Neither one of us will ever forgive you.
I drew a breath and climbed out of bed. The wrinkled blue silk swished across my skin as I strode to the wardrobe, reminding me that Shade was right. Ignifex must be afraid of the dark, because he had left me untouched all night. As I changed into a simple white blouse and gray skirt—much more comfortable and modest—I remembered Shade’s blue eyes and the lights over the Heart of Water.
And the kiss.
I hid my face in the lacy folds of a white tea dress and groaned. How could I have done that? Now that it was morning—now that I wasn’t surrounded by the beautiful, impossible lights and staring into those impossible, beautiful blue eyes—kissing him seemed like the most selfish, wanton, stupid thing in the world.
I didn’t care about being faithful to my husband, not when he was a demon who had seized me by force. But even after so little time, I cared very much about what Shade thought of me. And what could he think of me, when I had kissed him so shamelessly? As if I had the right to take from him whatever I pleased, for no reason but my own pleasure.
He had kissed me back—it had felt as if there were only one breath shared between us—but he had shown no sign of desire after. Perhaps kissing me, as well as being kissed, was necessary for him to speak.
I could bear that. I was foolish enough to wish that he would kiss me again, that he would take me in his arms and make feel like I was that fearless, guiltless girl just one more time. I wasn’t foolish enough to imagine myself in love with him.
I straightened up, letting go of the crumpled dress, and closed the wardrobe door. Whatever he had thought of the kiss, Shade wanted to help me. I had an ally in this nightmare house—and thanks to him, I knew how to beat my nightmare husband. Ignifex might be able to watch me during the day, but he could hardly object to my using the key he had given me. I would explore the house by day and crack its riddles when he was confined to his room at night.
First, though, I needed breakfast. Cautiously, I opened the door of my room and peered out. I saw the same hallway as last night: plain white walls with cherrywood wainscot, a parquet floor of interlocking stars and lozenges, narrow windows curtained only with white lace. And running down both sides, doors of every shape and color. The air was still and cool, not rippled by that perilous, half-heard laughter from the day before.
Shade was nowhere to be seen. Neither were any lurking shadows that might conceal demons.
I slipped out quietly, hoping to find my way back to the dining room. If dinner magically appeared on that table, breakfast might as well, and it had been just down the hallway from my room, four doors—or was it three?
The third door was locked and my key would not open it. The fourth as well. When I could not open the fifth door either, I kicked it in frustration and yelled, “Shade!”
The air shivered—or did I imagine it? I spun around, but no shadows moved in the corridor.
I was alone.
Suddenly the hallway felt like a yawning cavern. How did I know, I wondered wildly, if I would ever see either of them again? Ignifex was not human and Shade was his slave. Perhaps it suited his fancy to dine with me once and then abandon me to starve in the endless, twisting rooms of his house. Perhaps I would find food but never see him again until years had worn away my strength and left me weak and wrinkled; then he would come to laugh, and I would never defeat him but only curse him with a toothless mouth and die.
With a great effort, I drew a slow breath. Then I slammed my fists into the door, shaking with rage.
You little fool, I told myself. You are Nyx Triskelion. Avenger of your mother. Hope of the Resurgandi. The only chance your sister will ever have to see the true sky. You cannot give up while there is breath in your body.
If Astraia were here, she would laugh and make a game out of finding her way around the house. If she were abandoned in the house for years, she would pry a wrought-iron bed slat out of her bed and hone it down into a knife. When her hair was turned to gray yarn and her skin to crepe and Ignifex came to mock her, she would stab him and cackle as the blood gurgled out of his chest.
My sister lacked all kinds of sense, but not resolution. She would certainly not give up after trying three doors.
