Oriana opens her eyes with a gasp. She is thirsty, and sore all over, and her left leg feels stuffed with broken glass. What happened to me?
In response, the memory slices through her mind like a knife, cold and sharp: air rushing into her face, the ground rising to meet her, her heartbeat the terrified flutter of a bird’s wings in her chest –
She turns her head. She is in her own chamber, lying in bed. Her father is sitting beside her, head bowed, clutching one of her hands between both of his.
“Father?” she says hoarsely. He looks up.
“Oriana.” His voice breaks. His eyes are wet with tears. “Thank the goddess.”
The rawness of his distress is like sand rubbed into her wounds. She bites her lip, her fingers tightening on his. Surely, in this one unguarded moment …
“Ifor,” she whispers. Please hear me, Father. Please. There will not be another chance for us. “Ifor pushed me.”
“Yes,” Cinemand agrees, and for one heart-stopping moment she believes – “He has been by your side all this time. He is consulting with the healer.”
“I tried to kill him.”
“Never fear.” Her father cups her cheek, attempting a reassuring smile. “Miladar says you will be able to walk in time for the wedding.”
“I failed.” She is not sure why she keeps going. Yet it feels urgent that she should speak the truth, even if no one can hear it. “He is stronger than me. Always stronger.”
“But you must not go up there again, Oriana. Promise me. It is too dangerous. You barely survived as it is. If not for Miladar, and the power of the Sapphire …”
“He will punish me again for trying to talk to you. Father, please – ”
“There, now.” A discomfited expression flits across his face, and he lets his hand fall. She touches her skin, feels the dampness of tears. “I have upset you. I should let you rest.”
“No,” she chokes out. “Do not leave me alone.”
Standing, he touches his lips to her forehead. “Get some sleep, Oriana. Everything will be all right.”
I’m sweating. All over, as if I’ve been running away from monsters. My leg hurts. Stuffed with broken glass. I reach for my name, but find two equally possible answers.
What –?
Where –?
I put it together, piece by piece: the angle of the early morning light creeping in through the gap in the curtains, the rasp of the fabric beneath my hands, that one corner of the ceiling mottled with damp. The smell of stale cooking, cheap body spray and industrial cleaner that slides its way under my door from the building beyond. Woodleigh House. I’m Alyssia Gale.
I hate it when they hit me as soon as I wake up.
Turning onto my side, I curl my knees up under the covers and concentrate on sorting through my memories. These ones are mine. These ones are not. This is who I am. All the while there’s a lump in my throat, a truth I don’t want to look in the eye. Because I can’t keep doing this. I’ve been offered a way out, and the sooner I take it, the better.
Yet something bone-deep inside me rejects the idea. It tells me this is who I am. It tells me I can’t abandon my friends. It tells me …
It tells me what I see is more important than anything else in my life.
And yet …
If we can recover your memories, you will no longer have the psychological need for these visions.
I’m making your attendance at school conditional on your attendance at therapy.
You can’t leave school, Alyssia. Not until the end of the year.
To hold on to my visions, I’d have to refuse Dr Whyte’s offer. Which means I’d have to leave school. Which probably means I’d have to leave Woodleigh. I’d have to give up everything. Every little sliver of the world I’ve snatched for myself, every grain of identity I’ve built from scratch. I’d have nothing left except my imaginary friends and their increasingly dark experiences. Whereas if I ditch them, I get to keep the rest of my life. And sure, it isn’t as if I love that, but at least it would be something like normality. Not only that, but if Dr Whyte is right, I’d finally get to find out who I am …
It should be an easy choice.
I lift my head and let it drop back down onto the pillow with a groan. Tomorrow is Monday: my scheduled return to Lakeview. Ms Bolt will receive the recommendation from my therapist that I continue seeing him. And either I’ll have to go with it, or I’ll have to fight everyone to be allowed to stay the way I am.
I don’t want to stay the way I am.
But nor do I want to change.
My room is steadily brightening. Real daylight, now, waking everything from its grey slumber to come alive in a thousand different colours. Squinting, I turn towards the window –
From her bed, Oriana can see through the window to a sliver of sky that’s rain-barrier blue, lightening with every heartbeat as the dawn rises. She was named for the dawn. A time of hope, her mother said. New life, born from darkness. Yet the truth is, all that darkness can bring forth is more darkness.
She has catalogued every one of her injuries, lying here. The bruising to her back and all the way down her right leg. The sharp twinge that seizes her spine every time she moves. Her left leg …
Lucky, perhaps, that she will never get to travel, as once she dreamed she would. Because she will never walk again without limping. Despite Miladar’s skill. Despite all the healing power of the Sapphire.
