Unraveling

by Sara Ella

  Dear brave girl,

  Makai has taken me far from this Reflection. I will not divulge where and risk this letter falling into the wrong hands. All I can say is I am out of harm’s way. I will send word again when I am certain it is safe. Do not forget you are now queen and all the position denotes. You are the woman I always anticipated you would become. I believe in you continuously and support you no matter the choices you make, but be chary in whom you place your confidence. I am leaving this with Regina, as I would trust her with my life. Keep that in mind going forward.

  All my love,

  Mom

  I refold the note along its premade creases and slip it between the pages of Mom’s sketchbook-slash-journal—the one I’ve held on to like a security blanket since Ky returned it to me in the Forest of Night. Mom, at least, has begun to see me in a new light since I took on the Verity. She treats me not as the girl I’ve always been but as the woman I’m trying to be.

  Most everyone else, however . . .

  Sigh.

  Why are people tiptoeing around me, avoiding me even? Guardians look the other way in the halls, and maids turn their backs and whisper as I walk by. I could almost mistake their reactions as reverence for their new queen. But naïveté is no longer my middle name.

  Because there’s no denying the emotion etched on everyone’s face.

  Fear is tangible. I sense it seeping through the walls, hanging heavy like the notes in Chopin’s “Funeral March in C Minor.” This week has been a reboot of Freaky Friday in which my high school and the Second Reflection have switched places. Except this time it’s not my mirrormark that’s causing the chatter.

  I just wish I knew what was.

  As the questions scroll by like summer clouds, the Second’s highest point seems to sharpen in the distance. Stormy’s suite faces south, overlooking the Forest of White and what’s beyond. I think of the tapestry map in the throne room. Of all the places in this Reflection, or even the next, Pireem Mountain is one I’ve yet to visit.

  “I still want to take you there, you know. To Pireem Mountain.”

  My ears perk and I sit up straight. Such a casual comment and the first I’ve heard his voice since coronation night. What would happen if I . . . ?

  Why not? Doesn’t hurt to try.

  “You’d actually have to be here to do that.” The out-loud retort sends a tiny thrill through my center.

  “You know why I left. I had to bring back Khloe.”

  My breath looses, relief canceling my reservations. “I know,” I say. If I can talk to him, really talk to him, maybe it is real.

  And if it’s real, maybe I can find out where he is.

  I rest my elbow on my knee, smush my cheek into my knuckles. “But you could’ve said good-bye, or even taken me with you. I could’ve helped you with the Void.” Pause. “Ky . . .” Swallow. “I’m looking for answers.”

  “I know, Em. Me too.”

  “Ky . . . where are you?”

  “Who are you talking to?”

  I flinch and fall off the window bench at Stormy’s sudden appearance. Oh, for Verity’s sake. Scrambling to my feet—man, my knee stings—I push my overgrown bangs from my eyes. “I didn’t know you were awake,” I say—croak.

  Her glazed eyes don’t focus on me, or anything for that matter. The crimson tank of her Guardian uniform is rumpled, and her bra strap hangs off her right shoulder. “I don’t get much sleep these days.” She scratches the back of her matted bedhead.

  Right. When I thought Mom died, insomnia was my middle name.

  “So, who were you talking to?” She snatches a now-stale biscuit off the coffee table, turns it over in her dainty hand.

  Say something. “Uh . . . myself?” Nice one, genius.

  “Hmm.” She doesn’t comment on my unconvincing response. Instead she zombie-walks across the suite’s common area, enters the bathroom, and shuts the door. The sound of rushing water filling the tub follows moments later.

  I cross haphazardly to the cushy love seat in the common area and sink onto it. The antique coffee table sits before me. I open Mom’s book, laying it across my thighs. I’ve taken to studying it each day, learning what I can from her experiences with this Reflection. There’s the loose sheet of parchment with Queen Ember’s “Mirror Theory” as well. It’s been unfolded and refolded so often it’s beginning to yellow and wear along the creases. I should copy it onto a fresh page before it falls apart.

  After a few minutes the rush of water ceases, and steam begins to seep beneath the door. I moved into Stormy’s suite the day after Kuna died. Was that only last week? She insisted she was fine, and at first she seemed so. But I wasn’t buying it. I know all too well the façade one tries to put on after such a loss. No way was I leaving her alone.

  “It wasn’t your fault, Em.”

  I give a physical shrug against Ky’s internal comment. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Kuna’s death. It wasn’t your fault.”

  Except maybe it was.