I went on. Ten doors were locked; five opened to my key but didn’t lead anywhere useful. Then I opened a door of dull brown wood, and a breath of warm, fragrant air struck me. I stood on the threshold of a kitchen with red poppies painted around the rim of its walls, and wide windows whose lacy white curtains glowed with morning light. It looked as if the cooks had just vanished, for oatmeal bubbled on the stove next to a pan of sizzling sausages, mushrooms, and capers, while on the table a fresh-baked loaf of bread sat fragrant next to a little dish of olives and a pile of pastries.
I slipped inside, my mouth watering. In moments I was devouring the food—and perhaps it was the hunger, perhaps my fear, but it was the best breakfast I had ever tasted. Certainly the best I’d had in years, for our current cook served up sausages burnt and mushrooms nearly raw. But there could be no complaining, for Aunt Telomache had hired her, so each morning I would chew through the mess in silence while Astraia smiled and thanked the cook and bravely chattered how she loved the sausages so well-done and weren’t the mushrooms wonderfully tender and—
Abruptly, the food was a lump in my stomach; the olives remaining on my plate looked revolting. I swallowed, trying not to imagine Astraia at the breakfast table right now. I had to stop thinking of her. What was the use in remembering her smile, the clink of breakfast dishes, the way she mashed her sausages—I pulled back the curtain, desperate for a distraction.
Pure sky stared back at me. No clouds, no sun, no land or horizon. No anything but warm, blank parchment like the first page of an empty book.
No escape. Not ever. Because the Rhyme wasn’t true. There wasn’t any way to kill the Gentle Lord and escape; all I could do was collapse his house about him. If the gods smiled on me, if they answered the prayers that had been screamed to them for nine hundred years, I would free Arcadia. But I would be locked inside this house, not even able to run, with the parchment sky to smother me and my monstrous husband and his demons to torment me.
I shoved a fist against my mouth and drew a slow breath. I had always known my fate. I had always, always known. It was stupid and useless to be shocked now.
I would never see my sister again. I would never escape my fate. I had a mission to carry out regardless, and it was time for me to start.
I looked back one last time before I left, and that was when I noticed the door next to the stove. It was barely as high as my hip; when I bent down to peer inside it, I saw a low stone tunnel. It curved away to the right, so I could not see where it ended, but diffuse light glowed from the other side.
A breeze blew out the little doorway, caressing my face. I inhaled the warm scent of summer, dust and grass and flowers: the smell of free, open spaces.
It could be a trap, but if this house wanted to kill me, I was trapped already. I got down on my hands and knees and crawled into the tunnel. Once I was inside, I still knew I might be going to my death, but I couldn’t feel worried anymore; and as soon as I rounded the curve, I emerged into a small round room and was able to stand up.
Could it be called a room? There wasn’t even a ceiling; it was more like the bottom of a very large, dry well. The stone wall that curved around me went up, and up, and up until it ended in a perfect circle of cream-colored sky. Though the light in the kitchen had looked like morning, here the sun glinted overhead, pouring warmth onto my shoulders.
There were no furnishings and no decorations—except the wall on the opposite side had a small alcove, and in the alcove was a bronze statue of a bird, green with age. I thought it might be a sparrow, but it was so corroded that I couldn’t tell for sure.
I wondered if it might be the statue of a Lar.
In this room—like the first hallway—the air smelled of summer. But there was no half-heard lau
ghter on the air, no sense that space was subtly wrong, nor that invisible eyes were watching. There was only the warm, peaceful stillness that exists between one breath of summer breeze and the next. A trickle of water ran down the wall on my left and pooled before the alcove; I drew a breath, and my lungs filled with the mineral scent of water over warm rock.
Without thinking, I sat down and leaned back against the wall. It was not smooth; the stones formed hard, uneven ripples behind my back—yet the tension ran out of my body. I stared at the bronze sparrow, and I did not entirely fall asleep, but I almost dreamt: my mind was full of summer breezes, the warm, wet smell of earth after summer rain, the delight of running barefoot through damp grass and finding the hidden tangle of strawberries.
At last I sat up again. Though I had been slumped against hard stone, I did not feel stiff or sore anywhere, but rested as if I had slept for a week.