I should be grateful, she thinks with bitter dark humour. At least Ifor has given me a chance to put my knowledge to the test. Reading about healing is nothing like practising it, but her father will not hear of the latter. Which, of course, is at least partly her own fault. Because of what she saw her mother do. Because she failed to keep quiet about it.
A dying man. Crushed by a horse. Blood covers his body, shockingly bright. Peeping through the door, too frightened to make a sound, Oriana shivers all over. She wants Mama. But Mama does not know she is there. She is leaning over the man. In one hand she holds a stick, in the other a knife. And then –
Colours, everywhere. Viridian, cobalt, carmine, flax. They dance over Mama’s skin, and over the man’s. Mama lifts the stick and the knife, blazing with green and red light. The colours swirl, moving over and around each other, and for a moment Oriana can almost see –
The colours fade. The man sits up, still covered in blood. And he is no longer dying.
It was wonderful. The most wonderful thing she had ever seen in her six years of life. But when she spoke of it that evening, at the dinner table, her mother grew quiet and her father uneasy. She must be misremembering, he said. Imagining things. And such tales should not be repeated where the priests could hear them.
The healing sight is our goddess-gift, Oriana’s mother told her later, when they were alone. Shared by all women of the Bluepeace line. It shows us how to save lives – remember that, my dawnchild. Your father may not understand it, but there is never anything wrong with healing someone.
After her mother died, her father refused to let her spend her time on healing when there were so many other things for her to learn. And Oriana herself could not be sure if what she had seen was real or, in truth, a product of her imagination. Either way, she never saw anything like it again.
Her mother would have known Ifor for what he was. Maybe that is why he killed her.
Mama, she thinks in sudden anguish. I marry him the day after tomorrow. He will have everything. The Sapphire. Me. What more can I do?
But she already knows what her mother would have said: the same advice that followed every scraped knee and small frustration when Oriana was a child. The best way to fail is to stop trying.
The best way to fail is to stop trying.
I have to keep fighting him.
No. That isn’t me. I have to –
I have to be there for her.
As long as Oriana is alive, how can I abandon her? She thinks she’s going through it all alone, yet she isn’t. She has me. And despite the fact that I can’t do anything to help her, I feel like I should bear witness to what happens. At least, that way, one person knows the truth. Even if Oriana isn’t real. She still feels real, and somehow that’s what matters.
That’s enough, I tell my imagination sternly. It isn’t fair to show me all this. Not when I’m trying to make an objective decision.
Objective. Ha. Who am I kidding?
Still, I get up. I record what I saw, as Dr Whyte asked me to. I shower. I go down for breakfast, but I don’t eat much. All the while, I’m braced for another hit of fear and pain and loneliness – but Oriana doesn’t come back. For once, my unruly imagination is doing as it’s told. Yet I can’t stop thinking about her. What she must be feeling. The day after tomorrow. No matter how often I remind myself not to think of her as a real person, the worry persists.
I’m losing my grip, I want to tell Jenny or one of the other Woodleigh staff. I’ve let myself believe my own preposterous hallucinations. I need help. But I can’t quite bring myself to do it.
I go for a long run. I try to catch up on some of the work I missed while I was off school. I even force myself down to the common room to talk to people – a rare enough occurrence that Jenny flashes me an approving smile. Yet there’s a thin layer of glass between me and reality. I’m trapped between two worlds, and I can’t find my way back to where I’m meant to be.
Finally, I go to bed, but I can’t sleep. I turn over and over, but every part of my pillow is uncomfortable. I’m too hot. Then I’m too cold. After a while, I sit up and try to read, but I can’t focus on the words. I check my phone. I listen to music, but the sound in my ears puts me on edge. So I lie back down, exhausted, mind buzzing. I close my eyes, trying to focus on my breathing. But I’ve forgotten how to switch off.
With short, jerky movements, I turn over again, searching for the gap between the curtains. It remains resolutely dark. Oh, come on. I resist the urge to check the time yet again. It must be nearly dawn by now –
It’s nearly dawn. Which means he can finally start playing right.
As Fabithe deals the cards, he does his best not to glare at his opponents. It amuses the mercators’ sons – rich boys who’ve grown up living off the wealth of their double-dealing fathers – to spend their time on the wrong side of town, knowing they’ll be able to buy their way out of any trouble. Yet though Fabithe despises them for it, he never lets that come between him and their money.
Gathering up his hand, he sends a quick glance round the table. Four young men, a handful of years older than him. Clad in velvets and silks, a riot of colour against the drab walls of the room. The gold on their fingers and the jewels winking in their ears would feed several hungry families for a year. Behind them are multiple servants and bodyguards, clearly chosen as much for their appearance in livery as for their actual fighting prowess.
