Hairs lifted along the nape of my neck. My fingers hesitated above the knob as I glanced at her. For a brief moment, I contemplated simply walking away. But something in her eyes kept me from leaving. She looked at me as if I were her last hope. Her only shot. Mavis was scared. Her infection was by far the worst in the family, and likely she knew I’d been working with Orin to successfully cure blight. She wanted me to try.
My lips turned down as I rested my hand on the worn metal knob. “I can’t cure you yet. But if you just wait a little longer, I’ll try.”
She blinked. Then shook her head and once again pointed to the door.
“All right.” I sighed as I let us in. I wasn’t entirely convinced she’d understood me, anyway. I’d get her safely to bed and then let someone know she’d been walking around on her own. As we shuffled inside, I glanced around the dimly lit space. Her quarters were surprisingly tame in comparison to the more ornate rooms that made up the manor. There was a small sitting area with two high-backed chairs next to a low coffee table. Before that, a quiet hearth full of fresh logs. The mantel was decorated with long-stemmed roses and a handful of precious stones—some raw and uncut; others pristinely polished and awaiting the perfect setting.
One stole my attention entirely. It was no bigger than a marble but as brilliant as a full moon with an inner shimmering light that seemed to throb like a heart. An everjewel. My mouth fell open as I inched toward it.
Everjewels are special to my kind.
Orin’s words rang through my head as Mavis paused to follow my gaze and then shuffled toward it. With shaking fingers, she picked it up and pressed it against her wrist. The glow sharpened for a fraction of a second and then began to diminish.
“Is something wrong with it?” I asked.
Mavis only stared at me with her brows drawn sharply together. Then, without breaking her gaze, she grabbed a nearby letter opener from the mantel and tore open the underside of her forearm. With one easy motion, she slipped the stone inside the cut. Blood circled her wrist like a bracelet, but she never yelped. Not once. Invisible magic filled the space about her with the creeping chill of a winter’s fog until the wound sealed, and then the everjewel was gone, as if it had never existed in the first place.
They help keep us, well, us.
Again, Orin’s words filled my mind as I stared in horror at the blood splatter on the floor.
Mavis grimaced at my slack jaw and thrust her wrist toward me once more for effect. Then she grabbed my hand and pressed my fingers against the now healed line. A sudden rush of cold nipped at my skin, and I flinched. The longer my touch lingered, the more painful it became. It was like grasping a metal pole in the depths of winter, and just when I thought frostbite would claim my fingers, the pulsing cold abated. The stone seemed to shift between muscle and sinew, and its icy kiss ebbed away. When it fully dispersed, Mavis released me.
“Do all everjewels feel like that?” I rubbed my hands together, sparking what warmth I could.
She held my gaze for several breaths before turning away. Slowly, she moved toward a small, freestanding writing desk complete with a multitude of drawers with brass handles. When I didn’t immediately follow, she beckoned to me with a weak wave.
Carefully, I moved to her side, and my gaze snagged on an oversized painting in a gilded frame. There were several Evers all standing together around a woman seated on a throne. There was something familiar about her stature, small but strong. Lustrous, wheat-colored hair fell over her shoulders like a blanket, and her smile was wide. Bright. Realization dawned on me as I took in her features.
“This is your family.”
Mavis glanced between me and the painting and nodded. With a shaky finger, she pointed to the Ever seated on the throne.
“That’s you,” I said in awe. I saw it now as I glanced between them. It wasn’t that Mavis didn’t resemble her depiction; it was just that the painting of her, of who she used to be, was so much more vivid and alive. I looked at the rest of the Evers with new appreciation. Beside Mavis’s chair was a woman with hair the same color as hers, but her eyes were as fresh and vibrant as spring grass. Her rosy skin was flushed, her lips full and glistening. A small girl stood before her, and on one side, two boys.
Seville, Orin, and Rorik. The woman was their mother, Mavis’s daughter. I hardly recognized Lydia. She stood on the opposite side of Mavis’s chair and was wrapped in Clesian’s arms, the picture of joy and tenderness as she leaned against his broad chest. Her smile was resplendent and entirely foreign. Rounding out the portrait were two men I hadn’t seen before, and I brought myself closer to inspect their visages. Mavis reached out then and trailed a light finger over the Ever standing between her and Lydia. He had chestnut-colored hair and warm brown eyes, and his smile seemed to fill every inch of his expression. Mavis gently brushed his face before pulling back to graze the space above her breast. Heartbond. She didn’t have to say it for me to know. I could tell by the look in her eyes. By the very love that seemed to emanate from her core.
“I wish I could’ve met him,” I said, tipping my head to hold her stare for a moment. With a nod, she turned toward her desk. She waved her hand over one of the drawers, and I heard a lock click. Gently, she tugged on the brass handle until the drawer gave way to reveal stacks of loose paper. As she riffled through her things, I gave the painting one last look. The only individual left was an Ever with oak-brown hair and deep emerald eyes. Seville, Orin, and Rorik’s father. He had to be. Those emerald eyes were the same as Orin’s, and his lips were curled in the same sharp, condescending grin that Seville often wielded. I leaned forward an inch, squinting as I studied the painting. Rorik stood slightly apart from the rest, and his expression was tight. There weren’t any similarities to be found between him and his father, who had one hand on Orin’s shoulder and the other on their mother’s. A prickling awareness sprouted in the recesses of my mind, and I dragged my attention back to Rorik.
The artist had paid special care to his burnished locks, as if there weren’t enough colors in his palette to accurately depict all the varying coppery hues that made up his hair. His eyes werecrafted with such perfection, with such intention, that they might as well have been real. And their shade was uniquely his. He shared only one attribute—the sharp cut of his cheekbones—with his mother.
A sharp poke pulled my focus, and I shifted to find Mavis had jabbed the back of my arm with a paper that had been folded into the shape of an envelope.
“For me?” I took it without thinking. A wax seal the color of maple syrup held it closed, an elegantFstamped into its center. Above it in small, looping handwriting:
Open alone.
Dread filled my limbs as a cool sweat formed at the base of my neck. After a thick swallow, I met Mavis’s gaze. “What is this?”
She only wrapped my fingers tighter around the envelope.
I never wanted to drop something more in my life. And yet there was an insistent, almost fearful nature to Mavis’s pleading stare. She worked her throat as if trying to speak, but nothing came out. A glassy sheen covered her eyes until a single tear escaped and bisected her cheek.
“Mavis,” I whispered, gripping the paper tighter. “What’s going on?”
Her lips parted. Closed. Parted again. A strangled sound, like her words were being choked in a vise grip, crawled out.
“No time. Open.”
