by Sara Ella
Em,
If you’ve found this letter, you are on the right path. The path toward me.
Tears of anger well. Found? He must’ve given this to Joshua. And he knew Joshua would hide it.
I’m sorry for leaving without a word. Never think it’s because I don’t care. I refuse to say good-bye to you. I won’t.
Oh, my heart.
You’re smart, so I’m sure you’ve figured out I’ve gone after my sister if no one’s told you. Khloe is with Countess Ambrose in the Fourth. Once I’ve acquired her, I’ll return to the Third. And it is there I will wait for you. Because I will always wait for you.
I have no words. No thoughts. Only tears and the hummingbird wings beat, beat, beating in my stomach. The lyrics to Mumford & Sons “I Will Wait” strum across my soul.
Seek the truth, Em. Don’t rely on others to pave your way. Only you can decide what path you’ll take, how much you’ll risk—sacrifice—to get there. Sometimes the road less traveled is the one that leads you home.
Yours,
Ky
“Look what I found.” Ebony’s sudden presence makes me jump.
I stuff the letter back into the jacket pocket and stand. “What?” My question lacks oxygen. My voice is fading fast. My right arm is throbbing worse than before. My chest feels tight and constricted.
Ebony either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She holds up a black Coach bag. “It was in one of the cabinets. David confiscated it when I was arrested. Lucky for us he stowed it for safekeeping.” She places one hand on her waist and pops her hip. “Ready?”
I nod and dump the things I found in Joshua’s desk, along with Dimitri’s journal, into her purse.
We stand before the window together. The lights below are sparse now, either because many have ventured into the forest to look for me or because they’ve come indoors. I slip my hand back inside the left jacket pocket. I don’t have to withdraw the knife to know what it is—whose it is.
Ky’s mirrorglass blade.
Time to return it to its rightful owner.
I inhale a shuddering breath and stare at my reflection. One palm on the cool pane, I allow myself to think of Ky. I smile when his face appears clear in my mind. My fingers tap out the rhythm to the song playing in my heart. But it’s not my Mirror melody playing. This time it’s the song I hear in my dreams. The one I played at the coronation. New lyrics form and I feel them lift my soul. Feel them guiding me home.
I never thought I’d find myself here,
Looking for someone like you.
I never knew it could ease my fear,
Watching for someone like you.
I never felt so sure, so secure,
Hoping for someone like you.
I never thought, never knew, never felt,
Never. Until I met someone like you.
When the song within ends, I open my eyes. My reflection shimmers, transforms. The image in the window transforms. A familiar street replaces the Second’s night sky. Parked cars line the curb. A dying streetlamp is a blinking ball of warmth beyond the sunroom window.
I peer through my Second Reflection side of the pane at my brownstone in Manhattan overlooking a sleepy Eighty-First Street. I didn’t realize how much I missed home. Until now.
A passerby on the sidewalk just below stops before the window—a man with cropped hair and a thick wool peacoat.
Could it be?
The stranger turns, faces the window. His coat collar is turned up, touching his car-door ears. Gaze fixed just above the window, he stares as if longing for something.
Or someone.
He lowers his head, two-tone eyes visible in the lamplight, and I force myself not to waver.
Can he see me?
“We’re going to get caught.” Ebony’s impatience spoils my focus. “You need to create a façade before they burst through the door.”
My jaw hits my chest. Is she insane?
She grabs my wrist. “Just because you never have, doesn’t mean you can’t.”
Ugh. She’s right. I pull away. Wait for instruction.
“Half your ability comes from confidence. Believing you can do it—believing the Verity can do it—and actually doing it go hand in hand.”
Okay, Tinker Bell. Sure.
She either doesn’t read the doubt in my expression or she just ignores it. “Imagine a wall. Picture it.”
I gape. How does she know so much about this?
“Just do it, El.”
Huff. Fine. I close my eyes.
The door shudders. “Who’s got the key?” Preacher bellows from the hall beyond. Wham, whack, bam! Knock, bang, slam!
“You are a Mirror,” she says, voice panicked. “Stop thinking of yourself as the picked-on girl from the Third and act like the person you are now. Today.”
