He’s right. I’m only half human, but I don’t say so.
“You must be lost,” he says, voice laced with false pity. “Come, I will take you where you need to go.”
That phrase is enough to tell me this kelpie is not the benevolent sort. “I know what you would do to me,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “You’d take me on your back, wrap your mane around my hands, and drown me in the nearest source of water. Am I wrong?”
The kelpie rumbles with something like a chuckle.
There’s only one thing left to do.
With a deep breath, I force away the terror churning my stomach and turn myself over to the effects of my tincture, letting it soften the edges of my fear. I summon whatever pleasant thoughts I can muster. Soft textiles. Baby animals. The sparkle of morning dew on bright green grass. As soon as my emotions lift, I lock my eyes with his. The low hum of my ever-present magic surges outward, wrapping me in an invisible shroud. My magic is normally the bane of my existence, but right now it’s my only weapon.
The kelpie stiffens.
It’s my turn to take a step closer. “How do you know I wouldn’t do the same to you? How do you know I am not a kelpie too? Dragging me into a lake just might be exactly what I want you to do, for perhaps then I can do to you what you were just imagining doing to me.”
The creature assesses me for a silent moment. When he speaks, his tone takes on a curious quality. “Yes, we are similar, aren’t we? You are fearless. Dangerous.”
“I am.” A bold-faced lie. But it doesn’t matter. People only see themselves when they look at me through the lens of my magic. He won’t see my trembling legs or my quavering shoulders. He will only see his own qualities reflected back.
I don’t wait for him to say another word. Pinning him with a glare, I say, “Don’t follow me.”
Then I run.
I run until I can’t breathe.
Until I can’t feel.
Until my father’s lifeless, poison-laced face slips to the back of my consciousness.
1
TWO MONTHS LATER
ASTRID
Thousands of people have seen my face and yet no one knows what I look like. People see me, but they don’t reallyseeme. That’s the nature of being a mirror. People may notice things about me, may see what I’m doing, how I’m sitting, where I’m standing, but once I leave another’s proximity, I’ll remain faceless. Featureless. Forgettable. A frame without a painting. It isn’t until one meets my eyes that a true impression begins to form. What passes in that instant of eye contact is so strong, it shapes how one sees me thereafter.
And it all depends on my blooming mood.
A twinge of pain flutters in my heart. The first sign that my emotions are slipping. That the calm buoyancy I feel now will soon descend into neutrality. Then apathy. After that, I’ll be left with…I don’t even want to think of it.
I scan the cafe, finding no one looking my way. Not that it would matter much. Even if I were caught doing something unseemly, I can change that impression with a meeting of the eyes. Angling my body toward the back wall behind my corner table, I extract my vial from my skirt pocket. With a flick of my wrist, I bring the dropper under my tongue. One drop. Two.
I sigh as I swivel back to face the rest of the dining area and pocket my tincture. The twinge of pain leaves my chest, replaced with a warm melty feeling. Of spring afternoons and the brightest shades of watercolor spreading over paper textured like clouds.
My lips curl into a placid smile as I scan the room. Breakfast was served an hour ago, but there are still several patrons lounging at their tables, sipping tea from porcelain cups, gossiping with their companions, or partaking in breakfast pastries. The windows at the far end of the cafe blaze with the bright morning sun. Thankfully, the cafe is cooled by iced fans that are powered by electricity that runs through the magic-infused ley lines that traverse the isle of Faerwyvae. Otherwise, the persistent daytime heat of the Fire Court would already be smothering the room, even this early in the morning.
Nearly every building at the Seven Sins Hotel is adequately cooled, something that makes the resort so popular in the city of Irridae. As a hub for trade between three of the northeast courts of Faerwyvae—Fire Court, Star Court, and Autumn Court—the city hosts a constant bustle of residents, tourists, and merchants; human and fae alike. The premier establishment to cater to these guests’ every need is the Seven Sins Hotel. The resort is like a small city in and of itself, with seven departments each catering to a different vice. The cafe I’m sitting in now is situated on the second floor of Department Gluttony. The first floor is reserved for the butcher, grocer, and other daily food stalls, while the higher floors host finer dining. All the way up on the highly restricted eighth floor, those who are granted access can find delicacies that are of a more illicit or taboo nature. Not that I’ve ever been there. I mostly frequent either the market or cafe.
I sip the final dregs of my tea—cooled, thankfully—and settle my attention on the table I’ve been watching for the better part of an hour. A gentleman in a fine gray suit and silk cravat sits alone, oblivious to how I watch him over the rim of my teacup. He’s human. Middle-aged. A well-groomed mustache hides his curt upper lip while his receding hairline reveals a severe forehead. Yet his sharp jaw and sparkling blue eyes are proof of why he’s constantly referred to as handsome by many marriage-minded women of Irridae. However, I’m certain it isn’t his looks that prompt women to speak so favorably of him, but the fact that he owns one of the fastest trade ships in northern Faerwyvae and possesses a covetable fortune.
With his breakfast long since finished, the man peruses the broadsheets, pausing only to sip his tea or check his brass pocket watch now and again. Based on what I’ve witnessed during my prior days’ spying at this same hour and at this same cafe, he’ll soon depart for his first business meeting of the day.
Which means it’s time to do what I do best.
Leaving my table and my empty teacup, I smooth down my blue satin skirt—more out of habit than necessity—and straighten the rolled-up sleeves of my white blouse. Then I stroll to the man’s table and stand before it. Without looking up from his paper, he says, “I don’t need anything else.”
I’m not at all surprised that he assumes I’m waitstaff. It’s understandable considering I’m merely a hazy shape to him at the moment. Were he to glance away from his paper, he might notice a thing or two more. A feminine form perhaps. My posture. My white lace gloves. Still, it’s worth noting that he assumes anyone approaching him without invitation is in a position to serve him. I reach for the chair across from him and pull it away from the table before sliding into it. That catches his attention.
