. Eye roll. Gag me. We’re not happening. Do I even want us to happen? Tide is so unkempt and laid back. Definitely much too careless for my taste. He laughs way too much and his hair needs a trim. He’s . . . he’s . . . perfect.
Sigh. Just admit you’re falling for him and get over yourself.
No and way.
I draw the book into my lap once more, thumb through the thick pages. I’m not a reader. I mean, I can read, but mostly I prefer to stay away from things that make me look too smart. People take advantage of that sort of thing, you know? Besides, I’m no Scrib, and too many little words on one page make my eyes cross. I’d much rather watch a play or listen to a story. Let someone else do the work while I sit back and enjoy.
Except for tonight. Tonight, just this once, under cover of this tent, I will let my inner nerd come out.
I start with The Lament of the Fairy Queen. Or The Fairy Queen’s Lament. Both titles are listed on the page, each in different handwriting. Apparently someone has gone through after the original author and scribbled a bunch of notes. Isn’t that a mortal book sin or something? The story is penned in black ink, but the notes are made in bright blue. What a mess. The notes are so detailed, the story almost gets lost. I flip through the other chapters. The blue scribbles are everywhere. How did Ky even read this to us with so much scrawl in the margins and between the lines?
I flip another page, then another. Every few stories, the handwriting and ink color change slightly. Different authors with different pens, but none as vibrant as the blue ink continuing to scrawl the pages until the end. There waits a . . . what? A poem? A riddle? A letter? A bit of all three, it seems, and penned entirely in the same hand and ink as the notes throughout.
Heartsong. Author deceased.
Author deceased? Then how in the Fifth did this story get written?
Oh . . .
This is a death note. I shouldn’t read this. But whoever wrote it wanted it read. Otherwise they wouldn’t have put it in this book in the first place.
Dear reader . . .
Tide clears his throat outside.
I stare at the tent opening. Cue the watchdog . . .
Three, two, one. When he doesn’t appear, I release the breath I was holding and continue my read.
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