Whoa. I open one eye. Who is this person? When did we enter the Twilight Zone?
“You have the power. You’ve always had it. You just didn’t know how to use it.”
I squeeze my eyes. The memory of the first time I mirror walked plays fresh in my mind. The thrill I felt. The love.
“Own it.” She shakes my shoulders now. “You have all the Callings. All. Of. Them. Now bring out your inner Amulet and hide us.”
My heart swells. I feel my melody rising, swirling about my Verity-infused soul. I’ve about lost my voice, but not my song.
My song was never about my voice. Because it was always about something more than me. The Verity sources the Callings. It is not by my own power but by the strength of the Verity I have any ability at all. And though the Verity may be dim, I still believe in its light. I have to.
Taking Ebony’s hand, I let my song go once more. It’s noiseless, at least to human ears, but oh so real.
A horde of Guardians explodes through the door, Preacher at their helm. He looks left, right, up, down. Scratches his head. Barks an order I can’t hear, as if he’s behind an invisible wall blocking out all sound—
He’s behind an invisible wall.
I did it.
Ebony and I exchange a glance and a nod. Then I turn toward the glass once more, moving through it as my inner orchestra plays on. It’s even more painful than last time, the walk like a vise pressing, clamping, squeezing the life out of me. But I don’t care. I let my body weight take over, pull Ebony with me, and fall through my reflection.
I’m coming, Ky. I’m coming.
TWENTY
Body Language
Oof! Hands and knees meet cold concrete. Scrape.
Rats! My foot catches on my long skirt, ripping the hem, tangling the loose fabric around my boot. Twist. For Verity’s sake!
I try to stand, but the desire is much too optimistic. I’m a jumble of legs and arms in this ridiculous Second Reflection getup. Joshua’s jacket is gargantuan, swallowing me, only adding to my incoordination. Too much fabric equals me on my rear, salted sidewalk grating my palms.
Ebony—surprise, surprise—stands on all twos, shoulders squared and head erect. No sign she was recently sucked through a window, then catapulted onto a wintry sidewalk.
Ugh. How am I related to this person? And why did she get the better end of everything?
When at last I disentangle my skirt hem, I glance around. It’s as if I never left. Same brick apartment building across the street. Same Manhattan aroma—smoggy, overcrowded city meets basil and roasted nuts. But where’d Ky go? He was just here. Or did I imagine him?
My heart thunders as I make it to my feet. My breaths pant and fog. I whip left, right. If he’s not really here, where do I look? I wouldn’t even know where to start—
“Helllloooo.” Ebony waves her hand in front of my face. “If you’re going to have a nervous breakdown, can we at least go inside?” She rubs her arms in a dramatic, Quinn-like fashion. Doesn’t bother to comment on my awesome Amulet show back there. “I’m freezing.”
I open my mouth to speak, but no sound emerges. It’s official. Voice is toast. Man, does my rig
ht arm smart.
I purse my lips and offer a quick nod, then I take the brownstone steps two at a time. Like most people, we have a spare key. But instead of hiding it under the mat—because, duh—we keep it somewhere inconspicuous. Obvious, but not. The door’s knocker is loose, and when I lift it the backing pulls away just enough to release a single silver key. It pings to the cement and I snatch it, thrust it in the lock, and turn the bolt.
When I open the door, Ebony shoves past me and makes a beeline for the first-floor restroom to the right of the foyer. But me? I take my time, lingering in the space between outside and in.
This is home.
I’m home.
I inhale, long and deep. The house smells different, forgotten and unattended, resting beneath a layer of dust. But somehow it’s the same too. A combination of me and Mom, the scents of oil paint, canvas, sheet music, and veggie stir-fry all present. Or maybe it’s my memory making it seem so. Either way it doesn’t matter.
Because I’m home.
The flush of the toilet alerts me Ebony’s about to emerge, so I book it up the stairs. I’m in total need of an introverted moment, and my extroverted half sis won’t allow for many. I turn the crystal doorknob and slip inside my room, then push the door closed with my rear.
