In her dream, she was floating. There was a subtle bob and sway, the shifting groan of timbers. She was at sea. It was not the Blessing of Burntisland. It was the Argiver. Looking down at herself, she saw she was wearing a rich gold gown, a costly dress from the master seamstresses of Dahomey. It fit her well, hugging her hips and draping featherlight against her skin. How strange it was that she could remember even the smallest details, the intricate seams and beaded designs woven into the fabric. It was the gown of a queen, and she had not worn its like since abandoning her destiny as a hetaera.
Maia rubbed her arm, feeling the smooth fabric there. It was so real. Were dreams normally this vivid? Collier had left her to change, she remembered. Her husband then—but no longer. Her stomach was worried, wrought with the anticipation of his return. Maia needed to tell him something. What did she need to tell him? Her mind was a syrupy fog. She had to confess something. When she had married him, she had not been herself. The urge to speak the truth to him burned on her tongue. She had to confess herself, had to give him the chance to cast her aside. He would show her a box of jewels. In her mind’s eye, she could see them.
No, they were in a box on the table in front of her. The wooden box with velvet seating was open, and she saw the lustrous baubles wink up at her. She remembered the stones . . . gems that were bluish green . . . the color of her eyes, he had said. Her hands moved of their own will as they lifted the necklace and fastened it around her neck, her skin feeling the poke of the little hasps as she arranged it. The necklace was made of gold and stunning gems, and she could feel its weight just beneath her kystrel.
Confusion warped Maia’s mind. No, Collier wore her kystrel. And yet she could feel the medallion nestled against her bosom. It was warm, almost burning. Her breastbone was stained with creeping, ivy-like tattoos. They were small, like a tiny budding flower. A taller wave made the ship lurch, and Maia gripped the table and watched the jewelry box slide. The swell ended and then she reached in and took the bracelets, sliding them onto her wrists. There was a spot for earrings, but they were missing. She would have to wait for them until Maia was dead.
The thought sent a spasm of alarm through Maia. She was asleep, yes, but this was not a dream. She was leagues away, on a boat. As she tried to clear her vision, she saw that she was not in the Argiver at all. This was not the captain’s quarters, but a lush room fit for a ruler. There was an enormous canopied bed, and gowns had been tossed hither and yon. There were still more hanging from wooden pegs and stacked on chests. The room was rife with the smell of the sea as well as the overpowering smell of cider.
On the far wall, there was an oval mirror. Maia was certain she was in someone else’s body . . . and she thought she knew whose. If the woman would only look at herself in the mirror, she would know for sure.
As if in obedience to the thought, she felt the woman rise.
So you wish to see yourself? Very well.
The mirror showed a shaft of light as the door opened and a man drew in his head. He had a pointed beard, a thick muscled chest, and a rakish look. There was a sword at his hip. He was easily forty, and sweeps of gray meshed with his dark locks. He was unfamiliar to Maia.
“You look . . . dazzling,” the man said in a thick accent, absorbing her with his eyes. Maia felt the pulse of the kystrel and could sense that it inflamed the man’s passions even more. He stared at her, his eyes hungry, his mouth slightly open as if he were dumbfounded. Maia could sense his desire and passion as a physical force.
Maia saw all of this through the reflection in the mirror. The door was somewhere behind her, but the mirror revealed it. And then another image blocked her view. The woman herself.
Murer. Maia recognized her haughty face, but she saw in her eyes a vengefulness that looked both cruel and alluring. It was like looking at herself, and Maia’s senses reeled from the sight. Murer was wearing a wig, the hair a deep brown to match Maia’s own locks. The gown, the jewels, the hair. A sickening horror spread through her.
Ah, you understand at last. I am you, Maia. I am what you should have become. And he will mourn the day he spurned me in that dance. He will beg for my mercy and forgiveness, but he shall not get it. They are coming for you, Maia. I will claim the crown you stole from me after all your bodies are burned.
“Where are we, Captain?” Murer asked the man with the pointed beard, smoothing the fabric of the golden gown seductively, knowing he could see her reflection in the mirror.
“We have arrived at the riverhead, my lady. We will be docked within the hour at Lisyeux.” His voice throbbed with emotion. He could hardly keep his composure.
Murer smoothed some hair over her ears, a small frown forming on her face when she did not feel earrings there. Ah, but you have them, Maia.
“I have the cloak for you, my lady,” the captain said, entering with a deep velvet shroud. “You wished to be seen arriving from the abbey. There will be a coach brought straightaway.”
“Very well. That is all,” Murer said, waving him away with a dismissive look.
“Is there another way I may serve you?” he asked pleadingly.
“Be gone,” she said curtly, but gave him a sly look as he shut the door.
Maia struggled to force herself awake. She shook against the grip that held her and felt her left shoulder burn. The pain, oh, the pain—