I don't know how long I slept for, but night had long since set in outside my window. Clouds cover the sky and swallow the moon, draping my room in thick darkness. Through it, I can hardly even see the mirror, or perhaps that is because Arcene has not yet returned and her silver eyes aren't watching me.

I fumble for the oil lamp and struggle to light it. It is empty, and I get nothing more than sparks. Cursing, I scrounge for the spare candles in the top drawer of my nightstand, matches rattling when I yank it open. I strike one and light the candle.

Its tiny flame swathes my room in a warm, orange glow. The shadows part, and I see myself standing beside the nightstand in the mirror. The eyes staring back at me are dark as the blackness around me—my own.

"Arcene," I whisper, lifting the candle. Hot wax dribbles down the side. The barest touch burns, and I hiss as my hand jerks back and the candle flies out of my grip. It lands on the cold stone and rolls to the foot of the mirror where its flame can do no harm. Gingerly, I pluck it from the ground and set it in the candleholder this time, my face warm with shame and my hand itching where the wax touched it.

She doesn't laugh at me nor appear to pity me. She doesn't react at all, assuring me that she isn't here. When you wake, we will play.

I glance at the chess box, sitting in my bed. I remember curling around it, my arm draped across it, its corner digging into my face as I slept. My tongue runs over my teeth as I weigh my options, touching my grimy curls again. There's a stale scent in the room, like the scent of sickness, and I can only imagine it clinging to me. I'd hate to return triumphant in such a state, so I gather up the chess box, tuck it under my arm, and leave the room with it and the candle in hand.

I make my way to the washroom, lighting lamps as I pass them to chase away the shadows that lurk so thickly in every corner, every niche, everywhere I look. I don't head to my own washroom though, knowing there's no one to draw a bath for me now. Instead, I head for Therion's because it is equipped with clean running water. Father explained it to me once, how it worked and how only the wealthiest people could have such things and how only a few washrooms in this house had been modified to support it since we moved in, but I didn't care how it worked. It was yet another blessing of wealth that Therion had thought to steal from me with Mother's support.

Therion's soft snores drift through the hall as I whisk by his bedroom. I swing into his washroom as silent as a ghost, though part of me wouldn't mind if he saw me sneak in. What would he do to stop me? Attack me again? Break my nose a second time and crack my fragile exposed ribs while he's at it? He may be a jealous and violent thing, but even I don't think he's that stupid.

Father wouldn't allow me to come to harm anyway, not while I hold the fate of the family in my hands. If I don't get to play games with Arcene, they'll all get dragged down with me.

I light the lamps, shut the door, and leave the chess set on the floor by the entrance—where I can see it. There are no mirrors here, but I don't want Arcene to appear somehow and tamper with the chess pieces. They may be carved from wood, but I can imagine her silvering them just to gain control.

I glare at my ring. "Don't cheat," I tell my tiny, distorted reflection just in case she's there. Then I slip it off and cover it with a washcloth.

After a few minutes of running warm water into the large tub, I slip out of my clothes and climb in, sinking into the comfort. A different reflection stares up at me from the water, one that wavers as ripples drift across the surface, and one that can never be Arcene. The water is the only reflection we have untainted. I break my dark stare, afraid to let it linger.

I make certain to use the end of Therion's most expensive soaps, the ones he was so proud to have bought with his allowance from my efforts in making silver jewelry for the magistrate's daughter. I scrub until all of me is clean and the water is quite murky. When I leave, I dress in Therion's clean clothes hanging in the adjoining closet. The ring returns to its place on my finger— still bearing no sign that Arcene has deigned to return—and I collect the chess set before leaving.

I visit the kitchen next, where I find stale bread from yesterday and cheese. Before I have a chance to dig around for something more substantial, the ring tugs on my thumb. I stuff the bread and cheese into my mouth and hurry back to my room.

Arcene is there in the mirror when I arrive, kneeling patiently at the edge of the glass. She greets me with a smile, one that doesn't bear the same malice or eerie emptiness anymore. As I approach her, chess set in hand, she reaches out to me. "I assume you're ready to play?"

"Of course," I manage, slightly winded from running all the way back. My side still aches where I had hit the table yesterday. It trumps even the burn on my hand and the throbbing in my foot, but none of it matters anymore when she invites me again into the mirror world.

