Kelsea left Pen behind in the antechamber without a word, drawing the curtains closed behind her. Andalie had made her a mug of tea, but Kelsea ignored it. Tea would only keep her awake. She brushed her hair and rearranged her desk, feeling restless and exhausted but not at all sleepy. What she really wanted to do was return to her library, to the continuing puzzle of Lily Mayhew. Who was she? Kelsea had gone through more than ten of Carlin’s history books now, looking for any reference to either Lily or Greg Mayhew, but there was nothing, not even in the books published closest to the Crossing. Whoever the Mayhews were, they seemed to have faded into obscurity, but still the riddle of Lily seemed infinitely solvable compared to the problem on the eastern border. Kelsea was certain that if she could only find the right book, the answer would present itself and Lily would become clear. But no solutions were forthcoming for the problem of the Mort.
She couldn’t go back to the library now. Pen needed his sleep. Kelsea had gone to bed early for the last three nights, but Pen still looked very ragged. She had begun to wonder whether he ever slept, or whether he simply sat there on his pallet, sword across his knees, as the night turned into morning. There was no reason for him to be so vigilant; Mace now had well over thirty Queen’s Guards under his command, and the Keep itself was more secure than ever. But still, the image of Pen sitting there, motionless, staring into the darkness, was strangely persuasive. Kelsea didn’t know how to make him sleep, when she barely slept herself.
After a moment’s thought, she tiptoed toward the mirror. She had deliberately avoided looking for the past week, and although she ascribed this to Carlin’s strictures about vanity, the real reason was much simpler: she was terrified.
Except for a few moments of rogue longing, Kelsea had more or less resigned herself to the fact that she would spend her life with a round, friendly farm girl’s face, good-natured but unremarkable. She had often wished that she were beautiful, but it simply wasn’t in the cards, and she had come to terms with her appearance as best she could.
Now she felt a deep ripple of fear as she studied her face in the mirror, remembering something Carlin had once said: “Corruption begins with a single moment of weakness.” Kelsea couldn’t remember what they had been talking about, but she seemed to remember Carlin looking at Barty, judgment in her gaze. Now, staring at herself in the mirror, Kelsea knew that Carlin was right. Corruption didn’t happen all at once; it was a gradual, insidious process. Kelsea neither felt nor saw anything occurring, but change had crept up on her back.
Her nose was transforming, that was the first thing. It had always sat in the middle of her face like a squashed mushroom, too big for its surroundings. But now, to Kelsea’s searching eyes, her nose had lengthened, become tapered, so that it emerged quite naturally and gracefully from the ridge between her eyes. The rounded, slightly piggish upturn had softened at the tip. Her eyes were still a bright cat’s green, the shape of almonds. But the pockets of flesh around them had been steadily eroding, and now the eyes themselves seemed larger, dominating Kelsea’s face in a way they never had before. Perhaps the most noticeable change was Kelsea’s mouth, which had always been full-lipped and flat, too wide for her face. Now it too had shrunk, the top lip thinning slightly so that the bottom looked fuller, a deep healthy pink. Her cheeks had dropped weight as well, so that her face was oval rather than round. Everything seemed to fit better than it had before.
She wasn’t beautiful, Kelsea thought, not by any stretch. But she was no longer plain either. She looked like a woman someone might actually remember.
At what cost?
Kelsea shrank from the question. She was no longer afraid that she might be sick, for she had plenty of energy, and the image before her was the very picture of health. But beneath the initial pleasure she felt, looking at this new woman, there was a sense of great falsity. Here was beauty blooming from nowhere, beauty that reflected no change inside.
“I’m still me,” Kelsea whispered. That was the important thing, wasn’t it? She was still fundamentally herself. And yet … several times lately, she had caught Mace giving her hard looks, as though trying to analyze her face. The rest of the Guard, well, who knew what they talked about once they retreated to their quarters at night? If things continued in this vein, they might well think her a sorceress, just like the Red Queen. They were still worried about the trance she’d had, that night in the library; whenever Kelsea stumbled these days, there seemed to be several guards at her arm to hold her up. She closed her eyes and saw, again, the pretty pre-Crossing woman with the sad eyes, the deep lines around her mouth. The bruises.
Who are you, Lily?
No one knew. Lily had vanished into the past with the rest of humanity. But Kelsea couldn’t be satisfied with that. Her sapphires operated outside of her control, their actions inconsistent and maddening. But they had never shown her anything she didn’t need to see.
What makes you think it’s the sapphires? They’ve been dead for weeks.
Kelsea blinked at that. True, the sapphires had done almost nothing since the Argive. But Kelsea was not like Andalie; she had no magic of her own. All of her power, everything extraordinary that she had ever done, was bedrocked on these two pieces of blue stone, both of which could fit comfortably in her pocket. Kelsea risked another look in the mirror, and almost flinched at the calmly attractive woman she saw there.
How can the jewels be dead? They’re transforming your face!
“God,” Kelsea whispered, shuddering. She whirled away from the mirror, almost as if preparing to flee, and stopped short.
A man stood in front of the fireplace, a tall black silhouette against the flames.
Kelsea opened her mouth to shout for Pen, then held back, drawing a long, shaky breath. The Fetch, of course; it was well known that no doors kept him out. She tiptoed a few steps closer, and then, as the firelight crossed his profile, she started. The man before her was not the Fetch, but all the same, she found herself physically unable to scream, or to make any sound at all.
He was beautiful. There was no other word. He reminded her of the drawings of Eros in Carlin’s books of mythology. He was tall and thin, not dissimilar to the Fetch in build, but that was where the similarity ended. This man had a sensualist’s face, slightly hollowed cheekbones tapering to a full-lipped mouth. His eyes were deep-set but somehow wide, their color indeterminate; by a trick of the firelight, the eyes seemed to gleam a deep red for a moment, before fading.
Tear heir.
Kelsea shook her head to clear it. He hadn’t spoken out loud, she was sure. But still, his voice echoed inside her head, a low hum with a clear Tear accent. Her pulse sped up and her breath shortened, as though both reactions had been set to a metronome. Her palms, dry as a bone moments before, had begun to sweat.
She opened her mouth to speak, and he put a finger to his lips.
We meet in the quiet, Tear heir.
Kelsea blinked. Behind the curtain drawn over the doorway, she could still hear Pen moving around, getting ready for bed. He hadn’t heard a thing.
Nothing to say?
She peeked down at her sapphires, but they lay dark and quiescent against the black silk of her dress, silk that now hung loosely on Kelsea’s frame. Her mind tilted dizzily, and she felt intoxicated, as though she should slap herself awake. She met the man’s eyes and a thought arrowed out of her, as cleanly as breathing.
Who are you?
A friend.
Kelsea thought not. Andalie’s warnings recurred to her, but she didn’t need Andalie to know that this man didn’t come in friendship. His gaze seemed to pin her where she stood, and she had the sense that all of his attention was focused on her, that nothing was so important to him as Kelsea Glynn at this moment. Handsome as sin, Andalie had warned, but she had failed to do him justice. Kelsea had never had any man seem utterly absorbed in her before, and it was a seductive feeling.