Page 39 of Blood of the Fairest

She was outraged. That maid was executed, women were banned from working in the castle—and when Reinhilde caught me stepping out of the mirror the next night of the full moon, she had me whipped until I could no longer move.

Before her, I could only become corporeal during each full moon. It was the one time I could step out of this purgatory and feel almost human as I sought answers for my existence.

Feeling anything at all was such a luxury, until that whip split through the skin of my back.

After that, Reinhilde ensured I would be held hostage in this mirror, even during full moons. For several long years, my world has been nothing but twisting her mind in small, vindictive ways. My only comfort in this dark isolation was watching her fall further into jealous, vain madness—until, multiple times a day, she came to the mirror for validation.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall. Who in this land is fairest of all?

My answer was always the same. You, my queen, are fairest of all.

Did it matter whether it was true or not? She hadn't let me leave the mirror in so long that I could recall no other face as clearly as hers.

I despised everything about the queen. Her face, her voice, her obsession with herself.

Watching Reinhilde's Favored poison her in her sleep was the best moment of my existence.

How strange it is that now, I'm impatient to see that same face.

I walk through the perpetual darkness of the mirror realm, surrounded by countless windows of light. They each represent reflective surfaces in the physical world, any of which I could peer through.

All kinds of jumbled views pass by me—a glimpse of the ocean from the window of a lighthouse, a woman trimming her son's hair in a looking glass, the undersides of faces posed above cups sloshing with liquid as they chatter merrily in a tavern.

I can occupy any reflection, but mirrors offer the clearest view of the world. Isenmere, in particular, is filled with so many mirrors that I could observe or listen to anyone I want.

So then, why do I find myself hurrying back to my former prison to check on Verena?

"This is pointless," I mutter to myself. "You know where she will be."

I step up to the mirror in the queen's chambers to find that I'm right. In the dimness, Verena is sound asleep in bed, visible to me through a crack in the sheer drapes hanging from the bedposts.

It's been a day and a half since the Huntsman left. I checked on him a while ago. The only reflective thing I could find near him was a stream he rode past on horseback, but he's nearly to the Loomdark. He should return the day after tomorrow.

So far, Verena has rested a lot. She also keeps telling me about that Michael fellow and singing a song at me about mirrors by someone named Justin in the world she hails from.

Each time a servant has knocked on her door, she's told them to push back meetings for a few days until a new chamberlain arrives.

She's tried eating regular food each time it's been brought to Reinhilde's rooms. But every time, there's no mistaking the disappointment she tries to hide on her face.

Does she not know how to sate her needs in the body of the queen?

When I saw her the first night, covered in dried blood, I'd assumed she knew already. Now, I wonder if she's just impossibly stubborn, or if I should tell her myself.

For a moment, I watch the rise and fall of her breathing under the blankets.

By the Matron, what am I doing here?

I could be off searching for others who can talk to lost souls—witchfolk, or faeries, or any number of other strange creatures. I could go to the lighthouse south of Hamelnmark to watch sea monsters in the distance. I could be taking in stunning sights from the wizened towers of Turnstadt, or peering through gilded mirrors in Aurefeld at any number of upper-class scandals.

Instead, I wish I could tell the sun to rise more quickly so Verena will rouse.

Maybe I should tap on the glass and wake her up myself. I've already lifted my hand, but I stop when she makes a soft sound of distress.

"Let me go," she breathes.

She must be dreaming about the Huntsman taking her to Malivant. At least, that is what I think until she rolls over, her expression crumbling into something pained.

Her words are indistinct, dream-laced. "I didn't…betray you. I don't even…N-no. Stop."