I See Myself in Your Eyes

Summary: Hail the new Queen, as the fairest of them all. Or perish.

Author’s Note: This isn’t rocket surgery…sorry. I had to say that. Best malapropism ever when I watched LA Ink this week, I love that show. Enter the Wicked Stepmother, stage left.

Raven loosened the pins from her elaborate hairstyle, already bored with it. Clodagh hurried over with the brush. “Let me, milady.”

“Why? You made a muck of it the first time,” she scolded, sneering. The expression marred her golden good looks. Clodagh looked taken aback.

“Oh. I beg your pardon, milady. Let me arrange it differently, this time. Perhaps some nice curls?”

“They’d better be nice, or I’ll box your ears,” Raven promised, letting her blue eyes drift back toward the mirror. She privately preened, enjoying her reflection and how her new ermine-trimmed green gown fit and flattered her. Her large, creamy breasts rose up from the décolletage temptingly. She ran her finger over the ermine running along the neckline, letting her thumb graze her nipple from over the velvet. She shivered when it hardened, pleased with herself.

Her pampering was interrupted by a high-pitched squall. Raven snorted in disgust.

“Will someone please shut that troublesome brat up,” she snapped.

“Milady, he’s just an infant. He just needs to nurse.”

“Then get his wet nurse, and quickly. I’m tired of listening to him mewling and screeching, he makes my head ache and my stomach turn. Ugh…children. Miserable little things. Why bother? Why not simply own a rabid dog to destroy everything and slaver and drool and feed on you?”

“Er…milady…?”

“Comb me out. And don’t make it hurt.” Clodagh gulped. She could have sworn Raven’s eyes glittered an eerie gold at her hissed warning.

She looked up in relief at the low knock on the door. “A moment, milady.”

“Be quick about it.” Clodagh opened the door and breathed a sigh as she met Wilfred’s stiff presence. The older servant had dark circles under his eyes and he looked drawn.

“His Majesty desires an audience with his queen.”

“Her Majesty is partaking of her morning toilette.” Neither of them remarked that it was nearly noon, and that the queen had been lounging in her quarters, unable to decide at length on a suitable gown, or on which pair of jewel-crusted slippers to wear. It was torture. Clodagh longed to pitch herself from the chamber window.

Emily was spared the brunt of Raven’s cruelties, but only due to the fact that the new queen was constantly ordering her out of her chamber to take back her meals when they were prepared improperly. The scullery maid began a custom of spitting into the queen’s custard under the guise of tasting it to see if it was too hot to eat.

“Perhaps let her Majesty know that her king is expecting guests this afternoon from over the border,” Wilfred suggested, “and that he would appreciate her assistance in overseeing the preparations.”

“Preparations?” Raven replied, in a voice that suddenly oozed ambrosia and honey. She turned in her seat and held up a hand for Clodagh to pause in her grooming. “You may let my husband know that I will be downstairs directly, once I am finished making myself presentable for him.”

“As you wish, Highness.” Wilfred bowed and left, grateful that she was in a reasonable mood and that he wouldn’t have to return to Jean-Luc with a disappointing report.

*

Jean-Luc contemplated a snifter of brandy in his study, watching the sunlight filter through the amber liquid. He downed it in an ungentlemanly gulp and let it burn its way through him, leaving behind a mellow haze, still not enough to take the edge off his grief. Outside, the trees grew lush with new green buds, heralding the arrival of spring. Wildflowers bloomed in a riot of colors across the countryside, and they appeared abundantly in centerpieces at his table every morning, but Jean-Luc couldn’t appreciate their simple beauty.

Thankfully, his new wife’s beauty was a significant distraction seated across from him at each meal. Lady Raven Darkholme, a Swedish princess he’d met at court following Natalie’s burial, was bold in her bid for his attentions, something he found he appreciated. She entertained him with stories of her travels, knew several languages, and like Natalie, was splendid at needlework.

Jean-Luc’s bed was cold and empty at night. His chambers were devoid of Natalie’s laughter, and oh, how it hurt, to see the babe she bore with eyes so much like hers.

All except for their color. Remy was a special child, indeed.

It took Wilfred three days to coax Jean-Luc from his chamber to bathe and take a decent meal, during which time he couldn’t bear to see the baby. Guilt swamped him over his absence, when little Remy had already lost his mother, but Jean-Luc was beside himself. And it was such a shame, Wilfred pondered. He was such a beautiful, perfectly formed little boy.

