The hot shower does nothing to wash away the unease crawling under my skin. I scrub harder, like I can scour off whatever darkness wrapped around me at Ashcroft Manor, but the water just runs clear down the drain.
I catch my reflection in the steamed mirror as I towel off. Same blue hair, vibrant blue eyes of my magical affinity. But something feels different.
Wrong.
I decide against putting my clothes back on and pad down the hall toward my room in my towel. Not for the first time, I stop and study myself in the Concordance Mirror.
It stands taller than me, a sentinel between the bedroom doors that has always been part of Hallowind House and always will be. Its frame is dark, old wood, carved by hand into twisting vines and small leaves, the details softened where time—and my ancestors—have worn them smooth.
The edges of the glass are clouded enough to blur the reflection if I don’t look straight on. That aged blur gives everything a gentler focus, as if the mirror isn’t interested in sharp lines or surface truths.
When I meet my own gaze, I know I’m being quietly measured. My image ripples, and my reflection stirs.
There’s a lag between the reflection of me and the reality but whether that’s a commentary on my emotional or spiritual alignment, I can’t say.
Magic balance, soul fractures, possession, divided loyalties… the mirror doesn’t tell you the answers, but it highlights the symptoms to make you aware of what’s going on within you.
I’m out of sync. No big surprise there.
Maybe one day I’ll stand in front of this mirror, and my image will be clear and locked in place. I laugh inwardly and continue down the hall to my room.
Yeah, maybe one day.
Hanging in my closet, all soft, furry, and cute, is my sloth onesie. I pull it on, needing the comfort of being ridiculous and safe in my own home.
Downstairs, voices drift from the family room, low and careful. I pause at the bottom step, my bare feet silent on the hardwood.
"—never seen her like that." Wylder's baritone carries the weight of worry.
"The energy coming off her was…" Orion trails off.
"Dark," Rowan finishes. "Like properly dark. Shadow magic, curse-craft dark, but worse. Colder."
My chest tightens.
"Should we tell her?" Orion asks.
"Tell her what? That we think she's losing control?" Wylder sighs. "She knows. The panic of knowing was in her eyes when the rage cleared."
I back away from the doorway, pressure building behind my eyes. They're not wrong. That's the worst part. Ihadlost control. The fury that consumed me in Laurel's office felt good in the moment—righteous and powerful.
Now it just feels terrifying.
Maybe I should hide in my room until I can figure out what to say. I turn to head back upstairs and nearly collide with Asher.
He's wearing his Scooby-Doo onesie, the hood with the floppy ears pushed back, and is carrying two bowls of popcorn so large they should require structural engineering.
He takes one look at my face and leans forward, pressing a kiss to my forehead. The bowls wobble dangerously.
"I'm calling a Bridgerton binge-night." He says it like he's declaring a national holiday. "The Life and Death Brigade needs a night off."
The knot in my chest loosens. "Ash?—"
"No arguing, Pops. We're watching hot dukes make terrible decisions and eating our body weight in popcorn. Doctor's orders."
"You're not a doctor."
"Doctor of knowing when my girl needs a break." He grins. "Now come on, I made the good popcorn. The kind with?—"