No doubt the boys have names, but they slipped out of Fabithe’s head as soon as he heard them. At least, that’s his excuse for renaming them Inebriated, Arrogant, Miserly and Vacuous.
“Your stakes, my lords?” He attempts a disarming smile. Lords they’re not, but the term is appropriate all the same – they’re leeches who benefit from the misery of others. And like all profiteering bastards throughout history, they assume that entitles them to respect instead of a punch in the face. Still, it’s reached the point in the evening when the stakes are finally worth something. Best to keep them happy, at least for now.
Once fifty silvers are on the table – ten of them reluctantly – he sits back and looks through his cards. An average hand. But that’s good enough.
“Your start, Korrin,” one of the boys says, in the artificial aristocratic accent all the mercators use. Fabithe grits his teeth. He doesn’t know what’s worse – to be born into conceited foolishness or to assume the mantle by choice.
Power is not the same as importance. The first principle of fola’po. These boys couldn’t learn to play it properly if they tried.
As soon as Arrogant lays down the first card, Fabithe gains control with the Seer of Pentacles, then backs it up with the Dragon. He knows this is reckless. So far he’s been making deliberate mistakes in his strategy, allowing himself to lose so when he begins winning they’ll not think anything of it. It would be foolish to present them with too much of a contrast. Yet somehow, he can’t bring himself to care.
As he could have predicted, Inebriated is the first to fall. His hand is a mess, and Fabithe has no trouble appropriating the useful parts of it to his own. Vacuous is next to go, much to the derision of Arrogant, who joins forces with Fabithe to break up Miserly’s part-formed company of Chalices. Miserly makes a brave attempt to fight back, till Fabithe brings out the Dragon and converts all the Chalices to his own use. Context is everything: the second principle of fola’po. Hand decreased to the point of worthlessness, Miserly sits back and stares in disbelief.
Fabithe turns his attention to his final opponent, Arrogant. His element is Spirit, and he’s collected almost all the Pentacles, which puts him in a strong position. Fabithe still holds the Seer, however, and after some tricky play he manages to detach a large part of the opposing army and immobilise it. Then he brings out his completed set of Rings and attacks the rest of the Pentacles till they collapse. Unity beats strength. The third and final principle.
And that’s that.
Somewhere in Fabithe’s mind, a shutter slams back down. He meets Arrogant’s furious gaze with outward calm, and silently curses his own lack of self-control. No chance they’ll play him again. He could have had three times the money off them, if he’d only shown a little restraint.
“Holy Five!” Inebriated is burbling. “Never seen anythin’ like it – and from the Water seat as well! How d’you do it, Takian? Have a drink, man!”
Fabithe swallows the contents of the offered cup, but he doesn’t stop watching Arrogant. Any moment now … he can’t stand losing, it’s clear in his eyes …
“You cheated. You must have done.” And there it is. A catch in the voice, a man on the edge of violence. Another enemy made.
Slowly and deliberately, Fabithe collects up the fifty silvers and threads them, one by one, onto the strings around his neck. Only when they’re knotted in place does he turn to Arrogant. “Knowing how to play the game is not the same as cheating.”
“We all know how to play the game!”
“Then maybe you need better tutors.” Turning to the others, Fabithe offers them an ironic bow. “Enjoy the rest of the night, my lords.”
He’s barely reached the foot of the stair leading to the alley before he hears footsteps behind him. Not this again. Stepping out into the pre-dawn light, he turns, expecting to see a bodyguard or two sent after him from the gaming room – but to his surprise it’s Arrogant, alone. Fabithe slips a knife from sleeve to palm.
“You did hear what happened to old Seregrass’s men?”
Without apparent concern, Arrogant keeps moving towards him; automatically, Fabithe steps back. Too late, he realises his mistake. He’s turned deeper into the alley, towards the dead end.
“I heard,” Arrogant says. “But I hardly think you will dare touch me.”
Fabithe suppresses a sigh. Of all the million bloody ways to make a living, why’d he have to choose this?
“I’ll not fight you,” he says. “I won, fair and square. And now I’m leaving.”
He tries to push past Arrogant – but the boy blocks his path, and a knife glints in his hand, too.
“As I thought, you are all bluster. You may hold your own against hired riff-raff, but faced with your superior …” His lip curls. “You know your place.”
