I sniffle, wiping the blood from my face, and crawl to the mirror. When I take her hand and squeeze, it's cold in my grip. But I hold firm when she tries to pull me in. My head is spinning with questions, all of them too easily twisted into soothing, empty words. Sandpaper coats my tongue, but I try to wet my lips anyway before speaking. I taste the iron of blood.

"I will play," I finally say, for it was all I could muster.

She squeezes my hand in both of hers but doesn't step through the mirror—perhaps she can't, and all she can do is reach out or peer through. Bending down so that she is at eye level, she smiles, her silver eyes soft. All her harsh edges seem to have lessened, and the shine in her silver is brighter. "I'm on your side. I won't let them use you."

The tightness in my muscles unravels as I manage a stiff, halting sigh. Maybe she's right. I can't predict her, I can't wholly understand her, but spirits are always said to be difficult creatures. Yet they still find harmony with their sigil bearers. My cheek stings again, my side aches, my head burns. I have found more harmony with Arcene than with my own blood. Why should I trust them more than I trust her?

You're a tool, Kyren. A tool for gaining power and wealth.

I glance at the door, locked. A hazy memory slithers across the back of my mind from a time near the beginning of our arrival at the house, when this room was given to me. Somehow I know deep down that I'll never be able to get it open. I haven't the strength to break it down, and my shoulder aches at the thought. It's a heavy door and a strong lock. The windows don't open. There are no crawl spaces in this house that could get me out. I truly am trapped until Father determines otherwise.

Faint voices trickle through—Mother, arguing again, though I can't decipher her words. I set my jaw, certain she'll find my punishment fitting. She won't have to look at me this way, and she can let me fade from her fears.

Then, I allow Arcene to pull me into the mirror, to the frozen grey world beyond where there is nothing but us and the games we play. The cold of death inside eases the pain in my wounds. I breathe it in so that it can douse the uncertainty in my bones too.

Same as always, she guides me to my chair, cradling my wrist where Father sought to bruise me. Nobody will hurt you here, she seems to say. When her lips part, what she offers instead is, "I'm sorry it took me so long to return. I had to find the perfect game. But I have seen everything, and I regret that I could not act."

"So the mirror does confine you." I sit and stare numbly at the empty card table. My chess set is there along with the matching tiles from our first game, but they are shoved off to the side. Games we can no longer play. As she sits, moving in a sweep that rustles her white silk gown, I think back to her threats against Azalea. The mirror confines her only so long as there is no silver.

An ugly itchy hate skitters down to the tips of my fingers. I curl them into fists, pressing my nails into my palm until the crescent marks burn. If Father has any silver, can she have him take his own life with it? She seemed confident she could make Azalea do it.

Does he think he can use me and cast me aside?

Does he think Therion is my equal?

Does he think I will stay here quietly and obey his whims?

I will play my games, but not because Father has asked me to. I will do it because Arcene and I have agreed. And at the end, I will rest again, whole and unbroken.

Yes. I'll decide. Not Father. Not Therion. Not Mother.

Arcene skims her finger along the edge of the card table, tracing a slow and deliberate path out and back in, her bracelets clinking as she moves. "There are no pieces for today's game," she begins, glancing up at me through lowered lashes. "The rules are simple. We will play three rounds. Each round is composed of two turns: my turn and your turn. I will tell you two truths and one lie, and you must guess which is the lie. The person who guesses correctly the most times wins the game."

I sit straighter, narrowing my eyes as I fight to keep my face straight. Lies are something I feel confident in spinning, though I know Arcene is guarded enough that reading her will be difficult. Regardless, if I pay attention and guess right, this could be my chance to learn her secrets on top of everything else. All it will cost me is my own—if I have any left that the silver eyes have not already observed.

"Do you have anything to add?" she sweeps a hand to me, the one that does not clink with jewelry and instead extends from beneath her single sleeve. The playful gleam in her eyes stirs my own excitement, and I nod eagerly.