Over the next three months, little Remy filled out and grew healthy, rosy-cheeked and plump. He was a good-natured baby, only crying over the usual complaints like hunger, wet nappies or the need for his soft bed. His wet nurse and all of the women employed at the castle adored him, so he never lacked for attention, but as if he sensed the connection to his father, he always stilled his gurgles and laughter as soon as Jean-Luc paused in the doorway to visit. He watched his father intently and with an intelligence that surpassed infancy. The canny expression and awareness of him in his son’s eyes stabbed Jean-Luc; his son humbled him.

The dynamic changed as soon as Remy babbled his first word.

Jean-Luc was drawn to the nursery by the sound of low, contented cooing. He cracked open the door and eased inside, nearly silent. The nurse, N’Dare, glanced up from the small chest of the baby’s clothing that she was folding. “Hello, Sire.” She rose and curtsied politely. Jean-Luc nodded, then gestured for her to sit.

“How is he?”

“His young Majesty is just waking up from a nap,” she told him cheerfully. “He’s such a happy baby, Highness. He just lies there nicely, playing when he first gets up.” N’Dare spoke with a rich, deep voice and strong accent from her native land, and her skin was such a dark, lustrous mahogany that it gleamed. Remy loved to hear her sing to him when she rocked him to sleep.

N’Dare lost her own babe to kidnappers mere days before Remy was born. Her husband, David, looked up from splitting logs for firewood to the sound of his wife’s deafening scream. He rushed to the tiny nursery in their sparely furnished cottage and found the crib empty. There was no blood or signs of an animal entering the house, nor was anything destroyed. The crib and the room were both still in immaculate condition, but the window gaped open, left that way when someone crept inside.

She was a lovely woman, tall and generously built and with soft, exotic features. Her coffee brown eyes were sad but kind, large and slanted elegantly. They now watched her king with concern.

“Sire? Wouldn’t you like to hold him? He misses you.” On cue, Remy ceased chewing on the edge of his blanket and peeked up at him. A plump little dimpled hand reached for him, batting the side of the crib. Jean-Luc rested his hand on the frame, feeling the texture of the expensive damask cloth trimmed in tassels and silk. Remy hooted and grinned up at him.

The beginnings of a smile cracked Jean-Luc’s lips.

Remy gurgled and drooled, kicking his little legs free of the blanket. “Papa!” he crowed. N’Dare clapped her hands.

“His first word!” she cried proudly, eyes shining. “Oh, Highness, wasn’t that wonderful? His first word! And here you were, right when he said it! He knows who you are!”

Jean-Luc swallowed around a lump and he felt his eyes fill. He nodded. “Aye,” he murmured. “He does. He knows me.” He reached down and gently tickled the plump belly. Remy grinned again and let out a full-bodied chuckle. In the corridors of Jean-Luc’s heart, someone opened a door, and rays of sunlight shone through the darkness, returning at long last, no longer stolen.

From that moment, they were inseparable.

*

Remy grew into a bright, cheerful little boy, and his skill for mischief was legend. He followed the chimney sweep into the hearth one day and played with handfuls of the ashes, hopelessly soiling his royal suits. N’Dare scolded him soundly, but she never remained upset with him for long; her prince was the replacement for the child of her womb, but Remy was the child of her heart.

His nurse and governess proved a far more loving mother than the second queen. She tsked as a dirty, giggling Remy ran naked past the doorway to her chamber, N’Dare and Clodagh in pursuit.

“Master Remy! Naughty child! Come here for your bath!”

“No bath!” he taunted as he rounded the corner. Raven nearly tripped over him and shrank back in disgust.

“Oh, my word! FILTHY little URCHIN!” She stumbled back, checking her gown for signs that he might have brushed against her, examining it for offending contaminants. Raven shuddered. Oh, how she despised her stepson.

Her own lady’s maid, Irene, beckoned to her. “He’s just a child, dear heart.” The blind woman continued arranging a bouquet of flowers on the side table to Raven’s liking, even though she couldn’t see what colors any of them were. But her gnarled, skinny fingers handled them expertly, feeling the lengths and thicknesses of their stems, manually counting their petals, knowing their shapes and scents to create the right balance in their arrangement. She was a homely, elderly crone and her rheumy eyes were once blue, but were now faded to an eerie silver. Her voice was scratchy and low, and she was stooped and petite. Irene favored plain gowns in contrast to Raven’s flamboyant wardrobe, and her quiet, calm demeanor complemented Raven’s histrionics and mood swings.

