Page 12 of Her Dark Reflection

How much should I reveal of myself? How much did I need to tell to keep her from suspecting me of having secrets? I thought of the dark stains by the palace gates. I couldn’t have anyone looking too closely at who I was and where I’d come from. Such scrutiny might turn up the story of a girl with a ruined face, and when that story was held up against me, there would be questions that I didn’t want anyone trying to answer.

‘Nothing that exciting. My mother was… particular about my education. Not about feeding me, though. She mostly let me fend for myself while she wasted away regretting how unfair her life was. I was scraped off the streets when I tried to steal from a madam, and she gave me a job instead of turning me over to the gendarmerie.’

‘Which suvoir were you indentured to?’

‘Oh, I’ve drifted from one to another,’ I lied. Senafae raised her eyebrows, and I expected her to question me further. If a maisera was moving between suvoir, it meant she was either the kind who made fast enemies of the other girls, or she was a cold fish in bed. But she didn’t ask, and I wondered which reason she assigned to me.

She stretched out her slender arms and pushed herself into a sitting position. ‘Shall we go and eat? I’ll turn into something wholly unpleasant if I miss dinner.’

Together, we hunted down the small dining room by the kitchens. The servants were busy attending the royal household, so the food was left on a side table, and we were trusted to serve ourselves. I inspected the clusters of women with interest, noting how alliances had already begun to form, how some sat closer to each other, leaving wide gaps between one group and the next.

I ignored the stares pointed my way as I took a seat near the end of the long table, inhaling the scents of roasted duck, mashed parsnips, and buttered beans with relish. It was by no means the fancy fair I was sure the royal family was being treated to, but I appreciated a well-prepared meal. Senafae joined me moments later, her plate piled high, and I raised my eyebrows as she tucked into her food. She was a slender creature, all legs, with little in the way of breasts or hips. I hadn’t expected such a hearty appetite.

After watching her for a few moments, fascinated as she shovelled food into her mouth, I turned back to my own plate and caught a stare from across the table that ought to have scorched a hole through me.

The woman behind the stare was stunning, with slanted, feline eyes and a face that looked like it had been carved by sculptors. She had a glorious mane of thick red curls and porcelain-pale skin, which led me to suspect that she could afford both the druthi tonics to enhance her colouring and hide the freckles that usually accompanied it. It was a shame she hadn’t found herself a potion that would cure her of the sour look on her face.

‘Where have you come from?’ she demanded, sounding as though she was accosting a thief in the street.

‘I’m Rhiandra,’ I said. ‘And where I come from is really none of your business.’

She placed her cutlery carefully on either side of her plate, leaned back in her chair, and folded her arms. ‘Rhiandra,’ she repeated slowly. ‘I’ve never heard of any maisera of note with that name. Why would they select someone with no reputation for an occasion as important as this? You’re likely to make a mockery of our king.’

The sound of Senafae chocking distracted me for a moment, and I patted her back awkwardly as she coughed. The red-haired woman looked on with revulsion.

‘Back off, Vanaria,’ Senafae said finally, her eyes watering and her voice croaky. ‘There are dozens of suvoir in the city. Not everyone wants to work at Quality.’

The woman smiled coldly at Senafae. ‘You would say that. Given that your application was rejected.’ With that, she stood, picked up her plate, and moved down the table, followed by those sitting either side of her.

‘That’s Vanaria Rosach?’ I said, my voice low as I watched the woman settle herself into her new seat.

‘I’m surprised you couldn’t tell the moment you saw her. She practically hasI make more money than youscrawled across her forehead.’ Vanaria’s parting jab didn’t appear to have done any damage to Senafae’s appetite and she was happily digging into her dinner once more.

Vanaria Rosach was whispered to be the highest paid maisera in the city, charging thousands for a night of her company. She had starred in huge theatre productions, worked at Quality, the most upmarket suvoir in Lee Helse, and, if the rumours were to be believed, had a queue of lords clamouring to keep her as a mistress—and willing to pay through the nose for the privilege. She must have some big fish in her sights to be tempted to come here.

Probably the very same fish I was set on.

While Senafae was helping herself to a second plate of food, I snuck away, stealing back up the stairs and down the dingy corridor to my new room, where I found my trunk had been dumped by the door. Kneeling before it, I opened it up to reveal the mirror, still wrapped in the cloak I had used to protect it during transport. I ripped off the fabric with gritted teeth, revealing my grim, scarred reflection, staring back with hollow eyes. Spectral fingers and numbness crawled over my face, then a biting cold. As soon as warmth began to return to my cheek, I yanked the fabric over the vile thing. I chewed my lip as I looked around the room at the few furnishings, finally dropping down to peer into the narrow gap beneath the bed. After a moment’s hesitation, I slid it into the gap, still wrapped in the cloak, and glanced frantically at the door. It remained shut.

Sharing a room made everything a little more complicated. As much as I liked Senafae, I would fully expect her to turn me in if she discovered an enchanted mirror under my bed. The Guild paid a handsome reward to anyone with information leading to a conviction for profane magic use, and possessing magic of that power would be enough to see me burned, no matter that I wasn’t the one who wove it. It was clearly magic beyond what could be purchased from apothecaries and weave markets.

Plucking the apple from where it had been practically burning a hole in my skirts, I stuffed it into the drawer of the bedside cabinet, piling shifts and stockings on top until it was completely buried. Not the most sophisticated hiding spot, but I couldn’t bear to continue carrying it around, waiting for someone to find it on me, wondering if someone would somehow know it for what it was.

If I was going to accomplish what I set out to do, I would need to keep my secrets close to my chest.

Thepileofgownson the slim bed was growing at an alarming rate, until it was a towering mountain of silk and fur and satin and velvet and lace. It was so large that I could barely see Senafae whenever she stepped behind it, though I could still hear her perfectly.

‘This is hideous,’ she moaned, flinging yet another gown onto the mountain, causing a small avalanche that deposited a petticoat and a single glove discreetly onto the floor. Taking yet another gown from the wardrobe, she held it against herself and turned before the mirror, her head tilted, her forehead creased. ‘Hideous,’ she repeated.

I narrowed my eyes as she snatched another from the wardrobe, reassessing exactly where ‘half’ began and ended. ‘I don’t know why you paid for so many gowns that you find hideous.’ I was sitting at the vanity, already dressed and decorated, my hair coiffed, my skin perfumed.

She shot me a look. ‘Did you really have no trouble choosing what to wear for something as important as this?’

I smoothed at my own gown—a burgundy velvet, trimmed in ivory lace and silk ribbons, the back falling away in loose box pleats—with a covert smile. Perhaps, before my life changed, I would have struggled just as much as Senafae. But the glowing beauty of my new face seemed to be above the influence of dress; every fabric complemented my complexion, and every style suited my features.

When I looked back at Senafae, her frown suggested she was thinking the same thing. I stood abruptly, crossed the room, plucked a gown from her pile, and thrust it at her. ‘This one,’ I said. ‘Blue suits your hair and skin, and the cut is just daring enough without being too risqué to walk past Mrs Corkill.’

She grimaced and turned back to the mirror, holding my selection against herself. ‘Are you sure?’

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