Kieran

Outside the balcony on the West Wing, smoldering fire falls from the trees: orange and red and brown. The remnants of summer. I watch Eli and Bayorn straddle his horse while Isabelle rides carefully on Astrid’s humble, docile steed around the heap of leaves gathered on the ground. Even from this distance I can hear the soft crunches of hooves against leaves. Earlier, Astrid, too, had been on my mare until Valkyrie changed her mind and decided she wanted a good graze instead.

“I hear you have found a means to break your curse.”

I do not need to look to know who it is. Lady Selaena’s voice carries a very distinctly deep tone, quite like a cello’s lower pitch.

“Have I?” I turn around.

Today, she is not in the mirror. She leans against one of the furniture draped in graying sheets of cotton, donned in a deep green velvet dress that hugs her form. Her physical presence takes me by surprise – and somewhat concerns me.

“How may I be of service to you today, my lady? Have you come to see the girl for yourself?”

“Oh, no,” she shrugs nonchalantly. “I have already seen her. An adorable thing, is she not?”

“Quite.” I fix her with a steady look.

She notices this and rolls her eyes. “Don’t be so uptight, love. I am simply here to confirm your intentions from our past conversation. Do you wish to take the gamble on Isabelle, or will you still proceed with the alternative route I presented to you?”

The alternative route. The better one.

“The latter option, if you would,” I say pleasantly.

“Very well.” She moves to make her way towards the mirror. With a wave, the glass gives way to a foreign city I cannot recognize. “I just wanted you to be aware of the risk you will be undertaking.”

My eyes narrow. “What risk?”

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She glances over her shoulder with a wicked glint in her eye.

“It is the price one must pay when bargaining with magic.”

My feet cross the room before my mind can direct them to do so. I call out for her, but Selaena is quick; she has already disappeared into the mirror. When my chest touches the mirror, the glass has become solid again.

I let my breath vapor against the surface in defeat. Stepping back, I glare at the man before me. His wide eyes – those of my father’s – slowly relax as I try to recollect my thoughts.

The price one must pay when bargaining with magic.

Another surprise. Another problem. Will the inevitable damage be worth that which I am trying to win?

Someone’s footsteps shift against the dusty floors, startling me back to the present. Before I can even turn my head to look, a mass of red blocks my vision.

Astrid stands on her toes to try to block my view from the mirror. She wears an expression of concentrated scrutiny while she touches her hair with one hand and studies her own face in the mirror.

“Do you not have any other mirror in the entire wing?” She makes a show of trying to push my reflection out of the mirror.

“Alright, knock it off,” I try to feign irritation but fail. Instead, I gently elbow her out of the way.

She giggles at me before pouting dramatically. “Oh, Kieran. Always so brooding.”

“Oh, Astrid. Always so invasive.”

This does not irk her one bit. Instead, she produces something she has been holding behind her back and lifts it up for me to see.

“Imogen suggested you wear something a little smarter today. You know,” she offers to help me don the maroon jacket with seams which are shot through with silver thread. I comply and turn so that she can fit the sleeves over my arms. “Something to help you make a positive impression.”

“Between Bayorn and me, somehow I think there is little need for competition. My guardsman is unquestionably the more handsome one.”

Her hands work to adjust the lapels. My muscles tense against her casual touch.

“He surely is. Which is why this jacket might level the playing field.”

I search for her green eyes. Her dress today is only two shades lighter than Lady Selaena’s, symbolic of a better version of the magic that has entered my life. Undoubtedly, these past few months spent with her have been lived in a brighter light than any of the years before. For all of us.

“Appearances are not everything,” I tell her, though she already knows this.

“And yet you look upon your own handsome face with such contempt,” she sighs. When she says ‘handsome’, she says it in a matter-of-fact manner: she is being objective. “Why is that?”

“This face is no longer a source of pride for me. There is nothing about the way I look that pleases me anymore.”

“Well, for tonight, when you dine with Isabelle, you must look beyond what you see of yourself on the surface.” Her hands fall from my jacket. In her eyes there is only wistful compassion. “Appearances are not everything, right?”