I sit staring into the mirror, waiting to see Arcene again. I think I had seen glimpses of her before whenever I was holding or wearing silver. She was there in the corner of my eye when I wore my vest with silver buttons, a hazy figure in the workshop while I refined silver, but this was the first time I had seen her face to face and actually spoken to her.

What game should I invite her to play?

Something I can win. Something that won't allow her to cheat. I must bring my own game pieces, ones I am certain have no silver. Or should we play a game without pieces? I wonder if she is any good at riddles or other spoken games. If she only knows how to cheat, perhaps she isn't good at anything at all.

If that were the case, though, she wouldn't be so confident about letting me choose the next game. Maybe she doesn't feel she truly has anything at stake and only plays to watch me squirm. Driving her out doesn't seem to kill her. She will likely find some other silver to haunt someplace far away. Perhaps she will find someone to forge a pact with and become a true patron. The thought of someone else wielding her power wriggles within me like maggots.

But if you win, she will choose and she will cheat again. And if she keeps winning, you'll keep unraveling. Unraveling, unraveling beneath those silver eyes until there is nothing left to put together anymore.

If I lose, I will get to choose again. But I won't have a chance to drive her out if I continue.

There's only four more games. I can't act rashly. I have to pick something I know I can win.

A sharp hunger pain rips through me, and I remember that I can't remember the last time I'd eaten anything—or even what I had eaten. It's only then that I notice the sunlight streaming through my curtains. The lantern on my dresser has long gone cold, but the brilliant afternoon light puts it to shame anyway. In the sun, the mirror gleams beautifully, and a small part of me thinks it would suit Arcene better too.

I rise painstakingly from my place at the foot of the mirror, and I wobble on unsteady legs to the door. At first, I tug and it doesn't open. It takes another harsh pull with all my meager weight to pry it open. Voices flood the hall, frantic and overlapping. Mother is on another one of her tirades again. Weakly, fighting the hungry pain eating away at me, I make my way out toward the kitchen. I don't smell any food—just the sweet scent of Mother's afternoon honey lemon tea—but I'm sure no one will care if I raid the pantry, sparse as it is. As much as I miss our old cook since Father had to let her go, it's nice not to have anyone around to stop me from taking what I want.

As I trail closer to the drawing room, Mother's voice comes into focus. "I've already sent for a locksmith, but he won't be here until late tonight. I don't know what else to try. Nothing breaks it, nothing gets it open. What if something terrible has happened? I knew I should have been keeping an eye on him. He's not right in the head. We should have gotten him a dog or something. You can teach them to bark when something is wrong, can't you?" She's pacing, as she always is. Her tea sits forgotten on the table beside her favorite armchair, no longer puffing steam.

It must be Therion. His room locks from the inside, and he's always throwing a tantrum and shutting out the world. He'll return in time for dinner. That's how he is. I continue on my way, sweeping past the entrance to the drawing room as Father drawls some response.

I barely make it past the doorway when Mother lets out a sharp gasp, cutting off Father. "Kyren!" she calls, and her voice breaks.

I turn to meet her, but she's already on me, wrapping a blanket around my shoulders and fretting over how frail they are. She pulls me into her tight embrace, fingers digging into my back. Her breath hitches, and I could almost swear she's crying.

"Oh, Kyren." After a long moment, she steps back, touching a hand to my cheek. Her warm brown eyes are swimming in tears, as shaky as the smile she gives me. "Thank goodness—where have you b—no, come sit. Come sit. Azalea? Azalea, fetch him something warm to eat. He's shivering. Oh, Therion, get the fire going. And give him your seat. Come here, Kyren. Come sit. It's okay now. It's all going to be okay."

I follow her in numb silence because telling Mother no never works. The drawing room now buzzes with activity. Azalea hops up from the settee, dark curls flying and her pale pink skirt flaring out around her legs. Her face pinches as she eyes me before running out of the room. Therion gets to work with the fire, but the look he gives me over his shoulder is sharper than Azalea's, almost accusatory. He's nearly my mirror image, only his clothes fit right on his sturdy frame and his nose doesn't sit broken. I should have smashed it back then too. Then we'd really reflect each other.

The only one who hasn't moved is Father. He sits perfectly straight in his armchair, hands folded neatly in his lap and his face as cold and impassive as ever. It's a wonder the book beside him is shut, and it's the only indication that he's paying any attention to us at all. When his gaze sweeps over me, I shiver. It's empty as always.

I don't remember sitting. Mother sits beside me, whispering empty promises in my ear as she squeezes me like letting go means I'll disappear. My heart stutters a little, bewildered and perhaps frightened. Mother is never this affectionate. She's never sent Azalea and Therion for errands on my behalf either.

I don't dare to ask until Azalea returns with a half-full bowl of lukewarm soup and shoves it into my hands. She spins and plops down in Mother's empty chair, leaving Therion alone on the floor by the fireplace. My hand shakes as I lift my spoon, but a little taste is not enough to ease the gaping hole inside me. It's all I get before Mother opens her mouth again.

"Where have you been, Kyren? It's been— how long has it been?"

Father sniffs and pushes his glasses up his nose. "Days at least," he answers imprecisely. Father is never imprecise. His vagueness makes my chest tighten.

"Days, Kyren," Mother cuts in again. "You've been gone. I knocked on your door, but you didn't answer. I tried the knob, but it was locked. I tried everything. You wouldn't come out."

I glance between Father and Mother, waiting for the punchline. Neither have ever been fond of jokes, much less good at them, but I almost feel as though I should laugh. I lower the spoon. The room suddenly closes in around me. Days? No, it couldn't be. I played one game, perhaps barely spending an hour in the mirror. But then, how long did I sit there? Had that been days? My head threatens to split as I try to sift through the pieces and force them together. It's hazy, a memory—Father and Mother arguing in the study—but I cling to it for purchase. "I was just here last night. I overheard you talking, then I went back to my room. I spoke to the mirror."

Mother stands, and both Azalea and Therion look away. They can always tell when she's about to snap. Far better than I can. "Don't tell lies. You think you can up and disappear like that? You have duties, Kyren. To your father, to the workshop, to me. Honestly. Take this seriously."

I furrow my brow as I curl my fingers tighter around the wooden spoon and the wooden bowl. "I am telling the truth. How could I disappear anyway?" Father has the key to my room, a fact I should not have to spell out for the people who set me up in that room. My door is one of the few that locks from the outside, and my window doesn't open. I couldn't have left and come back from there, nor could I have locked myself in. "I was there with the mirror," I repeat, saying it more slowly this time since she clearly misunderstood the first time.

She flinches. She always does when the mirror is brought up.

"You were gone," Therion insists, a smug and triumphant look in his amber eyes. "I climbed up to your window two days ago. There was no one in the room."

"At least one of you is honest," Mother huffs, and she begins to pace again, fiddling with her fingers and surely missing her rings.

"I'm honest, Mama," Azalea adds. Ever the helpful one. She may be the eldest child, but she has the mental capacity of a spoiled eight year old—or maybe even a bird that flocks to shiny things in the dirt.

A flush creeps up my neck, hot and angry. The glare I cut Therion and Azalea is enough that both clamp their cowardly mouths shut. "I'm not lying," I spit, and I look helplessly at Father for good measure. He may be prickly, but he has always trusted me. More than Mother and the other two. "I met a spirit in the mirror. I know how to save our silver."

For the first time, Father's face lights up, glowing almost as brightly as the firelight dancing across it. He sits forward, elbows on his knees. "Tell me more, Kyren. What did you see?"

✶