"You must be truthful in responding to the other person's guess," I say. "You cannot make your statements so vague that you are able to twist them to circumvent giving your opponent the win."

"That seems fair." She nods and steeples her fingers. "Shall we limit our truths and lies?"

"They must be personal." Beneath the table, I squeeze my hands together. Keep your voice even. Do not betray your emotions. "To prevent vague or academic truths." Just as I know she does not want me to offer the inner workings of my apprenticeship as truths, I do not want her to spit nebulous spirit knowledge at me. I don't know what kinds of facts a spirit could know, but I'm not eager to have her tell me the sky is blue and the grass is green.

A smile curves her lips and narrows her eyes. "Fishing, are we?"

My neck and ears flush. "Casting a smaller and more refined net. It will make the game more interesting. Besides, you don't answer my questions. You know plenty about me, I'm sure, and yet all I know is your name. And that you like the number three."

Then she laughs like her fate doesn't hinge on winning this game or knowing anything. "I do not know as much as you think, but I will agree to your terms."

I incline my head to her, hoping she won't notice the slight tremor in my body as nervous energy bounces through me. "The loser may go first."

"How kind," she banters, her tone dry. Sitting back in her chair, she sighs and pinches her brow in thought. Finally, she sits forward again and clears her throat—as if trying to convince me her silver could be tainted. "Alright, listen closely. I am one of many silver spirits, I have never been a patron to a sigil bearer, and my name was given to me by the man who previously lived in this house."

I let us lapse into silence, lips pressing together as I mull over her words. I search her face for a tell, anything that would give away her lie. I don't believe she is the only silver spirit though I had never met another, so that statement feels true enough. She may have been a patron in the past, which could explain her desperation for me to become her sigil bearer and make her one again, but how am I to know what became of the other one? Even if he died naturally, she is sure to know that his absence might unsettle me. Perhaps her anxiousness for a sigil bearer is a mark that she has never had one before; she yearns for the unknown connection almost as much as I do. As for her name...

It clicks into place, and I feel foolish for taking so long to put it together. No self-respecting spirit would ever let a human name them. "The last one," I say. "That's the lie."

Her smile is cold and uninviting, testing me. "Very good, Kyren. My name has always been mine. It is me, and I am it. Silvery. Arcene."

"You made it easy. You told me them in order: two truths and a lie."

"I would never intentionally make it easy for you. That would demean you as my opponent." Silver hair spills over her bare shoulder as she tips her head toward me. "Your turn."

I let out a small breath as I sit back and twist my ring. I've already won once. I can't make it too easy or she will catch up. Twist. Focus Kyren. Twist. What can you tell her that will fool her? Twist. What can you tell her that won't cost you much? Twist. Or should it cost me something? A lie that costs something is more believable. No, not yet. Keep your costly secrets close. Exchange them for something greater another time.

When I have my words, I meet Arcene's sharp gaze. "I made this ring, I have graduated from my apprenticeship, and I am Mother's second child."

She clicks her tongue against her teeth and leans across the table, her silver aglow with ghostly white flames. "Now, now, have you misunderstood the rules? You are to tell two truths, not two lies."

I shove to my feet, confusion knotting my insides. "I did tell two truths. Don't try to twist my arm and make me spill which it is just because you have no guesses."

"I know you are your Mother's second child, yes. The first being Azalea, your half-sister—there's one truth. I know you are still an apprentice, so that is one lie. The second lie is this." She points down to my ring, now tightly grasped in my white-knuckled fist. "You did not make that ring."

"Yes, I did," I snap, and now the flush of anger creeps into my cheeks. "It is one of the first things I crafted on my own. That's why it doesn't fit properly—I measured it incorrectly."

Arcene's eyes light up and her mouth opens in a small but silent oh. Then she buries it behind her hand and chuckles. "You never thought to check the inscription on the inside?"

I furrow my brow and clamp my mouth shut as I glance down at my hand. I let my fingers uncurl, lifting my open palm and the ring on it up to my face. There should be no inscription. I never carved one. But as I pluck the ring between my fingers and turn it so it catches the ghostly light, the silver gleams. On the inside of the band, there is an inscription.