“Wretched creature,” Raven hissed. Irene abandoned her efforts with the flowers and headed to the side table. She extracted a tiny, elegant fan trimmed with gold lace. Raven sat at the vanity, brushing her hair impatiently. “Why is it so damned stuffy in here?” Before Raven could ask for it, Irene snapped open the fan deftly and began to swish drafts of refreshing, cool air across her cheeks. “Oh, bless you.”

“Your ear bobs are in the red box,” she reminded her blandly as Raven began to rummage through the jumble of items in front of her.

“I want the red ones!” Raven snapped.

“They are.” Sure enough, she flipped open the box dubiously, and the rubies winked up at her from their velvet-lined nest.

“Fetch me my rose water.”

“It’s right there,” Irene sighed, taking Raven’s hand and wrapping it around the small purple bottle, which she’d taken out of its drawer before she began fiddling with the spotted lilies. “Victor will be here with a scroll for you in an hour. Give or take.”

“A scroll?” Raven frowned. “From who?”

“An admirer,” she shrugged.

“Surely you don’t mean to tell me you don’t know?” Raven accused.

“No. That’s how he signed the letter he sent with it,” Irene sniffed. “Do give me some credit, mistress.” It was a reasonable request; Irene’s instincts had never failed Raven before. Irene had the gift of psychic sight. Her spirit guides revealed the future to her in visions only she could see, an irony that never failed to make her wistful.

“Perhaps I’d be more generous in my regard of you if you weren’t such a flibbertigibbet,” Raven complained, but there was a hint of affection in her voice.

“Yes, but I’m YOUR flibbertigibbet,” Irene corrected her absently as she picked up Raven’s hairbrush. She ran it through the mass of golden curls in long, lazy strokes.

“Hmmph…” Raven attached the ear bobs and toyed with them, pleased at how they looked with the gleaming, red satin gown. The décolletage was unsuitably deep for mid-afternoon, and the creamy hills of her breasts rose up from the snug basque. Raven was tall and gifted with an hourglass figure. Her seamstresses emphasized it to brilliant and expensive effect with various silks and sari fabric, velvets and taffetas, brocades and chiffons, never skimping on ribbons and lace. They plied their needles, creating exquisite embroidery along sleeves and hems, often until their fingers blistered, but the effect was worth it.

Raven offered Jean-Luc an account that Irene had been her governess as a child, and that she retained the older woman as a lady’s maid. She told herself that her husband didn’t need to know that she’d spun a tiny white lie, bending the truth just a hair…Irene and Raven were raised in the same cradle. Raven was a foundling.

*


Her father was hunting one day and found a huge silver wolf snuffling around a large oak tree, worrying the edge of a dark brown bundle on the ground. He nearly ignored it until he heard a tiny voice squalling from within it.

“A child!” he cried, right before he grasped his blade by the tip and flung it neatly, cleaving neatly through the animal’s skull. He hurried forward and kicked aside the brute’s carcass. His hand shook as he lifted aside the blanket.

“Great saints,” he cursed. The child took his breath away, not in appreciation of its beauty, but in naked shock. He recoiled at first from the sight of cobalt blue skin and the almost reptilian yellow eyes that blinked up at him. The infant was squalling and screaming up a storm, tiny fists waving in the air. She had hair as red as blood, not even a civilized auburn hue. Surely the gods found offense with the child’s mother to allow such an eerie, unearthly combination. But out of humanitarian instinct, he reached for the child, scooping it into his arms and supporting the fragile head. She whimpered and shrieked, then began to chew on her tiny fingers, rooting for nourishment. “It’s all right, little wretch. Let’s get you home.”

He didn’t ponder why the child was out in the open, alone. Surely no mother in her right mind would desire a child such as this…

He bundled her up more deeply into her blanket and carried her away on his horse. He rode through a sudden storm that brewed from previously pristine white clouds before he reached the forest clearing. By the time he reached his hovel, the sky opened up and vomited seeming buckets of stinging, freezing rain. Crows took flight into the darkness, seeming to wink in and out of the bilious clouds and bare ebon branches. He stomped inside, dropping the wolf’s carcass beside the hearth. His wife looked up with a start, eyes growing round at the sight of the beast. She gaped at him.

