I startle so hard my head knocks against the door. A blurred form takes shape as I blink away tears. It’s the woman who drank from Mnemenos.
“Thyamine,” I whisper. She stands directly beneath one of the torches. I can see through her stomach to the wall at her back.
“My lady.” The elegant curve of her neck flashes as she bends forward in a deep curtsy and remains there until I grow uncomfortable.
“That’s not necessary,” I mutter, hauling her upright. “Is there something you need?”
Her eyes appear grossly magnified behind her glasses. “Yes.” The smile softening her mouth begins to fade. “I remembered. I did this time. Orla requested something. I promised her, yet here I am. Thoughtless. Head empty.” Her throat bobs. “A question, she asked. A request.”
Sometimes, I wish I were a better person. Patience was always Elora’s virtue. Never mine. “Well, when you think of it, let me know.”
Returning my focus to the Frost King’s conversation, I all but forget about Thyamine until she gasps. “I remember. Orla asked me what you desire to wear this evening: a green dress, or blue?”
I suspect Orla sent Thyamine on this meaningless errand to keep her mind occupied, but I reply, “Blue is perfectly fine, thank you.” The specter woman, with her magnified eyes and wish to please, smiles at me adoringly. She really is harmless.
Her gaze shifts to the door. “Sometimes it saddens me, seeing what he has become. But I suppose his behavior is understandable, after all he’s lost.”
My awareness flashes to attention, and I face her fully. “What do you mean?”
Thyamine gives a slow blink. “Sorry?”
“What you just said. About the king’s behavior.”
“What did I say, my lady?”
I sigh into my hands. The woman can barely remember her own name as it is. “Doesn’t matter. It’s fine.” It’s not fine. “Tell Orla I want to wear a blue dress, all right?”
“A dress?”
My mouth curls. Thyamine flinches at the sight, then turns anddarts down the hall. Smart woman. At least I can return to my eavesdropping.
“On this day, your judgment stands: Neumovos.”
A keening wail lifts the hair on the back of my neck. There’s a crash, and my fingers leap against the door handle. Sounds of struggle reach me—a body slamming into hard stone, the click of bootheels. I imagine the king descending a set of stairs, hands folded behind his back, nose angled upward, mouth haughty. Does he grace a throne atop a dais?
“Escort this man from the building.”
“Please, my lord. I beg you to reconsider. My father was dying. I did not have a choice—”
“There is always a choice.” His response whips out, effectively silencing the man’s hysterics. “Be happy I am not sending you to the Chasm,” he intones, and I wonder what horror lies there.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—”
Steeling my spine, I charge down the corridor, hands clenched at my sides. What a complete ass. A heart of ice, as the stories claim. How much can the Frost King know of the souls who pass through the Shade? Their deeds, fortunes and misfortunes, lies and mistakes? Can he know the reasons behind their actions? Does he understand what motivates them—love, fear, shame, sympathy, the desire for acceptance?
None of my business. None of my damn business.
I continue my search, mapping the doors and their respective realms, before stumbling upon one that is painted a lustrous black. Two white masks mark it, one frowning, one smiling, with bright, colorful brushstrokes embellishing the cheeks and brows. As soon as I touch the knob, I hear murmuring through the door. I push it open, excited for the prospect of people on the other side.
Therearepeople on the other side.
I stand at the end of a narrow, cobblestoned lane. Colorful, buttoned-up storefronts are crowned in elegant plaster molding, having donned their sunny attire, the shuttered windows painted pink in contrast. Men wearing tidy bowties and top hats stride arm in arm with womendraped in pearls and silk, their heeled shoes clicking musically against the stone.
The clop of hooves draws my attention to a horse-drawn carriage. Laughter tumbles from open windows where cheery flowers spill from window boxes. Women drift from shop to shop, carting bags of purchased goods, open parasols resting upon their shoulders. It smells of summer: salt and hot stone.
The door at my back lies open, revealing the dank hallway of the citadel. I shut it with a soft click, taking care to remember the building’s green paint and white shutters for my eventual return.
The lane flows into a square with adorable wrought iron benches, a circular fountain splashing in its center. Sunlight bakes the cobblestones underfoot.