Fabithe would happily have knocked him down for those four words alone, but he needs a clear escape route first. He allows himself to be manoeuvred backwards, in the direction of the mosaic of mirror fragments and coloured glass set into the wall at the end of the alley. A strange adornment, that – but then, what else is there to do with bits of broken glass? They can’t be destroyed. Everyone knows they might contain a piece of someone’s soul.
“Now,” Arrogant says. “Give me my money back.”
With an effort, Fabithe succeeds in dredging up the boy’s real name: Korrin Forrest. Not from a family that it would be wise to offend. Still, wisdom is overrated.
“Make me,” he says.
A gleam of pleasure enters Forrest’s eyes. His knife darts forward. The blade scores across Fabithe’s neck before snagging on one of the strings; it snaps, and silver coins scatter to the ground. That’s as far as it gets before Fabithe catches Forrest by the throat, spins him round and skewers him to the wall through one shoulder. Blood splatters across the decorative shards of glass, dulling their reflective shine. Forrest’s knife drops from his nerveless fingers.
“Well?” Fabithe says softly. “Still think I know my place?”
“My father owns half this city.” Forrest’s face is sallow, and sweat stands out on his forehead, but he spits his words with venom. “He will see to it that you are executed before the week is out.”
“Guard!” A young boy skids into the alley. One of the lookouts, posted a couple of streets away to warn the gamblers of any approaching law enforcement. His eyes widen at the knife in Fabithe’s hand and the blood staining Forrest’s shoulder, but he blurts out, “There’s a guard coming.”
Fabithe nods. “Go on upstairs and let them know.”
He turns back to Forrest. Since both gambling and brawling are illegal, they are in twice the danger of being arrested if they don’t leave straight away. Of course, Forrest has nothing worse to worry about than a span or two locked in a comfortable cell before his father pays to set him free, but no doubt he’d rather not receive the parental lecture that comes with it – or, worse, the decline in status and reputation among his cronies. And Fabithe himself … well, the city guards are becoming increasingly hard for him to bribe. He’s angered enough of them that they might rather see him strung up than take any more of his coin.
“As much fun as this was, I’ll be on my way,” he says. “You can tell your friends you beat me, if it makes you feel better.”
Forrest swears at him, fluently and vehemently, and Fabithe returns his earlier curl of the lip with interest.
“Careful, my lord. Your accent’s slipping.”
With that, he saunters off down the alley, walking as fast as he can without seeming to hurry. Petty, yes. But the scratch on his neck hurts, and he’s left ten silvers in the dirt back there – not to mention the fact that he’s going to have to stop somewhere and watch the proceedings from a safe distance, just to make sure none of the rich boys get caught and decide to tell tales.
All in all, he figures Forrest owes him.
I sit up, heart pounding. Run. Now. But I’m in a room, dark and silent. I clap a hand to the side of my neck, but feel no blood – only the lingering sting of steel.
“Alyssia Gale,” I breathe into the night. “I’m Alyssia Gale.”
Yet I hardly know what the words mean.
I don’t know what time it is – my phone is flat, the charger somewhere in the depths of my bag – but I pull on more clothes over the top of my T shirt, before sitting back down on the edge of the bed. As soon as the first light of dawn touches the sky, I’ll run. Go for a run. Not run away. Just … run.
Oriana’s wedding is tomorrow.
If I could get away from my own thoughts. Even for an hour. Maybe then …
Still think I know my place?
A glimmer of something catches my eye through the gap in the curtains, and I lift my head. Dawn – but no. Something else. A faint reddish light, brightening and dimming in time with my heartbeat. Not the sky outside. The window itself.
There’s a guard coming.
I slide off the bed, pushing my feet into my discarded boots. My pulse accelerates; the glow matches it, swift and urgent. It’s getting brighter. As if in a dream, I walk over to pull the curtains back further. My image gazes back at me from the softly illuminated glass, made pale and unreal by the night.
I’ll be on my way.
This isn’t a memory. An echo. I’m really hearing it.
Careful.
“Fabithe?” I whisper.
Something shifts, a refocusing from near to far. It’s like looking out of a bus window and seeing, at one and the same time, my own reflection and the landscape beyond. But instead of the home’s small garden, I see a shadow-darkened alley. I see people running, slipping away before the arrival of morning.
I’m so tired, I really have lost my grip on what’s real.
Yet I think, if I wanted to, I could follow them …
I hoist myself up, get one knee onto the windowsill. My reflection hovers before me, a shade against the stone of an alien city. I reach out to touch the double image – but instead of a smooth cold surface beneath my fingertips, there’s nothing. My fingers pass straight through the space where the glass should be.
The shock sends me swaying forward. I reach out desperately with my other hand, but there’s nothing to hold on to. Balance lost, I fall through the window and into the night.