“What on earth took you so long, I was worried shitless!” she snapped. She struggled up from her seat and clumped over with her uneven gait due to a badly clubbed foot. She tugged insistently on his coat sleeve. “What’s that?”

“I think you mean ‘who,’ wife,” he muttered. “Lovely to see you again, too, my delicate flower.”

“Hand it over, don’t give me that nonsense,” she told him, holding out her arms impatiently. He gently hefted the child over, lifting aside the blankets.

She nearly had a heart attack, mouth gaping open to scream. The hunter clapped his hand sharply over her mouth, lest he wake the child again, who still hadn’t eaten and who abused his ears with her shrieks on the ride home.

“Shhhhh,” he hushed. “The mite’s a demon, I’ll give you that, both in looks and temperament.”

“Then why did you bring it home? Surely the child will rile up the evil eye! Haven’t we had enough of curses, husband? Have you gone completely daft?” She indicated her cane in the corner of the room. He sighed, and then turned his back on her as he trudged back to their tiny bedroom.

He peered inside at the cradle, where his daughter lay napping obediently, warm and well-fed. He smiled at the sight of her reddish curls and baby plumpness, the way her cheeks made suckling motions as though she’d enjoyed her last meal. The child had dirt-poor parents, but they gave her everything humanly possible on their limited means.

All except for her sight. Little Irene Adler was born completely blind. The tiny cottage was full of religious artifacts, crosses, candles and other totems to ward off what his wife had named a curse that fell over their home. They didn’t need any more hardship, but the hunter was adamant.

“She has nothing. She was abandoned. No one can choose the family they’re born into, but you can choose to offer a family to a child who has none,” he determined. “Feed her. Poor mite’s starving something fierce.” His wife grumbled, but she took the squirming, snuffling infant to her rocker by the hearth, lowered the blanket, and put her to her breast. Sure enough, the child nursed ravenously, clinging to her source of nourishment with grasping fingers that tangled in the woman’s braid and nicked her breast. She made a note to herself to trim her tiny fingernails; who had taken such poor care of this child?

*

Raven was named for the flock of birds that her father watched the night that he found her. His wife grumbled at him that he invited more misfortune into their lives, naming an innocent after a token of bad fortune, but he scoffed. It was a strong, straightforward name for a child who would need it. Life would be unforgiving for a freak, even if she was an intelligent, striking misfit.

When both girls reached a certain age, they each acquired gifts that defied the “curse” over their house and turned their lives onto a different path. Raven led Irene to school, protectively sheltering the smaller girl from things like tree branches and protruding, craggy stones and roots.

“Watch out for that bird. It’ll get tangled in your hair,” her sister warned.

“What bird? There aren’t any,” Raven accused. But before she could blister her sister’s ears with her usual barbs, a small starling divebombed them, chittering as it swooped down for the small twig of berries that somehow tangled in Raven’s hair on their journey. Raven shrieked and sobbed, swatting at it as she danced about. “IRENE! GET IT OUT! GET IT OUT! OH, GODS, PLEASE! Don’t let this nasty, shitty thing stay in my hair!”

“Hush,” Irene scolded, reaching for her sister and holding her still. Raven continued to sob and work up a fuss, wringing her hands as Irene attempted to fix her predicament. Irene nimbly shooed away the bird, freeing its talons from a clump of Raven’s hair, still the same vague, deep red. She also found the twig, working it loose and tossing it away.

“Catastrophe averted!” she announced cheerfully, patting Raven’s cheek. She drew her hand back curiously, alarmed that it was damp. “Don’t cry.”

“M’not,” Raven snapped, dashing away tears where more threatened to fall. She sniffled as she continued walking down their winding path. She tried to ignore her sister’s entreaties drifting after her.

“’Twas just a bird,” Irene reminded her.

“You’re just a rotten brat,” Raven reminded her just as sweetly. Irene giggled, then trotted after her.

School was an ordeal for them both. Both girls were brilliant pupils; Irene managed to have excellent handwriting despite her disability. But their classmates were merciless. Raven often came home with ink in her hair and the nasty older boys often snuck snails into their lunch pails or threw frogs down their backs. The other girls in their class whispered and gossiped viciously about them, feeling no pity for either of them. The scoffed at their shabby clothing, despite that the girls were always impeccably clean and well-groomed. Their dresses often came back torn when they returned home from play yard skirmishes that Raven frequently won.