Click. Sigh.
The space is just as I left it. Inside-out tees strewn across the hardwood floor. Space heater stretching into the room’s center. I almost trip on the cord as I cross to my bed. Once I’m there, the cushy mattress giving beneath my weight, I can’t help but lie down. Close my eyes. Breathe.
Why can’t I sleep through times like these? No worries. No responsibility. No Void or Verity or Ky or Joshua. No Callings or Thresholds or death or losing my voice or getting shot in the knee or feeling as if my arm will fall off. Just sleep. Rest. Nothing.
Nothing. At. All.
The stairs creak beyond the door and I cringe, my fingers clutching my rumpled sheets. I expect Ebony to interrupt my momentary relief, but her footsteps fade down the hallway. Probably headed to Mom’s room in search of clothing. Knowing Ebony, she’ll be all bright and fresh before I find a clean pair of jeans.
And that’s my cue.
Whining and rolling my neck, I peel myself off the bed. At my dresser I dig, open, shut, slam, rummage. Where are all my clothes? At least half are missing. I decide on a short-sleeve Mets tee and a pair of black skinny—but not too skinny—jeans. I slip out of Joshua’s jacket and the remainder of my layers. Ah. Much better. Who knew I missed modern clothing so much?
A plaid shirt hangs from a hook on the back of the door. I grab it and tie it around my waist. One hand on the knob, I pause. A small mirror rests on top of my dresser. I rarely used the mirror, and even then it was in small spurts. It’s upside down and half shoved beneath a stack of way-overdue homework. Did anyone at school even notice I was missing, or did they think I moved away?
I picture the jerk-wads from Upper West Prep. Nope. They definitely didn’t notice my absence. Not unless they ran out of people to bully. And then they’d be like, “Hey, what happened to the girl with that ugly thing on her face?”
I bite my lower lip and return to my dresser. If they only knew just how awesome this “ugly thing” on my face turned out to be.
Or rather, how awesome it was. Sure I created a façade, but the accomplishment is minuscule compared to all we’ve lost. All we’re still losing.
I pick up the mirror, turn it toward me. Hold it at arm’s length. Hmm. My hair is a disaster, all flyaways and cowlicks curling away from my temples. Seems unfitting with the mirrorglass crown resting there. My complexion is oily and pale. Purple half-moons droop beneath my tired eyes.
A knock at the door jolts my system. Fingers open. Mirror drops.
Crash!
Ebony enters. “Nice one.” Her tone remains sarcastic as ever.
The mirror is in shards at my feet, the plastic frame now vacant of reflection. It’s not as if it was an expensive gift, but it was a gift just the same. A gift from Mom.
I miss her.
“Are you ready?” Ebony asks.
Her purse hangs from one elbow, as is her custom. She’s dressed in some of Mom’s old clothes—chocolate leggings, a pine-green sweater dress, ankle boots. Not Ebony’s style but more so than if she’d borrowed my things. How does she manage to appear as if she walked straight off the runway? Her rich brown hair falls softly past her shoulders, a just-brushed shine gleaming atop her crown like a halo. Clear skin. Sparkling eyes. Perfection.
Except nobody is perfect. No matter how much they seem so on the outside.
Ebony surveys the mess that is my room. In the past this would’ve bothered me. Her scrutiny. Judgment. Now I don’t care. My room is me. Deal with it.
“You upheld your end, now it’s my turn,” Ebony continues. “We should probably move to the back or the roof. More space to practice. Amulet was only the beginning.”
Practice. Right.
Later, I mouth. I try to slide past her, but she blocks my way.
“Where are you running off to?”
I move left and she echoes the move.
“Are you really going to see your man looking like a hobo-girl from the back alleys of Chinatown?”
I stop dead. A blush creeps to my cheeks. Brows furrow.
She slips her hand into her purse, withdraws Ky’s letter. “Found it on the sidewalk. Must’ve fallen from your pocket when we landed.”
How does she still manage to embarrass me? I wish I had some semblance of a voice so I could set her straight.
First of all, it’s bad form to read someone else’s mail.
And second, Ky is not my man.
