I move away from the door and stand before the bay window. My face contorts. I cross my arms. “Couldn’t you have given me that?” I ask no one. “After all we went through, couldn’t you have at least said good-bye?” I shake my head, unable to finish my sentence past the emotion looming just below my throat.
Good-bye.
The beginning of the end.
Gage’s words are a broken record. I’ve been itching to head to the dungeons to question him, to see if he does in fact know where Ky might be. There’s more to what happened than Gage’s, or even Isabeau’s, revenge. He mentioned her, so she must be involved. If only I could get down there without anyone seeing me.
The last thing I need is another suspicious glance.
It has to happen soon. In fact, Gage may already be dead. With the Physic and Ever Callings out of commission, the castle Physic was forced to resort to natural remedies. Wade Song remained after the coronation to assist. Still, no telling how long Gage will last without a miracle. My knee was one thing, but the bullet and arrow that hit Gage sank deep. Wade said as much when he stopped by to check on me before heading home to Wichgreen Province.
My palm meets the foggy pane, and slick moisture cools my skin. When I draw back, a sweating handprint forms a window of its own. Fresh snow hasn’t fallen in weeks, but the weather is frigid enough that nothing has melted either. Down the hill, a frozen Threshold, nestled in the Forest of White, stares at me like a glass eye.
“I wish . . .” A hoarse rendition of the opening notes from “Into the Woods” dances from my tongue. I swallow and clear my throat. “I wish . . .”
My translucent reflection shimmers. Short, blond waves replace my longer, darker ones. The soft curves of my face harden, and one brown eye shades to green.
I gasp and draw back. I’ve been without my voice—my song—all week. Is it returning?
Once more I lean forward, so close to the glass my nose almost touches. Short breaths mist what is now merely my reflection. But just like with the copper basin in the stables, I know I saw something.
Someone.
A hasty glance over my shoulder informs me the bathroom is still occupied. It’s quiet. Stormy’s cries have ceased. Still, no way to tell how much longer she’ll be in there.
This is a bad idea, but the desire to see Ky again outweighs reason. I gaze at my reflection once more, place my hand on the glass. Was it my imagination? A glimpse into another Reflection? If I can see him, maybe I can figure out where he is.
But before I can utter a note, movement at the hill’s crest distracts my focus. It’s a man, familiar, with shoulder-length charcoal hair and—
My hand slips from the pane as my heart slides to the floor.
Even from here I can make out the ditch between Makai’s brows.
What’s he doing back?
He wouldn’t leave Mom wherever she is unless something is wrong.
I gather the skirt of my dress and half limp, half bolt for the door. Down the spiral staircase, through the hall to the balconies framing the throne room. Ouch, ouch, double ouch, but whatever. I’m one tier above, leg shaking, when Makai enters the massive double doors just beyond the grand staircase.
“Makai!” My call might as well be a whisper. He doesn’t look up, but even from a distance I notice his face is hard. This is another Makai, the man I met back in New York when my world turned on its end.
This is Makai, Commander of the Guardians.
Makai on a mission.
Makai without Mom.
NINE
What Has Been Hurt
Eliyana, please.” Makai combs his fingers through his shaggier-than-usual hair. “There is no need to panic.” His tone is hushed and it’s obvious he’s trying not to make a scene. He’s at least a foot taller than me so his head is bowed close to mine, and he speaks through the corner of his mouth.
I take a deep breath and puff it out, then exhale a burst of fog. This is Kuna’s Reminiscence. It should be about him. And Stormy. But I can’t help it. When it comes to Mom, to anyone I love really, that all-too-familiar terror kicks in.
“No need to panic, Makai?” Dad? I haven’t quite figured out what to call him. “You just told me the stress of the attack caused Mom to go into premature labor. She’s out there somewhere with my brand-new baby brother—my brother who is two months early—and you’re telling me there’s no need to panic? Isabeau is dead set on finding her. On taking the baby.”
He shakes his head. “Elizabeth is resilient, just like you. She and Evan—”
“Evan?” I’m so unnerved I forgot to ask his name. Weird. I went from only child to sister of three in less time than it takes to rehearse for a theater production.
A twitch of a smile perks Makai’s lips. “Yes. His name means ‘fighter.’ He’s a tough one. Came out wailing. A full set of lungs, that one.”
It feels wrong to do so here, while waiting to honor Kuna. But how can I not grin at Makai’s words?
I have a brother.
His name is Evan.
In all the chaos and tragedy, this small bit of something is . . . something. A lit window in a dark alley. A high C in the midst of a solemn composition.
We exchange a new sort of glance. One different from the distant Guardian-charge, or even the less distant uncle-niece looks we’ve given. This time we share a knowing. Bonding, I think they call it. Strange. Foreign.
I like it.
Makai wraps an arm around my shoulders and squeezes. “I assure you, I would not leave your mother or Evan unless I knew for certain they were protected. Isabeau will never find them. I returned to give you the news myself, and Elizabeth insisted I see what I can do to aid the Guardians. I intend to get to the bottom of last week’s attack, Your Majesty.” He winks at that, the natural dad in him coming to life.
“Now more than ever I am needed here. I will not rest until the Troll is either behind bars or extinguished altogether.” He squeezes my shoulder once more, then releases me and heads through the crowd toward a cluster of his men.
My gut roils at the thought of Mom and Evan alone. But if Makai says they’re safe, I have to trust they are.
I turn and meander through the courtyard’s throng. Preacher, my Guardian for the evening, lingers just a few feet away, eyeing my every blink. A quiver attached to his belt slaps his hip whenever he moves. He clutches his bow in his right hand, as if begging for an opportunity to present itself for a little target practice.
I’ve been trying to tell Joshua I don’t actually need a Guardian anymore. But the debate is pointless. I could be Wonder Woman and he’d still insist I have a chaperone wherever I go. Especially now, with the Verity stagnant and the Callings malfunctioning.
Ignoring Preacher, I rise on my toes, stretching beyond my kinder-ballet ability. An ocean of cool hues eddies around me. Azures and indigos. Violets and periwinkles. Not a black pinafore or charcoal tunic in sight. Just as a blue- or purple-dyed lock of hair—a tassel—represents loyalty to the Verity, so these colors revere the deceased at a Reminiscence. Even the Guardians, circling the crowd like NYPD officers in Times Square on New Year’s, have shed their standard uniforms and replaced them with navy jackets and slacks.
I skirt a family of three and sit on a marble bench. The same bench Jasyn Crowe occupied upon our first encounter. I lift the hood of my plum-colored parka. Shrug my shoulders to my ears and squint. The family seems to be in a bubble. The mother and father wear drawn expressions as they swing their toddler girl by her arms. She giggles and cries, “Higher! Again!” oblivious to the purpose of this evening’s outing, not understanding what has been hurt and lost and broken.