“Leave,” I barked, not turning from the window.
A pause.
“I need some…” The voice was muffled, hesitant behind the thick door. “I need some help.”
Sighing, I pushed out of the chair and crossed the room. I opened the door?—
—and nearly forgot how to breathe.
Aurelia stood in the corridor, clutching the front of a deep purple gown. The fabric shimmered faintly, catching on the mistlight seeping through the hall, its neckline dipping low enough to expose the top of her scar. But it was the new wound that held me.
Dark veins spidered from the stitched gash just above her heart, creeping like rot beneath her skin. Her pulse beat visibly against it, like it might try to push its way free.
“Has Santiago looked at that?” I asked, my voice sharper than I intended. “It should’ve healed by now. It’s been nearly two weeks.”
She glanced down, then waved the concern away with a crooked smile. “He has. Said wounds like this take longer. Looks worse than it feels.”
I didn’t believe her. Instead of pressing, I let her change the subject.
“I think I made Lysara upset,” she said, guilt flickering behind a crooked smile. “But it turns out my wardrobe is full of gowns that already fit. Odd, but convenient. I just can’t lace the back myself. I couldn’t find her, and Santiago disappeared. I didn’t want to go wandering through the castle alone and half clothed, so…”
She was rambling.
I stepped aside, gesturing her in.
Her eyes swept the room. They paused on the sketches stacked atop my easel.
Making her way to the easel, she picked up the top page, the corners trembling slightly between her fingers.
In the drawing, a woman sat tall, every line of her posture etched with quiet strength. Her face, noble and composed, was framed by a soft wrap of cloth that draped over her shoulders. Her cheekbones stood proud, her gaze steady and unflinching. Her skin was a rich, warm umber.
A crown rested atop the wrap, each gem outlined and shaded to catch an imagined glint of light. Around her neck, layered necklaces fell in elegant lines. Teardrops, suns, and other sacred shapes echoed along the chains. The shading at her throat and collarbone was soft but intentional, giving the illusion of warmth. Of life.
Aurelia stared, transfixed.
Time stretched between us.
Then she turned to me—one hand still clutching the front of her gown, the other holding the portrait like it might vanish.
“I know her,” she said, breathless.
“That’s impossible.” I stepped forward before I could stop myself, hand reaching for the sketch—because the look on her face, the recognition there, wasn’t something she could’ve fabricated.
“No.” Her grip tightened. “I do. I’ve seen her in Synnex. Who is she?”
I froze. Cleared my throat. When I finally spoke, my voice was rough. Unsteady. “She’s my mother. And she’s dead.”
It was one of hundreds of sketches I’d drawn of her. Again and again, just to keep her face from fading.
She had never come to me in a dream. Not once. I’d searched the Veil for years, waited for a sign she still lingered. For a shadow to stir. A whisper to rise. Anything. And now, Aurelia stood here… insisting my mother still lived.
Stepping closer, I gently took the sketch from her hands and placed it atop the stack, careful not to wrinkle the edges. I motioned for her to turn, so I could lace the back of her gown.
She hesitated, but did as I asked.
The silk whispered as I gathered the laces, her breath catching when my fingers brushed the shallow hollow at her back.
“Many years ago,” I said quietly, sweeping her wild curls to one side. Her skin was warm beneath my hands. My gaze caught on the mark carved into her flesh.