Sindred [https://i.imgur.com/nVpsCtk.png]

SINDRED

I stumble through the palace kitchens in the near dark, trying not to knock into anything and cause a clatter. The cooks who are still puttering about at this hour don't look up from their work. It's the middle of the night. Bianca's room is basically a closet, set behind the biggest kitchen fireplace. There are extra pots and platters stacked beside her small mattress on the soot-streaked floor, a row of old brooms leaning against the wall. But she's hung a brightly dyed cloth from the low ceiling, draping it down over her sleeping area like a tent, and the heat from the fireplace permeates the small space. Somehow, it feels like the most luxurious room in the palace.

She wakes up when I open the door. I hear blankets rustle and can just make out the movement of her sitting up in the deep shadows of her little cave.

“Sindred?”

I'm standing there with one hand on the door handle, leaning against it. A sob catches in my throat.

In seconds, Bee is there, supporting my slumped body against hers, making soothing sounds as she leads me over to the mattress.

Bee runs her fingers down my face, places her cool palms against the heat of my cheeks. “Oh, sweetling, what happened?” she asks, gently pushing wet strands of hair away from my eyes.

My tears soak into her nightdress. I want to cling to her, but my arms are curled tightly around my own body and I can't seem to let go.

“Shh, shhh, it's alright. You don't have to tell me. Just rest. Lay here. I've got you.”

Hours or moments later, I wake out of a half-sleep with a lurch, like someone just gave me a sharp kick. My heart races at first, wondering where I am and how I got there, but then I smell the musty, slightly burnt smell of Bee's cozy sanctuary and my tension slowly starts to melt away.

“I'm afraid, Bee,” I whisper. “Of this 'gift’ I have. This curse. I'm so afraid.”

For a second I think she's asleep. I begin to hope she is. Then she asks, “Did someone hurt you?” I can tell she has a million other questions.

“No. Well.” I pull in a shaky breath. I don't want to think about what happened in that room, his veiny old hands against my skin, that desperate look he fixed on me. I feel more tears slip out of the corners of my eyes.

“Sindred,” Bee says. Nothing else, just my name. She is my closest friend. My only friend. And I never cry.

“You can't tell anyone, Bee. Not even Ezebel. Please, Bee. Don't even say I was here. Don't tell them I… I'm…"

“I would never,” Bee says firmly, and I suddenly feel guilty for my words, for not simply trusting her. Or at least making her believe I do.

“Gregorius Bertrand.” I swallow, do my best to steady my voice. “The Master of Coin.”

“Yes, I know him,” she says. A question hangs at the end of the statement.

“I was told to find out whether he… It's complicated. But Ezebel, and I suppose the king, need to know exactly what his relationship is to the church. Who his loyalties lie with. What his ambitions are. Where his money goes. I was told to go to him in his room, because… because I'm… I match the age of the girls he often seeks out, and I can use that to try and find out information. I've done things like that before, with others. But I always…”

I stop and focus on my breath, my heartbeat that seems so loud it must be filling the tiny space.

Then I try again. “He wasn't talking. He just kept snapping demeaning things while I knelt beside him, pouring more wine as he drank and drank. I knew I could make him open up to me. I could change him. It would just take a push. So simple. And he'd stop sneering at me, stop looming over me like a bird of prey. I'd be in control. I would get what I needed and… and get out.”

“What did you do?” Bee asks.

“Glamour.” I sob, because just saying the word sends a wave of fear coursing through me. “I used glamour. I do it all the time, without even trying. I'm not good at controlling it, even though I try. People just don't see me, don't notice my presence. Like I'm invisible. Like I'm no one.”

“I see you.”

My crying melds into a laugh, but it's one of gratitude and relief, not humor. I feel like by saying those words she threw me a rope when I was just about to drown. I grip her hand in the dark. "You're different. Everyone else… I make them see nothing. I make them ignore me. That's what I'm saying, Bee. I don't want them to see me. Maybe because I'm scared. Or maybe because… because I feel like no one, like I don't exist, I don't matter. I feel it so strongly.”

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She almost says something at this, a retort of some kind, I'm sure, but I continue before she can.

“I used this power to make him want me. I made him see me as something valuable, like a treasure, a goddess. I wanted him to worship me because I hated the way he stared at me with such disgust. But when I did it, I drew something up in myself in order to push it into him. Some kind of wanting, or longing. I think it was there all along, maybe, but not like that. Not overwhelming and engulfing and... And I… I…”

She's quiet, waiting for me to find the right words. I'm so glad I can't see the way she's looking at me.

I whisper, “This magic is dangerous, Bianca. I think it has more control of me than I will ever have over it.”

