It’s strange to see my own face break, tears streaming down an unscarred cheek. I cannot go to her. I cannot relieve this burden from her. And I no longer want to.
“Mama and Papa would be so disappointed with how I treated you, like…”
“Like shit?”
Elora blanches at my choice of words, but she sniffles, and nods. “Yes. I misjudged you. I know your heart, Wren.”
“And what is my heart?”
Elora looks to Shaw. He nods in encouragement.
“Your heart,” she says, “is stronger than mine ever was or ever will be. You make the difficult decisions. You always have. I allowed fear to twist my perception of you, and I regret not realizing that sooner. When you left, I understood what I would be losing, and I can’t bear not having you in my life, my children’s lives. So I’m sorry. Deeply, sincerely sorry. If you can accept that I obviously have much growing to do, I hope we can start over.”
I want nothing more than to gather her in my arms, but that will take time. That she decided to show… it’s a step.
“Elora,” I say, “I’d like you to meet my husband, Boreas. Boreas, this is my sister, Elora, and her husband, Shaw.”
Her eyes widen as she takes in the North Wind. He wears a tunic of pale silver, unbuttoned at the throat. The air stirs as he takes her delicate, glove-clad fingers in his own large hand. “A pleasure,” he says. She shivers from the cool, flowing power of his voice.
He then accepts Shaw’s hand. Elora’s husband studies the Frost King with a shuttered expression before pulling away.
They follow us up the front steps, where I have the absurd pleasure of watching my sister’s mouth drop open at the vast entrance hallwith its colorful tapestries and glowing lamps. Granted, she is seeing a polished version of it, free of cobwebs and stifling air, but it is no less remarkable.
“How was your journey?” I ask. Pallas would have met them at the river’s edge before leading them through the forested region safely on horseback. “Are you hungry? Would you like a drink? Here, let me take your coats.”
“Thank you.” Elora watches as I hang up her coat in the entrance hall closet. Boreas takes Shaw’s. “It was fine, thank you. We ate before arriving, but I’ll have a drink if you are.”
“Sure. Shaw?”
“Wine, please.”
I turn to Boreas. “Can you please find our guests some wine? Juice for me.”
Once alone, Elora studies me as if she’s never seen me before. “You are not drinking?”
A slow, creeping flush spreads beneath my skin, but I do not lower my eyes. Shame, my old foe, has come knocking. And I slam the door in its face. “Not anymore, no.”
“How long have you been sober?”
It’s none of her business, but I’m allowed to take pride in my accomplishments. “Thirty-three days.”
My sister’s eyes shine, and she grips both of my hands. My knuckles creak in the might of her grip. “I’m happy for you, Wren. And proud. So, so proud.”
“Thank you. I appreciate it.” After a moment, I disentangle my fingers from hers. “Why don’t I show you around?” We move past the great spiraling staircase, blue ribbons woven through the gleaming oak banister. “Down that corridor is the east parlor and the drawing room. Through that door is one of the studies.”
“How many studies are there?” Elora asks.
“I’ve counted over thirty so far. I’m sure there are some I’ve yet to discover.”
“Thirty!” She sounds scandalized.
Shaw trails us to the ballroom entrance, the magnificent, gilded doors opened wide. My sister sucks in a sharp breath at the sight. I’m proud enough to preen. “It’s beautiful,” she says. Then she halts. “The guests. I can see through their bodies.”
Shaw attempts to tug Elora against his side. She ignores him, watching the whirling couples in mounting distress.
“They’re specters,” I explain calmly, as if watching a bunch of spirits dance is nothing out of the ordinary.
She lowers her voice before speaking. “Dead?”