  I close my eyes and curl my fingers around the edges of Mom’s book, feel the worn leather slide against my fingertips. This was everything to me a couple months ago, held every answer I needed to become who I was meant to be. Now I long for more. With Stormy up and about, perhaps it’s safe to venture back to the library and continue my search. Or perhaps I’ll grab another volume of The Reflection Chronicles from Joshua’s study.

  Huff. This presents another problem. Because then I have to come out of hiding too. Which means risking an encounter with Joshua.

  Since the run-in with Gage I’ve been avoiding him. We can’t talk about the Kiss of Infinity I obviously didn’t give him, but how can we evade it? And what’s worse is I think he wants to discuss it, as if somehow talking will fix everything. He’s ever the optimist, always believing he can find a solution to every problem.

  But that’s not reality. Sometimes there is no solution. Sometimes there’s simply an end.

  A single sob sounds from the bathroom and I rise. Wince at the pressure in my knee. Hold my breath. Stormy has hardly spoken since Kuna’s death. She’s like a ghost haunting this Reflection. Her guest appearance a few moments ago is the most I’ve seen her all week.

  Another sob. Then another. I move to the bathroom door and place my palm there. Wait a second.

  And then she’s bawling.

  Dread pinpricks my sternum. Kuna’s Reminiscence is tonight—a Second Reflection tradition much like the memorial services held in the Third. This is why Stormy’s mobile. Tonight she says good-bye. We all do.

  My most recent meal tumbles in my gut, banging around like a sneaker in the dryer. Good-bye. Such a simplistic, trivial detail, but oh so necessary. Closure finalizes things, allows those left behind to move on.

  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.

  When a human shadow blocks what little sun remains, a shudder jolts my body from the curve of my neck to the spaces between my toes.

  “Sorry I’m late.” Joshua’s words lack oxygen, as if he sprinted a mile to get here. “I lost track of the time.”

  “It’s fine.” When I look up I’m careful not to meet his gaze.

  Joshua exhales, his breath vaporous. From his coat pocket he withdraws wool gloves, tugs them onto his hands. He touches the hilt of the sword at his hip, as if checking to make sure it’s there. “Can we talk about this?” His hushed question is a hot coal on my blaze of irritation.

  I abandon the bench. “You think now’s the best time?”

  He sighs. Runs a hand over his face. “Stop avoiding me. We can’t ignore this forever.” His hands find my waist. He draws me in.

  I stiffen and my stomach bungies to my feet. My gaze finds his face, but I still can’t look him in the eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” I bite the inside of my cheek. Why do I feel guilty? A Kiss of Infinity isn’t something I can choose to give. I shouldn’t feel bad.

  But I do.

  Joshua’s expressions pass through a wheel of emotions. First his brow furrows. Confused? Then he shakes his head. At last his jaw tightens, each individual muscle beneath his skin hardening into a countenance I’m all too familiar with.

  “Very well.” He releases his hold on my waist, then turns on his heel and traipses to the courtyard’s other end, toward Stormy. He climbs onto the half wall at the edge of the hill. When he speaks I don’
t register the words but stare without seeing in his general direction. After his speech fades, he hops down, wraps an arm around Stormy, and leads her through an archway overrun with dead ivy.

  The crowd moves as a unit, a massive game of follow the leader, and I trail behind. Preacher marches toward me, Scrooge-like as ever, and forms the caboose of our train. I’m the slowest of the bunch with my gimpy knee, but I don’t mind the separation for now. Gives me time to think. To breathe. To absorb.

  We stroll down the stone steps embedded in the hillside, through the forest, and toward the nearest Threshold. It was dubbed Midnight Lake when the Void shrouded this area. But like the Forest of White, it received a new name—Dawn Lake. The stark-silent atmosphere is a welcome escape. I can almost hear the snowcapped trees gasp for breath, feel the gravel path soak what little warmth I have through my soles.

  Kuna’s sun-ray grin enters my mind, a distraction from the chill. Why him, the sweetest, most jovial person I’ve ever met?

  I’m reminded of Mom’s words from the past. “Some things are beyond our understanding,” she’d say when something bad would happen. There were times as I got older when I thought it was an adult cop-out to say such a thing. I used to think grown-ups knew everything. Now I see how far that is from reality.

  Kuna’s body was buried the day following the coronation. It was an informal affair. Just a few Guardians with shovels in a small graveyard located west of the stables.

  “It’s how things are done here, darlin’,” Reggie said this morning over hot cocoa the same color as her skin. We sat beside the kitchen hearth as she soothed my nerves about Mom’s absence. “The people here don’t find it necessary to watch their departed rejoin the earth. Kuna’s soul sleeps until it awakens in the First. His body is no longer connected. The First is the only place where a soul can survive apart from a physical vessel.”