I looked again at the sparrow. This room was nothing like any household shrine I had ever seen—nor had I ever seen a household god without a human face—but as I stared at the little corroded form, I felt the same deeper-than-bone recognition as when a tone of voice, a shift of wind, or the sunlight on a ball of yarn calls to mind a forgotten dream. I could put no name to the sparrow, yet I was sure that it was a Lar and this room was holy.
I remembered kneeling under my veil, speaking my wedding vows to a statue. It had been just yesterday, but already I felt as though a hundred years had passed. The words of the vow, though, were still clear in my mind. If this was a Lar, the god of Ignifex’s house and hearth, then it was now mine as well.
Shade lived within his house but wanted to destroy him. Would the Lar help me in my quest as well?
At any rate, it had shown me kindness, and I could not refuse to honor a god that had blessed me.
I slipped back out to the kitchen and rummaged through the shelves. I had no idea where to find incense, and anyway, for this Lar it felt wrong. Instead I found another loaf of fresh bread, its golden-brown crust still shiny and crisp; I tore off two pieces, stuffed them into my pockets, and crawled back to the secret room. There I shredded the bread into crumbs and scattered them on the ground before the sparrow.
Every Lar has its own traditional prayers. I had no idea what this one’s might be, but ceremony seemed as wrong for it as incense. I simply bowed low and whispered, “Thank you.”
And then I left. Because I had a house to explore, a husband to defeat, and no time at all to waste.
I passed five more doors locked beyond the power of my key, then climbed a narrow stairway made of dark wood carved with roses that creaked with every step. At the top was a hallway with thick green carpet. Three of the doors in that hallway opened, but though I stood in each room with my eyes closed for over a minute, I could sense no trace of Hermetic power.
I should mark my path, I thought as I rattled my key in the lock of the last door before the hallway turned right.
A gust of sharp autumn air blew down the corridor, rippling my skirt and lifting my hair. I spun around, tasting wood smoke.
Behind me was a plain wooden wall on which hung a floor-length mirror; its bronze frame was molded into countless nymphs and satyrs frolicking among grapevines. My face stared back at me, wide-eyed and stiff.
The house changes, I thought numbly. It has a will and it changes at its own caprice. Maybe next the floor would shatter beneath me, or the ceiling would sink down to crush me—or maybe the house would simply box me into a doorless room to die screaming as the demons bubbled up from the cracks between the floorboards—
Or maybe the house was just another subject of Ignifex’s power, and right now he was laughing as he watched me panic. So I could not show fear. I drew one slow breath and then another. If Ignifex wanted me dead right now, I would not be breathing. Clearly he intended to play with me, and that meant I had a chance to win.
If I thought of the house as a maze, I had no hope. I still got lost in Father’s box-hedge maze; I’d never solve this labyrinth.
But if I considered it a riddle . . . The house was a Hermetic working. And I had trained to master those all my life.
There is an ancient Hermetic saying: “Water is born from the death of air, earth from the death of water, fire from the death of earth, air from the death of fire.” In their eternal dance, the elements overpower and arise from one another in this order, and every Hermetic working must follow it.
Maybe I had to unravel the house’s mysteries in this order too.
I had no materials for writing. But I traced the Hermetic sigil to evoke earth on the wall beside me again and again, until I could feel the invisible lines glimmering with possibility. Then I laid my hand against the phantom sigil and thought of earth: Thick, fragrant loam behind the house, where Astraia and I once dug with our bare hands to plant stolen rose cuttings. Thin gray dust on the summer wind, blown into my mouth to grit against my teeth. Father’s rock collection: malachite, rhodonite, and the slab of simple limestone inlaid with the skeleton of a curious fanged bird with claws on its wings.
To my left, I felt an answering glimmer.
I took the first corridor branching off to the left, even though it was narrow and carved from damp gray stone. There were only three doors, none of which would open, and then the corridor ended. I tried the sigil again.
