The pause stretched uncomfortably long. The line of Neve’s jaw tremored, once. She reached up and touched the circlet, adjusting it on her brow.
“I suppose you can do that with no restraint now, can’t you?” There was something sly in the muffled voice. Something that pricked at the entire length of Red’s spine. “Now that Isla is dead. Now that you are Queen.”
Queen.
Even in her strange and suspended consciousness, Red felt the air leave her lungs, felt the breathy half-cry crawl its way up her throat.
In the mirror, Neve flinched, just barely.
Red felt Eammon’s hands on her shoulders, knew he’d heard her, sensed something was wrong. His touch drew her from the vision, smoke and silver-bright eclipsing Neve’s image, but not before she heard one last thing from that muffled voice.
“You could always offer more blood.”
Then— the sharp bite of floor into her knees, the paper-and-coffee scent of Eammon bent over her. “Red?” His voice was calm but laced with barely leashed panic. “Red, what’s wrong?”
“My mother is dead,” she murmured, eyes wide. “My mother is dead.”
Steam curled from the rapidly cooling mug of tea on the desk. Red couldn’t quite summon the energy to reach for it. She sat on the bed, arms looped around her knees, and watched the steam twist silently into the air. The book of poems sat next to it. She hadn’t realized she’d brought it with her from the tower until Eammon gently took it from her hands and laid it aside.
The murmurs at the bottom of the stairs were barely hidden by the pop of flames in the grate. “Are we sure it was real?” Lyra asked. “That mirror is ancient.”
“She saw her sister.” Eammon’s voice. “That’s what it was built for.”
“But its power is from the Wilderwood.” This from Fife, wary. “And things with the Wilderwood aren’t going well lately. How can you be sure it showed the truth?”
“I just know, Fife.” She could almost see Eammon rubbing at his dark-shrouded eyes. Then a sharp, brittle laugh. “Her mother is dead, and her sister is alone, and she’s in this shadows-damned forest when she has no reason to be.”
“No reason other than to help you,” Fife said.
Silence from Eammon.
When Lyra spoke, it was hushed. “Eammon, you aren’t thinking . . .”
“If she asked,” Eammon said, “I wouldn’t tell her no.” Heavy silence, just for a moment. Then, quiet: “I should’ve made her go when she first arrived. The Wilderwood has no hold on her, not enough to keep her here. Not like the others.”
There was no surprise in the resulting pause. Fife and Lyra had known something was different about Red, known it from that first day.
“So her being here doesn’t do much, anyway,” Fife murmured.
The low, rough sound of Eammon’s sigh. “No.”
Red squeezed her eyes shut.
Footsteps on the stairs. Eammon appeared, hair tangled around his shoulders. He frowned. “You’re still awake.”
“Can’t sleep.” Red reached over to the desk, took the now-lukewarm mug. The tea smelled pleasant, all spice and clove, and when she took a sip it warmed her chest.
Eammon held another glass in his hand, half filled with deep burgundy. He set it where the mug had been. “In case you need something stronger than tea.” A brief smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. “Lyra told me to warn you it’s not Meducian. Valdrek makes his own wine at the Edge, and I’m half convinced he waters it down before selling it to me.”
She tried to answer his smile, but her lips barely lifted.
Gingerly, Eammon sat in the chair before the desk, hands clasped between his knees. The quiet hung thick in the air, broken only by the crackle of flame, but it was comfortable.
Red drained the tea, stared into the dregs. “Now we know the mirror works. I suppose that’s a good thing.”
“I’m so sorry, Red.” He said it to the floor, like he didn’t think eye contact would be welcome. “Did she look . . . was your sister . . .”
“She looked tired. Tired and . . . and sad.” Red tried to shrug, but the movement was stilted. “I don’t know if Neve is ready to be Queen. To take our mother’s place.”
“I don’t think we’re ever ready to take on what our parents leave us.” Eammon studied his knotted hands. “The places left rarely fit.”
White knuckles belied his nonchalance, translating his statement into a language they both knew. His parents’ shadows, cast long and dark. The legacy of a Wolf and a Second Daughter neither of them had chosen.