“Fine!” She hit me again, not hard, and collapsed on her knees next to me.
I wrapped my arms around her shoulders. “I’m so sorry.”
“You were dead.” She sniffed, sobbing, and buried her face in my shoulder. “You were dead. You were dead and a criminal and you didn’t even say goodbye to me.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I am. Really, Maud, you’re the only person in this world I’m sorry about leaving out of that.” I rubbed my eyes. “I was always a criminal though.”
“I’m going to punch you again,” she said slowly, “if you keep talking.”
I tightened my grip on her shoulders and shook my head.
And we stayed like that for a long while, till she laughed and hit me again without any malice and I got up to wash my face. She asked me what had happened. I told her everything.
“You’re a better friend than I deserve.”
“I know.” Maud grinned, nose crinkling, as she left to find me clothes for tonight. “But the pay’s good and someone has to save you from jumping out of windows.”
I laughed and fell back into bed.
At least someone had mourned Sal.
Moira had held meetings for days about how to remember Nacea. No one wanted a giant statue or a building full of names. We wanted the unsettling punch of grief that hit when you least expected it, when you heard your sister’s favorite tune or tasted your father’s favorite meal. The sort of grief that snuck up on folks even on the brightest days and reduced them to an uncertain, aching mess of memories.
My mother’s favorite sound was late-autumn rain on damp earth and the distant crack of thunder.
My brother’s laugh sounded like a wayward lamb calling for its family.
And so they—we, I had to say we, had to get used to belonging, Moira said, because I did even if I didn’t feel like it—scattered grief throughout Nacea. Polished, mirror-bright silhouettes haunted the land.
Shea’s glittering form, delicate and playful, tiny hands grasping at just-out-of-reach wildflowers, glowed red in the rising sun every morning and was near invisible when I’d seen it for the first time at noon.
She wasn’t there, but she had been. I’d draped a crown of daisies, poppies, and clover around her mirror throat. She was so small—in life, in death, in memory—and kissed the flickering surface of her cheek.
Grief was fickle and ever changing, bright and dark and endless as the space within her polished form. And sometimes, when the light was right, it was me.
The elected Erlend ministers in charge of shifting Erlend to Igna had called it creepy. Most of the Igna ministers had agreed. Moira had laughed and approved the project on the spot.
“Good,” she’d said in court. “Your memories of Nacea should make you uncomfortable after what you did.”
Elise had written out the entire exchange—still preserving everything for the future, to make sure folks never went back on their words—and sent me one of her many safeguarded copies along with a needle and thread for the flower crown. I was terrible at knotting the stems together.
She’d picked purple, the same color as the wildflowers that grew around Shea.
I’d spent the day sobbing.
Into a handful of flowers.
It was ridiculous, but that night, when my throat was raw and my eyes swollen, I’d felt better. Someday someone else would crest the hill where my home had stood and stand in shock at the sight of Shea. The uncertain grip of grief would steal their breath. They’d maybe stop. Maybe pick a few blooms and place them at her feet.
I’d not be alone. Never again.
And one day far, far in the future, when grief didn’t lurk in me like a long-forgotten pox waiting to burst forth, her silhouette would crack and crumble. The world would move on but the remnants of her would remain.
I was all right with that.
I was all right.
I was.
Fine, I was getting there. Mostly.
So when Maud helped me get dressed in a dark-gold dress stitched with yellow and red poppies around the hem, when Emerald and Amethyst came to retrieve me and brought all of Nicolas’s Nacean books he’d not had a chance to send Moira yet, when I tied Ruby’s mask around my head and looked in the mirror, I didn’t cry.
I’d done enough of that while Maud was gone.
I raised my head to Our Queen. She shifted, sea-green dress folding across her lap like foam at low tide. She wore no crown, and the corset lined with whalebone to keep her back from aching was woven with blue-stained steel and fish scales. She held out her left hand to me. I kneeled.
“My new Ruby.” She let me kiss her ring and take her hand, pulling me as close to her as propriety allowed.
“Make me Moira Namrata’s guard,” I said. “I’ll never leave her side, and no harm will come to the Last Living Star of Nacea or Nacea. Ever. Even if you try to let it die again. I will not be yours, I will not serve you out of love, but I will make sure people who will make the world a better place survive.”
She frowned and covered her shock with a gauntleted hand. “Yes.”
“Good,” I whispered.
She cupped my cheek, fingers warm despite the mask between us. “I won’t let Nacea down again. You could’ve stayed there.”
I pulled away from her. I was not hers. She was not my queen, infallible and perfect, Lady-sent to save us all from the shadows. She was a person who’d tried her best, but that was no longer enough for me. I would protect what she couldn’t. What she hadn’t.
We were the same. She’d understand.