Now the glimmer was behind me.
So I doubled back. And circled. I hunted all day for the Heart of Earth, but I could never get close to it. The corridors always twisted and betrayed me, until I wondered if it was my own imagination that betrayed me into thinking I had sensed something.
Finally I took a bearing and was able to follow it down three corridors and through five doors—until I came to a door of dark red wood, and my key stuck in the lock. With a short scream, I yanked the key out. The ruddy, polished grain of the wood felt like it was smirking at me.
Frustration choked me like a stone rammed down my throat. The bones in my hands buzzed with the need to strike something, but I didn’t know which I hated more: the smiling door or my own stupid self. With a groan, I leaned my head against the door.
Something clicked, deep within the wood, and the door swung open. I stumbled forward into a small, square room of dark stone. It was completely bare except for a small Hermetic lamp sitting just inside the door and a mirror hanging on the opposite wall.
In the center of the mirror was a keyhole.
In an instant I was trying my key, but it wouldn’t even go in all the way, let alone turn the lock. I traced a Hermetic diagram for weakening bonds, but that also did nothing—of course, for it was a paltry technique I had learnt on my own when avoiding the studies Father had set for me. He’d never been interested in teaching me anything besides the sigils and diagrams necessary for his strategy. Maybe he’d worried I would use the knowledge to run. More likely, he just hadn’t thought it important. I grimaced, ready to turn and go.
My face faded from the mirror.
A moment later, the reflection of the room around me was gone too. Instead—slightly blurred, as if somebody had breathed upon the glass, but still quite recognizable—I saw Astraia sitting at the table with Father and Aunt Telomache. A black ribbon was tied in a bow around the back of my customary chair—apparently that was the proper way to show you had sold your daughter to a demon—but Astraia was laughing.
Laughing.
As if she’d never cried, as if I’d never been cruel to her. As if Father and Aunt Telomache had never lied to give her false hope. As if I’d never existed.
It felt like somebody had scooped out my chest and packed the cavity with ice. I didn’t even realize I was moving until my hands gripped the mirror frame and my nose was inches from the glass.
Father nodded and reached across the table to put his hand over Astraia’s. Aunt Telomache smiled, her face creasing into something almost gentle. Astraia wriggled in her seat, the center of the world.
“You,” I choked out. “Why couldn’t it have been you?”
Then I fled the room.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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7
Finally I stopped in the ballroom that at night was the Heart of Water. My side ached from running and sweat prickled across my face. I sat down heavily and leaned back against the gold-painted wall to stare at the ceiling. Overhead, Apollo leered at Daphne, who fled from him in stylized terror; Persephone’s silent screams looked much more genuine as Hades dragged her down to the underworld. But at least she had a mother who did not rest until she’d saved her.
With a sigh, I pressed my hands against my face. There was a dull, throbbing pain behind my eyeballs; my feet and calves ached too. It occurred to me that I had not walked this much in a long time. Maybe Father should have made me practice marching through the hills as well as drawing Hermetic sigils.
Maybe I shouldn’t have spent so much time worrying about hiding my hatred from Astraia, when clearly it had troubled her so little.
No. No. I should be glad that I had failed to break my sister’s heart. Hadn’t I wished that I could take those words back and return the smile to Astraia’s face? I should be giving thanks to all the gods for receiving such a mercy.
But all I felt was desolation.
I was startled out of my thoughts by a sudden touch against my shoulder.
It was so gentle, for a moment to realize I thought it was a breath of air. Then I looked up and saw Shade hovering against the wall of Heart of Water, again no more than a shadow. The memory of his kisses last night—of me kissing him—rushed back, and I was on my feet in an instant.
“Time for dinner?” I said. I couldn’t think what to do with my hands: if I relaxed them, I looked like a limp doll, if I clenched them, I looked much too tense—
Shade caught one of my wrists and pulled me down the hallway, which solved that part of the problem.
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