"Sindred…" There it is, the note of fear. Not concern for me, not this time. Fear of me, of what I've told her about myself. I knew it would be there, but I still hoped…

I don't know what I hoped for.

"I'm sorry," I say, so softly I'm sure she can't hear it. "I'm sorry, Bee," I repeat, taking one of her hands in both of mine. "I wish I didn't have to do this. I'm so sorry."

I feel her start to pull her hand away, but then she stops. She goes very still. After a moment, I let go of her hand and get up. When I open the door to leave, I look back. In the darkness, I can almost make out her face, blinking up at me.

"Sindred?" she asks. "Is that you, Sweet?"

"Shh, go back to sleep," I say. "I'm sorry to bother you so late. I'll come back in the morning."

"Alright," she mumbles. "G'night."

…

In the training room, we've set up a series of battle dummies, made of wooden stakes and straw-stuffed pillows, with crudely painted faces snarling.

Aisling finds me there, splashing at the dummies' torso with a dull wooden training knife. I'm out of breath, ducking and spinning against imaginary counterattacks. I glance up at her when the door opens, then narrow my eyes at the dummy before me with renewed zeal.

"I thought I'd find you here." Aisling is tall and willowy-strong, born on the streets and roaming them once again under Ezebel's command. Years ago she became my tutor in the fighting arts, now she was my occasional sparring partner. And a friend. The kind of friend who tells you things you didn't necessarily want to hear, and seeks you out when you'd been making an effort to be left alone.

"I heard a bit of what happened with Gregorious. The White Witch told me." She leans against the adjacent dummy, watching me with raised eyebrows. "You did good, Sin. Found out more than she expected. I was sure he was with the church. Do you know how useful it is to know he's not? How much that could help us?"

The side of my hand hits the dummy's hard wooden neck and I curse, dropping the knife with a clatter. I shake out my hand and glare at Aisling.

She laughs. "Don't look at me. I know I trained you better than that."

I sigh and bend to pick up the knife.

"What has you so rattled?" she asks.

"Nothing." I clench my hands, hoping she didn't notice the slight trembling.

"Come on, spill," she says. "Is it something that happened last night?"

"It doesn't matter," I say, sinking my weight and raising the knife in front of me. "None of it matters. Gregorious isn't our ally. He never will be. He won't win us this war. We're not even fighting." I slash at the dummy to punctuate my words. "We're just sneaking around. We might as well not exist."

"That's not true," Aisling says, but when I turn to look at her, I can see she is uncomfortable. She won't meet my eyes, looking instead at something near my left foot. Though my venting purposefully avoided the true reason for the pit of tension in my stomach and the buzzing under my skin, I've hit on something.

"Of course it's not," I say, softening my tone as best I can. I didn't mean to upset her, just expected her to laugh and call me dramatic. "She has a plan, right?" I give her a small smile. "This will all matter, someday." I sigh and wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. Strands of silver hair stick to my face.

Aisling doesn't say anything.

"There is a point to all of this. Right?" I ask.

"To be honest, Sin," Aisling sighs, runs a hand through her curtain of honey-blonde hair and looks up towards the ceiling, "I work for The White Witch to survive. We all do, don't we? It's this or their iron chains. I don't think much about the future, or worry about defeating villains. They're all bad, one way or another. Maybe we're bad, too." She laughs wryly. "I'm not saying we're the monsters of faerie stories, but I'm no maidenly priestess either. We've all done… things."

"I used glamour on him," I blurt out. "He wanted me to grovel at his feet, so I reached out into that feeling, drew it up in me, and twisted. I made him grovel. He told me his secrets and kissed the floor at my feet, and then as I walked away… he forgot I was ever there."

She doesn't respond.

I raise my chin, set my jaw. "I don't want to be afraid of what I am. They are in control because we let our fear hold us back. What if I can change things, change them?"

"At what cost?" she says softly. "My glamour lets me slip through the city unseen, lets me blend in. It gives me a subtle advantage, the element of surprise. That's it. Your gift… What you can do is different. It's something from the stories, the sort of thing they've been trying to eradicate ever since the war. If you wield your power as a weapon, I don't know what you could do. But what happens when you start a fire you can't control, when you shine a light on all of us who've made their home in the shadows? Can you protect us, like The White Witch does? Or would you doom us all?"

"I…" The spark of defiance that I'd been feeding all morning begins to fade. My shoulders slump.

"If there's anything I've learned in the world of rogues and outlaws, it's that fancy titles and flashy toys don't mean much," she continues. "You can win one battle only to be stabbed in the back the next time you sleep. I'm not saying you shouldn't try. Just be smart, Sindred. Learn to control your power." She reaches out to touch the hand at my side, still holding the knife. "A great weapon doesn't guarantee victory. It's how you use it."