“That wasn’t very ladylike,” Irene reminded her when Raven gave the butcher’s fat, pig-eyed son a black eye for tripping Irene.

“Shut up, sister,” she muttered. “I couldn’t give two shits.”

But she could, and Raven did. She prayed endless nights as a little girl but was slowly losing hope of rising above their dismal, cursed existence. She no longer took solace in her mother’s well-meaning lies and tales of ugly ducklings that grew into beautiful swans. She knew what her mirror told her everyday, no matter how often she begged it for a different account.

She was hideous. A freak.

One day, in a fit of pique, she hurled it across the room, shattering it into tiny, glittering shards. Irene ran into their suite at the sound of the crash.

“I hate myself,” Raven whispered. Irene nodded, then crossed the room smoothly and silently. She dropped down beside Raven where she knelt despondently on the floor and folded her into a sheltering embrace.

“I wish I were different. I wish I were perfect,” she wept as she clung to Irene, stroking her sister’s hair, an obedient, acceptable shade of strawberry blonde.

“You are different.”

“That’s not what I mean. Not different from everyone else. Different from how I am now,” she argued miserably, sniffling. “I wish I could show them all. If I were beautiful, I could trod them beneath my heel. I would have the last laugh. I’d have money, and we’d live in the finest house. We’d wear the finest silk and sup on the finest meat. And they’d never put ink in my hair again.”

“You enjoying kicking people’s arses. You’ve grown awfully good at it,” Irene reminded her sagely.

“When I’m beautiful, I’ll do it because I want to. Not because I have to,” she promised. Irene didn’t point out that Raven said “when,” not “if.” She also didn’t share the vision that she had, fleeting but stunning the moment she heard the mirror crash. Aye, Raven would be perfect. Stunningly beautiful. Cruel. Ruthless.

All in the blink of an eye.

*

Irene grew quieter and more introspective over the next few days. Spring was proving warm and balmy. The forest the girls inhabited became a sprawling tangle of bounty. They picked apples and harvested blackberries from among the brambles, heedless of occasional scratches and snags. They no longer spoke of the broken mirror, nor of the welts on Raven’s back when their father whipped her soundly for breaking something so precious and irreplaceable. Irene suddenly looked up from the basket she was filling with the succulent little fruits and grabbed Raven’s wrist, stilling her.

“Hush,” she hissed.

“Irene, what-!”

“They’re watching us,” she whispered. “Come. Hurry.” She grasped Raven’s wrist and dragged her behind her, running into a small copse.

“There’s no one here,” Raven huffed after her.

“Quiet!” Irene demanded. Her sister’s pulse was thundering beneath Raven’s thumb, and her stomach twisted with tension. Their footfalls were uneven, leaves and twigs crackling under their feet. They ran until their lungs burned. “Stay away from that tree,” Irene warned, nodding to a huge, gnarled oak.

“There’s no one!” Raven insisted, but she felt an eerie, tingling flush down her spine. Her sister was so adamant that they were in peril, and she trusted Irene ever since the incident in the woods. Birds chattered above them, reminding her grimly of the starling. Raven hated birdsong and the sight of the creatures dining on grubs, lustily tugging worms from the ground with their razor-sharp beaks. They sickened her.

So they waited it out, hiding behind a fallen, rotted hollow log. They ignored the fox kits wandering among the brush and the ants that crawled over their feet. Raven and Irene’s hearts hammered long, exhaustive minutes.

“Wait until the sun changes its position in the sky. Until the shade from those branches falls over that rock,” Irene whispered. “Then it will be safe.”

“Irene,” Raven demanded in a low, angry whisper, “what the hell did you see?”

“Don’t swear, sister.”

“Don’t make me throttle you. I will, Irene. You know I will. Tell me.”

“I saw you crying. Screaming. You were in the dark. There were worms crawling over your face. And…” Irene paused. A tear trickled down her cheek. “There was so much blood. All over your hands. You got some on me. And then…”

“And then what?” Raven felt the blood rush from her cheeks. She was about to faint. Her hand gripped Irene’s for strength, but her sister had little to offer.

“You left me.”