To my love, Izara. Till death do us part. - Darius

Izara. Mother. Her panicked question rings in my ears—the one she choked out when she first noticed the ring. Where did you get this ring? she had asked, and the thought of never seeing it again had fanned the fearful flame inside her.

Somehow, in my muddled state, I had confused Mother's ring for mine. Where had I picked it up? I can't remember. My breaths come short, and I fall back into my chair, pressing a hand to my temples. I didn't save it from being tossed out. It never was tossed out.

I had found it hidden in a box, a small and unassuming thing made of copper and wood, stashed in an alcove in the hall. The study wing? No. It must have been the common wing, near the drawing room. Somewhere Father would not go unless he was asked.

Mother never meant to toss this ring. She meant to hide it.

And Darius was not my father. He was Azalea's. Death had certainly parted them.

The laughter that escapes from me is bitter, and it rings hollow as it echoes through the still and dead air. "So my mother is a liar too." I rake my fingers through my hair, shoving it back from my face. My nails scrape my scalp, digging in and almost drawing blood. I suck in a sharp breath. "Toss the silver, she said. Get rid of it all. She tossed the ring Father made for her, saying it was tainted—but why did she keep this one?"

"They all kept something," Arcene says, fiddling with her bracelets. "Your mother kept the ring, Azalea kept that necklace, Therion kept a small pocket watch, and your father kept an exquisite silver-cased fountain pen."

"What?" My voice cracks as I shout, and I think for a moment about lunging across the table and wringing the answers from Arcene. But then she stands, pity written clearly over her face, and I bide my time instead.

"I'm sorry. I thought you knew." Arcene comes to my side, a cold, silvery hand against my arm in a comforting touch. "I thought perhaps you all agreed that some things are too sentimental to be rid of and everyone was allowed to keep something—so long as they hid it, of course."

"No!" I cry, shaking her off. My feet carry me away from the table, from the game, and I pace the length of the mirror room. They blamed me, scorned me, berated me for hoarding the silver, yet here they are, all doing the same thing for selfish reasons. I notice Arcene watching me, and I can't help but snap. "Keeping the silver was how I could notice the differences in my reflection, the jerky movements—I kept it for my sanity! But them?" I laugh again and again until I am struggling to breathe. "What did they keep it for? To make me the fool and the disobedient son? To blame me? They hate me. That's what it is. They can't stand that you came to me."

She nods in sage agreement. "Envy corrupts. Perhaps they have always hated you. Think back, Kyren."

"Mother never liked me," I say, and then I'm pacing again. Back and forth, back and forth. I pressed my fist to my chin, folding my other arm across my middle. "She's always thought me a liar, even when I speak the truth. She's always tried to turn Father against me and to elevate Therion to my position. She's the one who called me silver tongued, who told me to get rid of the silver, who was so undone by fear."

Arcene is floating beside me, cool fingers curling around my shoulders. "And how did your nose get so crooked? Didn't your brother break it? Didn't he give you the wound on your head?" She touches the sore spot, and it soothes. "And Azalea—didn't she aid this spiral by spending money that wasn't hers? Wasn't it yours?"

"She never thinks about anyone but herself!" I meet Arcene's eye, and she touches and soothes the wound on my cheek next. "Father did this to me," I say.

"I know. I pity you, Kyren." She takes my hands in hers. Her feet do not touch the ground, and she floats just above it but bends down so that she can meet my eye equally. "Why don't we stop our game here? I will let you out. You must settle this matter with your family."

"They'll never believe me. They'll find some way to turn this against me." I begin to tremble in spite of myself as fear roots itself inside me, its branches spreading through every inch of me before they begin to bloom. "They want to use me just as much as they want to use you."

Her smile returns, and this time its edges are sharp. A new game has sparked the excitement in her eyes. "Then you must bring evidence of their plot, yes? I know where they keep their silver. I will tell you where to find it. You will not be their plaything anymore."

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