He’s not.
Ebony is beside me now, dropping her purse and the letter onto the bed and sweeping my hair on top of my head in one motion. “Now hold still.” Before I can argue she’s behind me, removing my crown and twisting and pulling, tucking hairs in here and loosening some there. She takes my shoulders, spins me toward her, and begins on my face. Removes things from her bag to pat and dab, curl and brush. Stepping back, she examines her work, sweeping her fingertips over my eyebrows and wiping beneath my eyelids.
“There.” She leans away, narrowing her eyes. “Now you look on purpose. You’re welcome.” One by one her things return to her bag, all except for her silver compact, my crown, and the letter. She hands the compact over, snaps her purse closed, and waltzes out the door.
Privacy. Wow. How very unlike her to let me face my reflection alone. I push up the lip of the compact with my thumb. Stare. My hair sits in a messy bun atop my head, slightly off center, but somehow perfectly in place. Strands frame my face and ears, but my bangs are long enough to be pulled back now. My lashes are darker, fuller, my lips pink but not unnatural looking. My face is clean but not covered, my mirrormark standing out in all its crimson vines and music notes.
I’ve not worried much about the mark these past months. Since Joshua can’t see it, it’s almost as if it vanished altogether. But now, a reunion with Ky on the horizon, I almost want to hide. To pull my hair down and slink behind the curtain of my bangs.
And then a memory surfaces, faint and fragile, but there just the same.
Ky sweeping my hair off my face.
Smiling.
“Cool tattoo,” he’d said.
At the time I thought he was a nut job, but it turned out he was right. My mark ended up being so much more than I’d ever dreamed possible. A unique composition framing my eyes, playing the strings of my heart.
I smile and close the compact. I’m ready.
Almost.
I swipe Ky’s letter off the bed. I gaze down at the crown, which looks small and insignificant atop my mountain of covers and sheets. Instead of donning it once more, I shove it in my sock drawer for safekeeping. No reason to wear it where I’m going.
Next I steal the mirrorglass blade from Joshua’s Guardian jacket, which lies crumpled like a discarded candy wrapper on the fl
oor. The letter gets folded again and again, then hidden in the compact, which I stuff in my pocket. But the knife, hmm . . . what to do? Whirl. Search. Think. Aha! Old sock to the rescue, it makes the perfect wrap. I don’t have a sheath or anything to make one with so I tuck the socked dagger in the back of my jeans. It’ll do for now.
In the kitchen Ebony is searching the cupboards, removing snacks and dropping them into her purse. I wish I’d thought to bring the pack Ky made me, but there wasn’t time. Oh well.
“Look what I found.” Ebony holds up a wad of cash. “You really ought to rethink your hiding spot. A cereal box, really? You might as well have hidden it in a cookie jar.”
I shrug and return to the foyer. Retrieve a couple jackets from the coatrack. Ebony is already opening the front door when I try to pass her a jacket.
Hair flipped over one shoulder, she makes a stopping motion with one hand. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather freeze than not match.”
Typical. I have to refrain from shaking my head. I drop one jacket on the floor and slip my arms through the other, my right arm shaking from the constant pain residing there now. It’s my jean jacket from middle school and fits a little snug. Wish I had my parka, but this is better than nothing.
When we’re out the door, I lock it and pocket the key. With a last glance at my home, my heart sinks. So much chaos ensued last fall, I didn’t get a proper good-bye. Now we head down the street, and it feels like the end of something. As we aim for the nearest subway entrance, I recall the lyrics to a Christina Perri song.
“This is not the end of me. This is the beginning.”
The words repeat over and over. I’ve always fought change, but sometimes things have to end. They disappear as if they never existed. Never were.
And only then can a new beginning . . . well . . . begin.
Eleventh Day, Ninth Month, Twenty-Second Year of Count VonKemp
Ky mentioned Countess Ambrose in his letter. Was Dimitri from the Fourth as well?
It is with a heavy heart I pen these words. Yet another dame has broken my heart. Yet another love lost at sea, if you will. Is there nothing strong enough to bind two people, heart and soul? Will no one ever remain?