I try to school my expression, but no force in existence can quell the horrified wrench of my mouth. “What? Are you sure?”
A hard swallow travels down her throat. She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t have to.
“Who?” I demand. “Who will he choose?”
“I…” Evelyn’s brow knits. “I don’t know. Someone in this room. That’s all I could see.”
My fingers curl, my nails biting into my palms. Of course it’s someone in the room. There’s no other possibility, because the Claiming only applies to women of royal blood. Toprincesses, in other words. Like me. Or Brynne, or Evelyn, or?—
Carina emerges from the closet, wearing a dress that vaguely resembles a potato sack. When she spots us huddled by the vanity, she stops. “What? What’d I miss?”
My sisters exchange a horrified glance, but Brynne doesn’t hold back. “Evelyn had a vision. She says Amriel’s going to choose someone. Tonight.”
The color in Carina’s cheeks drains away, along with all the warmth in the room. Cold seeps into my stomach while goosebumps pebble along my skin.
“You’re sure?” Carina whispers.
“That’s what I saw,” Evelyn says hoarsely.
Long moments drag by. A hard gulp scrapes down my throat, loud enough to echo from the plain furniture and bare floor. Evelyn hasn’t been wrong yet. Which means…
Oh, goddess. Ishanna help us all.
The stony silence has barely settled when Brynne bursts into motion. She flies toward Evelyn’s chest-of-drawers, her movements frantic.
I frown. “What’re you doing?”
Brynne doesn’t answer. She just yanks open the top drawer and fishes out a pair of shears, then darts to the floor-length mirror, where she turns the blades on her own hair. Metal flashes and squeaks. Her long, honey-brown locks float downward and pile at her feet.
Horror lumps in my chest. I try to force it down, but the tightness refuses to ease. Within minutes, Brynne’s scalp gleams from beneath bristly, uneven stubble.
She turns to us, something hard and fiery glittering in her eyes. “We’ll change it. Evelyn’s vision. I don’t care how ugly I have to make myself, I won’t be Claimed by a fae. By a…aheathen. I’d rather die.”
My throat bobs. I have no idea how to respond, only that I agree—I can’t think of a worse fate than being stolen away from Aethrolia. Being ripped from Ishanna’s grace.Especiallyon the eve of earning my magic.
Because I’m close now, I can sense it. This morning, when I knelt and clasped my hands beneath my chin, Ifeltthe goddess’s regard, like a warm breath against the back of my neck.
It was Ishanna’s way of reassuring me, I know it. She may have saved my Grace for last, but only because she has plans for me. Ones that involve me becoming a priestess.
Which means I can’t let Amriel Claim me, either. Iwon’t.
Evelyn rises and goes to the mirror, where she wraps Brynne in a hug. For long moments, my eldest sister stands there, all stiffness and hard angles, but eventually, she softens into the embrace. “I won’t go,” she whispers. “I won’t be his mate.”
Evelyn runs a hand over Brynne’s shorn skull. “I know. I won’t, either. None of us will. He’ll have to go home alone again.” She pries the scissors from Brynne’s hand and raises the blades to her hair.
My jaw loosens as Evelyn shears herself balder than Brynne, then motions for Carina to join.
My little sister obeys. She stands at the mirror, silent tears streaming down her cheeks as Evelyn snips and snips and snips. The pile of brown hair grows into a mountain.
When the last of Carina’s tresses falls to the floor, Evelyn turns to me, expectant. I lean away, my hands flitting over my unbound curls, my fingers straining to tie them back, to braid them, to doanythingother than sacrifice them to Evelyn’s shears.
Because my hair means something different to me than it does to my sisters. I’ve let it grow since I was sixteen, a symbol of not only my devotion, but of my intent to take the robes. These hip-length locks have required patience. Restraint. The careful tending of hundreds of brushstrokes each night. In growing them, I’ve embodied every ideal in Ishanna’s Book of Disciplines, and now each uncut strand represents a promise between me and my goddess, a vow I’ve sworn never to break.
My fingers find my throat, prodding at the sudden achethere. “I… I don’t think I can.”
Brynne’s eyes flash. “What? Why not? Do youwantAmriel to choose you?”
Her words sink icy claws into me. Of course not. I can’t conceive of a worse fate than being Claimed by that emotionless brute downstairs—if I did, he’d only hurt me. Subjugate me. He’d probably send me fleeing into the Wildwood just so he could chase me down and force me. It wouldn’t matter how loudly I screamed or how hard I fought—that monster would have his cruel way with me, regardless.