This time, I'm confident I can win. A fog has cleared from my mind, and I stand taller and straighter as she guides me to the card table. I suppress the smile that pulls the corners of my mouth. If I let her see, she'll regret allowing me the time to rest and recollect my scattered pieces. She'll prefer to play with a broken partner. My chances will be too slim then.

She sweeps into her seat, still gliding about as weightless as a ghost. Her silver hair falls gracefully down her back, her silk skirt resting purposefully around her like the delicate marble statues of ages past. At her gesture, I sit across from her and set the chess set on the table between us. "Explain the rules as you like," she says. Her smile grows. "And be as precise as you feel you must be. I shall abide by whatever you set."

"Do you know how to play chess?" I ask as I unpack the box and begin to set up the board. One piece at a time. Everything in its place. Arranged and ordered and orchestrated. I feel myself coming together again.

"Of course."

"You cannot use your power—silver or mirrors or... anything else you spirits use. Only your wits, the same way any human would." I pause, trying to scrape together anything else I must tell her. "The pieces are wooden to prevent your cheating. You must not turn them silver."

"I would never do such a thing. Besides, it wouldn't help me."

"It helped you fine in the matching game."

"Now, Kyren. Matching games are very different from war strategy games. Is there anything else you would like to tell me?"

"We will only play one game," I say firmly. No reason to go for three as she would. One is plenty to determine a victor, and her repetition becomes quite vain. "I shouldn't have to tell you not to cheat in any other way, but you are not allowed to touch your opponent's pieces unless capturing one under the game's standard rules."

"And the loser shall choose our next game?" She leans forward and plants her chin on her folded hands, elbows supporting her. Her silver lips pinch, suppressing a thin and impish smile.

"Yes, so I hope you have one in mind." I shift in my seat as I place the last piece, a black pawn. I lift my chin ever so slightly.

She laughs, and the sound is as perfect and sculpted as she. "It seems your confidence has returned, but yes. I always have a game in mind. Shall we begin? You may play white."

My face scrunches. "You would allow me the first turn?"

"You are the loser, after all." Before I can protest, she sits up and lets out a small gasp. "Might I add another clause to our overall agreement? For the five games."

"I suppose," I say slowly, drawing the words out as I narrow my eyes at her. A nervous buzz races through my veins. I don't know what else could be added without changing the agreement—nor how it would benefit her at this point.

Her fingertip lands against one of her pieces, the queen, and she rolls it around in its square. "We cannot repeat games," she explains. "Meaning we cannot replay the matching game nor chess after this. We can play the same kind of game—the loser may bring in a different strategy game like chess, but it cannot be chess. Does that seem fair?" She returns the queen to its place and lowers her head so that she is looking up at me through her thick lashes. "I wish to play many different games. To repeat them would make things quite dull."

I pinch my lips, taking in her words and pulling them apart. It seems fair. After all, I'd hate to win today only to have her pick the matching game again and guarantee my loss the next time. She would certainly hate for me to bring chess again if it meant I would win, as I am certain it will. Finally, I nod.

She grins, practically beaming as her silver shimmers. "Then let us begin."

The game is long. I struggle to remember the strategies my father taught me, and I begin to question whether he taught me any at all. Arcene proves to be an aggressive and organized player, leaving few openings for me to slip through to make any captures. I struggle to control the center and soon lose several pawns and a knight. By that point, my palms begin to sweat as I survey the mess of black and white tiles, uncertain of what I'm looking at and what I must do.

Arcene has wiped her face clean of emotion. She does not smile nor look enthralled or amused as one might expect from an old spirit who loves games. I cannot decipher her moves before she makes them, which results in weak moves on my side. One black knight moves in on my king. I send a bishop out to meet it, and lose my piece to another pawn. She diverts my attention easily with wild yet organized strategies that I cannot decipher.

I guard my king. She advances again. I have to take her mind off the game, get her to think about something else, so that I can breathe. We didn't agree the game had to be silent. Don't let her in, Kyren. How do I take her mind elsewhere? If you lose, you'll unravel again. And if you unravel, you won't be able to win. You'll be a prisoner forever. A plaything in the mirror. How do I get her to unravel? Pay attention, Kyren.