“No, I couldn’t have.” I needed to repent, to make up for the death I’d wrought, and this was a start. “I made them pay, and now I’ve a debt.”
She took my hand and pulled me into the center of the room with her, the court silent around us.
“My friends.” Our Queen raised her arms wide, still holding on to my hand. “My new Honorable Ruby is with us. Be kind.”
And with that, I was Ruby.
Returned.
But she pulled me back, fingers tangled in mine, and whispered, “Dancing first. I believe you have some explaining to do.”
“Thank you.” I bowed. Low and proper.
Nine out of ten.
“Your Honor?”
I turned.
Elise, dressed in the same starry, silver dress she’d worn last time, bowed to me. I grinned.
“My Lady de Farone.” Ruby’s mask let me see every bit of her face, from the ruddy blush in her cheeks, to the way she arched her back as the music pitched. “You look lovely.”
“You used that line last time.” She hooked our arms together and pulled me to the center of the dance floor. Her hand settled on my waist. “Come up with something better.”
“I could rob you.” I laughed and spun her round. “Steal a kiss.”
Isidora stared from the edge of the room, and Emerald leaned down to whisper in her ear. Her gray eyes went wide, the dark circles hanging beneath hollowing when she turned—a testament to how well infant Rodolfo da Abreu was living up to their noisy, needy namesake. Nicolas had them too, and she grabbed his arm. He nodded.
“Later.” Elise smiled. “I keep all of my expensive jewelry in my bedroom.”
We turned, Elise leading, and my hand crept up her back to play with the beads at the ends of her braids.
“This is nice,” I said.
No assassins. No threat of death hanging over folks who were trying to be better. No empty space in the land and my soul where Nacea used to reign.
Elise murmured her agreement and pulled me closer, pressing a kiss to the thin skin near my ear.
The song swelled. Amethyst danced with Lark next to us. Isidora watched me from the corner, whispering to Nicolas the whole time, and Our Queen danced with Emerald in a playful, twirling step. Moira wouldn’t be back for days, and I’d life as Ruby to get used to. A new mask.
A bare mask with no names and no memories.
My shadows were dead.
Peace spread under the careful watch of so many too intimate with war to care for it again. Nacea, busy and thriving in the lands that sprang back to life soon as Moira’s feet touched the ground, lived.
And so did I.
Acknowledgments
To my father—thank you for showing me how to love science fiction and all the different possibilities within it.
To my mother—thank you for letting me steal your mystery novels even when I read them twice and left you to deal with the overdue fines.
To my grandmother—thank you for teaching me to know when to follow the recipe and when to break the rules before I was even tall enough to reach the counter.
Thank you, thank you, thank you, everyone who read, reviewed, and supported Sal through their harrowing journey. I can’t put into words how thankful I am to everyone who read Mask of Shadows and Ruin of Stars, and the last two years have been an amazing time thanks to all of you.
My husband, Brent, was a constant supporter and sounding board for world building woes and fantasy idioms, and I couldn’t have done any of this without him. He believed in my work even when I didn’t. Rachel Brooks is one of the best agents an author could meet, and none of this would’ve been possible without her. She didn’t just believe in the silly color-coded assassin novel I wrote, but believed it could be better. When Annie Berger took a chance on Sal and me, it changed my life for the better, and I feel so lucky I got to write a second book, finish Sal’s story, and do it all with such a wonderful editor. The team behind the duology was fantastic in every way.
Then there were my writing mentors and partners for whom no gift would ever be great enough. I still remember Jessie Devine’s advice and keep the edit letter hanging over my desk; Kerbie Addis is still one of the best writers and editors I know for dark fantasy, and I can’t believe we met by chance because, without her, my writing wouldn’t be what it is today; Kara Wolf was one of the first people to read both Mask of Shadows and Ruin of Stars and was amazing both times; Rosiee Thor and Maria Mora—the best Pitch Wars mentees ever—helped me edit and stay calm even in the most panicked of times; and Carrie DiRisio continues to be one of the most thoughtful writing partners I’ve ever had.
I can’t even begin to explain how lucky I feel to have found a home with Sal at Sourcebooks. Thank you Alex Yeadon, Kathryn Lynch, Stefani Sloma, Cassie Gutman, the designers and artists who brought these books to life, and everyone at Sourcebooks for being a part of this journey.
And to all of the early readers who are clever and patient and deserve the world, I can’t say it enough.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
So this is the end of Sal’s story—from Sallot Leon to Twenty-Three to Opal to Ruby—and it wasn’t always happy, but it was Sal’s. They’ve a whole new set of adventures to live now, and so do you.
Live.
About the Author
Linsey Miller is a wayward biologist from Arkansas who previously worked as a crime lab intern, neuroscience lab assistant, and pharmacy technician. She can be found writing about science and magic anywhere there’s coffee. Visit her online at linseymiller.com.
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