The woman cleared her throat. “Your companions are waiting for you downstairs, if you are able.”
“I’m able,” Thia said, sitting up.
She nodded. “I will let the Magician know you are awake. He has been most anxious these four days.”
Four. Days.
The woman continued, oblivious to Thia’s shock. “I have laid out a dress for you.” She pointed to a dark-green gown draped over a chair in the corner of the room. “Your own garments are being mended. When you are presentable, come to the Great Hall. Down the stairs and through the large door.”
“Thanks.”
When she was gone, Thia eased herself out of bed. There was stiffness in her leg and shoulder, but not enough to affect her stride.Magic.
Discarding her nightgown, she shimmied into the offered dress. It was extraordinarily soft against her skin; she didn’t think she’d ever worn anything so nice in her life. The sleeves were a long trumpet shape in lighter, translucent green material, and the bodice was embroidered with golden floral brocade. The fit was good, except that it was several inches too long, another problem Thia was well-accustomed to having.
When she was dressed, she followed the woman’s instructions, descending the stairs to an enormous set of wooden doors that were carved with ornate symbols and, most strikingly, two enormous griffons that guarded the handles. She pushed through them into a room with oak-beamed floors and a high ceiling, a long table dominating the space. Behind it, an expansive hearth flickered warmly, the crackle of fire casting the red tones of wood in gold. Dess, Thran, and Oskaren were already seated, but Lord Sagan and his apprentice were noticeably absent. Thran was clean-shaven for the first time since Thia had met him, revealing a dimpled chin and strong jaw. She was delighted to see Dess upright and healthy. Oskaren appeared as unbothered as always, though her lip was still busted from the fight. She wondered why Archer hadn’t healed her, or if the girl had simply refused the treatment.
Dess sprung out of his chair as she entered, nearly knocking it over in the process, and bounded across the room to grip her in a hug. “You’re alright.”
She wrapped her arms around his broad frame, squeezing him back. “Yes. You?”
“Fine.” He pulled back. “They told us you would be, but when you wouldn’t wake…we were so worried.” He looked back at his companions, Thran staring pointedly at the floor, Oskaren smirking slightly as usual.
Thia wondered if the girl had a perpetual monologue of mockery going on in her mind, or if she just pasted it on for their benefit.
“Well,Iwas worried,” Dess amended, throwing a poisonous look at the other two. Thran stared at the table, but Oskaren tossed a wink at Thia that sent a flash of vexation through her.
“I was overcome with distress,” the girl said with false earnestness. “Sleep was infinitely evasive as I pondered your injuries.”
Dess rolled his eyes and grasped Thia’s hand. “Come on. Sit next to me.”
She followed, grateful to have reason to ignore Oskaren, and pulled out the chair beside his, only to trip on the immense folds of skirt. Flustered, she asked, “Where’s Mavrel?”
“Lord Sagan won’t let him inside,” Dess replied. “Something about not wanting bird droppings on his oiled floors.” He shrugged.
The doors clanged, announcing the entrance of a small, elderly man, who was staring fixedly at a scroll in his hands and muttering to himself.
When he still didn’t acknowledge them after several awkward moments, Dess cleared his throat. “Sir. Are you the Magician?”
The man answered, still staring at the scroll. “Well, I am a magician, but certainly not the only one. Lord Sagan, at your service. You must be…” He looked up then, taking them in, and let out a shriek, weathered hands flying to his chest. The scroll clattered to the floor. “Melina.”
Thia’s heart stopped in her chest.
Melina.
Her mother.
Lord Sagan was a statue, watery brown gaze darting back and forth as if trying to decide whether to rush toward her or back away in fear. “You’re dead,” he breathed. “Youdied.” His voice cracked.
Thia stood up, the fear that he might collapse cutting through her daze. She hastened for him, hands outstretched, and he shrank back. She stopped. “Melina was my mother.”
Lord Sagan’s fingers tangled nervously in the front of his robe.
“I’m Thia,” she said gently, like he was a wild animal about to bolt.
He sucked in a breath, brow lifting as though he was truly seeing her for the first time. “Your mother,” he echoed. “Yes. But of course. I see it now. Different eyes.” He reached to touch her face but halted midway. “And you are younger, of course.”
She thought he would be relieved to have realized the truth, but instead he seemed even more wary. He stayed frozen, hands trembling, until she grasped his arm and guided him to a seat.