"How did you come to be in this house?" The words tumble out of me just as she starts to reach for another piece to bring into the fray—a knight, headed for another white pawn. Her gaze flicks to me, piercing as a blade. I swallow. "Or the mirror. Are you trapped? I heard spirits are confined to their elements until they form pacts and become true patrons, but how did you end up in the mirror?"

She says nothing, but her focus wavers and shifts from the path to my king, safely castled in the corner. She strays, taking a blank space instead. I let out a breath. I move to meet her and capture her piece, securing my position for another round.

"Who taught you to play so many games? The man who lived here before? Or did you only drive him mad?"

Her lips pinch, a thin line that pales the silver and lessens its shine. As her brows draw together, lines wrinkle her perfect silver skin like cracks. She advances on the board with another pawn, but I claim it easily. Close to her, guarding her king, sits her queen. If I can draw it out, the game will be as good as mine. Though she loves to play, it seems she hates questions, easily letting them dig into her, fester, and rot.

I remember doing this to Father. Whenever he would begin to overpower me, I would ask him about silver. He would lose his focus, rambling on and on about his precious silversmithing and how proud he was of me and the business, and then he would lose the game. I suppose I can cheat a little, too.

I continue to ask her questions until her strategy is wholly broken, claiming her foolishly squandered pieces one by one. Anger does not cross her face nor seem to simmer within her, but she never answers me. I ask about the silver, about her power, about her, about the mirror, the reflection, the haunting—everything I can think of, everything that burns within me.

When her queen ventures out and I finally manage to catch it, I smile as I begin to ask something else. But she sighs, cutting me off, and massages her temples. "I will not answer anything unless you win. Then and only then will I answer one question, any one of your choice, that I am able to."

If you win, she proudly declares like the board does not belong to me and my remaining pieces. It isn't long before I checkmate her king and grin up at her, dripping pride as a low laugh rolls through me.

But the smile she gives is enough to silence me, and I shrink back into my seat as she rises from hers. She folds her hands neatly in front of her, all regal as she looks down her nose at me. It's small, but the gleam in her eyes is not one that belongs to a loser.

"There." She circles me like a vulture, fingers trailing the back of my chair and jewelry clinking. "You've won against all odds. You may ask me a question."

One question. My heart stutters, hammering against my ribs, and I wipe my sweaty palms on my pants. I had thousands. How can I narrow it down to one?

But then it wriggles through me, crawling up my throat on spidery legs and burning my tongue as it digs in and forces open my jaw. "Instead of sending you away," I start, and I meet her eyes as I do. They're a pair of cold, hard silver, and I swallow before looking away. "I–if instead I became your sigil bearer, if I agree to make you my patron, what can you do for me?"

She hums to herself, skirts swishing as she moves back around my chair again. "I can restore your family's riches and increase the quality of your silver products a hundredfold. You would never fall into this rut again, and everyone would know the Blackwood family for their superior silversmithing. I would bless your family for generations so long as you and your children after you carry my sigil."

A heavy stone sinks to the pit of my gut, one that threatens to drag me down with it. My gaze locks on the chessboard, on Arcene's fallen king. It's everything Father wants to hear—that I could earn the Blackwoods a spirit's blessing and protection, and that I must do so no matter what it costs me. But the walls shrink around me the longer I stare at the toppled over king, a battle now frozen like the mirror room I sit in. My questions war inside me, and fear rises above it all, a cold and lethal thing that shivers up my spine and wraps around my neck.

"Or," Arcene whispers. Her breath tickles my ear this time, icy like she is empty inside. "If that is not your wish, I can do whatever you desire. As my sigil bearer, you decide."

"I decide?" I echo. Simple as it is, the words stitch my fragments together, and I inhale sharply as they warm me. My mind is blank, buzzing with emptiness. All I had wanted was for her to leave, but now a door has swung wide, allowing in the light of new possibilities. And it's endless, so long as I decide.

She sweeps around to her seat again, hair swinging behind her and allowing me another small glimpse of the sigil on her shoulder blade, one that is shaped vaguely like an hourglass. It is quickly covered against by her long and luxurious silver hair before she turns to grace me with another one of her less-than-friendly smiles. "I will spend some time deciding what game to play next. Until then, Kyren."

Arcene is all I can get out before the mirror room disappears, along with her, and I stand alone once more. 

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