So I doubled back. And circled. I hunted all day for the Heart of Earth, but I could never get close to it. The corridors always twisted and betrayed me, until I wondered if it was my own imagination that betrayed me into thinking I had sensed something.
Finally I took a bearing and was able to follow it down three corridors and through five doors—until I came to a door of dark red wood, and my key stuck in the lock. With a short scream, I yanked the key out. The ruddy, polished grain of the wood felt like it was smirking at me.
Frustration choked me like a stone rammed down my throat. The bones in my hands buzzed with the need to strike something, but I didn’t know which I hated more: the smiling door or my own stupid self. With a groan, I leaned my head against the door.
Something clicked, deep within the wood, and the door swung open. I stumbled forward into a small, square room of dark stone. It was completely bare except for a small Hermetic lamp sitting just inside the door and a mirror hanging on the opposite wall.
In the center of the mirror was a keyhole.
In an instant I was trying my key, but it wouldn’t even go in all the way, let alone turn the lock. I traced a Hermetic diagram for weakening bonds, but that also did nothing—of course, for it was a paltry technique I had learnt on my own when avoiding the studies Father had set for me. He’d never been interested in teaching me anything besides the sigils and diagrams necessary for his strategy. Maybe he’d worried I would use the knowledge to run. More likely, he just hadn’t thought it important. I grimaced, ready to turn and go.
My face faded from the mirror.
A moment later, the reflection of the room around me was gone too. Instead—slightly blurred, as if somebody had breathed upon the glass, but still quite recognizable—I saw Astraia sitting at the table with Father and Aunt Telomache. A black ribbon was tied in a bow around the back of my customary chair—apparently that was the proper way to show you had sold your daughter to a demon—but Astraia was laughing.
Laughing.
As if she’d never cried, as if I’d never been cruel to her. As if Father and Aunt Telomache had never lied to give her false hope. As if I’d never existed.
It felt like somebody had scooped out my chest and packed the cavity with ice. I didn’t even realize I was moving until my hands gripped the mirror frame and my nose was inches from the glass.
Father nodded and reached across the table to put his hand over Astraia’s. Aunt Telomache smiled, her face creasing into something almost gentle. Astraia wriggled in her seat, the center of the world.
“You,” I choked out. “Why couldn’t it have been you?”
Then I fled the room.
7
Finally I stopped in the ballroom that at night was the Heart of Water. My side ached from running and sweat prickled across my face. I sat down heavily and leaned back against the gold-painted wall to stare at the ceiling. Overhead, Apollo leered at Daphne, who fled from him in stylized terror; Persephone’s silent screams looked much more genuine as Hades dragged her down to the underworld. But at least she had a mother who did not rest until she’d saved her.
With a sigh, I pressed my hands against my face. There was a dull, throbbing pain behind my eyeballs; my feet and calves ached too. It occurred to me that I had not walked this much in a long time. Maybe Father should have made me practice marching through the hills as well as drawing Hermetic sigils.
Maybe I shouldn’t have spent so much time worrying about hiding my hatred from Astraia, when clearly it had troubled her so little.
No. No. I should be glad that I had failed to break my sister’s heart. Hadn’t I wished that I could take those words back and return the smile to Astraia’s face? I should be giving thanks to all the gods for receiving such a mercy.
But all I felt was desolation.
I was startled out of my thoughts by a sudden touch against my shoulder.
It was so gentle, for a moment to realize I thought it was a breath of air. Then I looked up and saw Shade hovering against the wall of Heart of Water, again no more than a shadow. The memory of his kisses last night—of me kissing him—rushed back, and I was on my feet in an instant.
“Time for dinner?” I said. I couldn’t think what to do with my hands: if I relaxed them, I looked like a limp doll, if I clenched them, I looked much too tense—
Shade caught one of my wrists and pulled me down the hallway, which solved that part of the problem.
“I must say I’m unimpressed by your master’s hospitality,” I went on, unable to bear the silence a moment longer. “He could have at least provided a map. Or lunch.”
Shade didn’t pause as he drew me forward. From this angle, I couldn’t even see the silhouette of his face, and the words tumbled out as if I were alone.