—“The Rattling”
Chapter Thirty-three
I slam into Kassandra’s vanity, herpots and lotions flying and smashing onto the floor.
Kassandra screams and springs out of bed in a pink nightgown, glass of red wine in hand that sloshes onto the carpet.
“What the fuck are you doing!” she shrieks, her magic tickling the plane.
Thank the planes she’s here.
I gasp for breath, leaning against the wall. Panic clings to me like spiderwebs. After seeing a shaking Lila to the Mouth for some water, I laced straight to Illusion.
“The king,” I try again, but the oath starts to block my throat. “I found—”
“Who gives a fuck?” Kassandra snaps, little invisible hands trying to piece back together a jar of something glittery. “Do you know how expensive this is? It’s from a Remiti artist who only releases products once a century!”
The bedroom doors burst open, Briar clutching a fireplace poker. “My lady!”
“It’s me,” I manage to say, sliding down the wall. “It’s me.”
Briar lets out a string of curses, lowering the poker. Kassandra tips back the rest of her wine, then blasts the residue with hot air. She places the dry goblet on the ground as bits of glitter rise fromthe carpet like snow. They collect in a small pile at the bottom of the glass.
“Briar, can you find this a more suitable container?” she says, the cup lifting in the air and floating toward the faerie.
Briar looks between us. “You two are keeping secrets.”
“Nothing exciting,” my mistress says. “Can you give us some privacy?”
She tuts but follows instructions and departs.
Kassandra looks at me, planting hands on her hips. Her silver hair falls around her, sleek and shiny, while I’m sure mine now looks like a bird’s nest. I’d never cared about my appearance in front of her before, but even in the evening light, it’s stark, her prettiness to my roughness.
She points a painted nail at me. “Next time, don’t talk so loudly about the king like that. I refuse to implicate Briar in this. Now, what did you find out?”
I swallow, standing once more. “The Mountain…the mountain is half dirt.”
She rolls her eyes. “What else are mountains made of?”
“Rock,” I say. “Every mountain is made of rock, no?”
“Okay…” She paces. “Maxian is a Reign fae, we know this, just like all the other kings. But you’re also saying he’s part dirt. Who’s dirt?”
“Me.”
Kassandra stops. “What did you just say?”
“I am dirt, as you always say. Well, so is…the Mountain.”
She just stares at me, paling. “How.”
“How else are…half mountains made.”
But she’s shaking her head, as if banishing the thought. “Impossible.”
“I found the little mountain. The one that’s made only of rock but has crumbled since—”
“Stop!” Kassandra flies forward, one hand clamping over my mouth. We stumble against the wall, and she hisses, eyes wide and afraid. “Stop. Please stop.”
