She forgot everything but that seeing him, no matter how he happened to look, was a rare and fortunate beauty.
Then he’d urged her to run. Tried to save her to the last, even when he thought she was a stranger. He was not lost. He was not lost to her.
But he was still Mira’s puppet, and the only way to save him from her was to cut the strings.
So Anya focused on her quarry, who was currently sporting a grin Anya knew well; one that meant she would need all her wiles. Despite her gut simmering with hatred, she kept her pulse steady, her face placid. The witch had the upper hand. There were many unknown quantities to this endeavor, but Anya relied upon two things.
The first, of course, was being the most cunning creature in the Lichtenwald. Murderess of the mimic, butcher of the bramble slake, captor of the phoenix. Warden of the wood.
And second, more certain than the turning of autumn leaves: Mira’s high opinion of herself.
“I thank you for your hospitality, Your Ladyship,” Anya began with an extravagant bow, the tail of her hair falling over her shoulder and scraping the ground. “I presume I have the privilege of addressing the revered Countess Mirabelle Corveau?”
Mira’s dangerous smile fell. “I haven’t heard that name spoken in a very long time.”
“A pity, my lady, for it is a name spoken with great reverence in the halls of Sangfeder, as on the streets of Äbender. You are, and have been, a legend.”
Mira didn’t preen, exactly, but she did lift her chin.
Anya bit back a satisfied smile. It was almost a pity how easy it was.
“Your flattery is noted.” Despite being shorter than Anya and halfway across the room, Mira managed to peer down her nose. “Spit it out. Why have you come?”
“To rectify past wrongs.” Anya withdrew a gilded scroll from her satchel – forged expertly, after much convincing that to do so did not, in fact, violate any of the terms in the wizard’s oath, by David.
She unrolled it. A license to practice wizardry.
One elegant eyebrow rose.
“I have a copy for you, and need only a copy for our records, signed by your hand. His Majesty the King recognizes you as the rightful owner of the phoenix and has called the hunt to its conclusion. His Majesty most vociferously regrets his past treatment of you and was pleased to hear of your victory. Asa sign of respect, and remorse, he wishes to offer you what should have been yours these past ninety years.”
She paused, a supplicating smile plastered to her teeth, waiting for Mira to melt into the praise like petals in spring rain.
“Howdareyou,” said Mira, stepping closer, her cape rippling like a storm cloud. “He wants to bargain now I have something he wants. Will he still wish to bargain if I send you back to him in pieces?”
Involuntarily, Anya’s fingers twitched for her knife – the one she didn’t have, on the belt she wasn’t wearing. But the spellscribe Ortolan Gander didn’t have a violent bone in his body. He would be properly afraid.
She caught herself, clutched her fingers to her chest, donned a mask of alarm.
Mira’s expression betrayed nothing.
But Sy’s forehead went crooked. With memory or suspicion, it didn’t matter. He’d seen her twitch; his attention had been captured.
And Mira did notice that. Her lips spread.
Anya suddenly wished very badly for her knife. “I meant no disrespect, Your Ladyship,” she began, not disguising the very real quaver in her voice.
“At last, something to make my familiar’s heart beat faster.” Her smile softened. “You sense it too, don’t you, familiar? Our guest. He’s hiding something.”
Already, Anya was dangerously close to losing her footing. “No, Your Ladyship, I assure you–”
“He’s here for you,” Mira cut in. Anya’s heart stopped as Sy considered her disguised visage with new eyes. Wounded, suspicious eyes. “To take you back to Äbender. To Edgard. Why, you’re more valuable to him than ever – quite the return on his investment. In fact, you’re quite priceless. Spellscribes can change faces, can they not? Our emissary could be anyone.”
“His Majesty has no interest in stealing your prize, Madame.” Every word left a foul taste in her mouth, but her voice was steady. She didn’t look at Sy; she couldn’t.
“He’s lying,” Mira went on, genuinely curious, “but still your heart flutters.”
Then she lifted a finger, and Anya went rigid as Mira effortlessly froze her in place.