*

They waited until they fell into a fitful doze. Raven awoke with a stiff neck. Irene stirred slightly, head burrowed into Raven’s shoulder for comfort. Raven rubbed at the kink, smothering a grumble.

“I’m tired of this. Let’s go.” She pulled a sulking Irene to her feet. “Grab the basket.”

“Raven,” Irene told her. “Wait.”

“Irene, it’s late!” She began to head for the clearing. She stopped at the oak and pointed. “Look, there’s the apple bushel. Father will kill us if we don’t bring it back-“

Her words were cut short as two pairs of hands grabbed her. Irene screamed.

*

Dusk.

It was a perilous time, when nocturnal creatures began to stir from their burrows and when the shadows merged overhead, blurring the sure path home.

They threw her into an abandoned hunter’s pit after binding her hands. Raven bruised her shoulders and shins when she tumbled, scraping her skin badly enough to bleed. They ignored Irene’s cries, slapping her for her troubles.

“Don’t get hysterical. Your sister’s an ugly bitch, but she’s tough as an ox. She’ll find her way out.”

“You can help her,” another voice taunted Irene. “Oh, that’s right…you can’t.”

“You’re… horrid,” Irene sobbed. Her face was a ruin of tears and dirt and her hair was a tangled mess, full of twigs and torn loose from her neat plaits. They toyed with her, knocking her about, shoving her. She felt the boys’ rough hands, but it was the girl’s dulcet voice that she despised the most.

Valerie Cooper was the bane of Raven’s existence. She was the miller’s daughter, and her parents were obnoxiously rich. She was spoiled, an only child, and overindulged. As a result, Valerie was a cruel, selfish little girl despite her golden good looks. The other children in the village’s school flocked to her, delighting in her pranks and the insults she rained on the two village freaks, the Adler twins.

She grew into a beautiful sixteen-year-old woman, blonde, buxom and creamy-skinned. Her hair was a molten spill of honey-streaked curls and she had large, wide-spaced eyes like blue sapphires. Raven silently envied her perfect white teeth and how her cheeks dimpled when she smiled.

Valerie towered over the weeping blind girl. “Don’t forget Raven’s present,” she sneered. Mortimer, a short, homely boy who worshipped Valerie, ambled over with a basket. He upended it, scattering its contents down upon Raven where she knelt in the pit. He guffawed as the clumps of dirt rained upon her, bringing with it wriggling bugs and grubs. Raven screamed long and shrill.

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOO! PLEASE, STOP!” Her sobs were pitiful. She spat out the dirt, then shrieked when a worm wriggled across her nose from her hair. She tumbled over from where she knelt, then rolled to her back to inch back from the barrage of filth, revulsed.

“Stay down in the dirt where you belong. You’re just an insect, Raven. Ugly, worthless freak,” Valerie spat. She ran over to Irene and caught the berry basket by the handle.

“Give that back,” Irene demanded through her teeth. Valerie laughed scornfully. Who did this girl think she was to tell her what to do? Valerie reached in and grabbed a handful of berries, cramming some into her mouth.

“Mmmmm. Yummy. Thanks for working so hard to pick these for me,” she jibed. Mortimer and the stocky older boy with Slavic features, Stavros, sniggered as they devoured most of the fruit, then dumped out the rest, stomping them into the ground. Irene pawed the ground for a rock, then jumped to her feet when she found one. She hurled it at the sound of the boys’ voices.

“Get her out!” she screamed. Her throat ached, but they were done with listening to her.

“You get her out,” Valerie mocked. “C’mon. I’m late for supper.”

“The hell with that,” Stavros muttered, laughing nastily. He eyed Irene with an ugly, calculating gleam in his eye. “Raven likes her present so much, it’d be criminal not to give this one a present, too.”

“She should be thanking us for getting rid of that wretch. Now you won’t have your sister dragging you down, Irene!”

“She…she n-never dragged me down,” Irene wept. She stared hatefully at them all, even though she couldn’t see them, and they were unnerved by her glare and the fire in her sightless eyes. Then she yelped as she felt two pairs of hands grabbing at her again, dragging her away from the sound of Valerie’s voice. “LET GO OF ME!”

Raven felt her heart seized by panic at the change in her sister’s cries. She hated the sound of the boys’ laughter and the scuffle of Irene’s feet across the dry brush and leaves. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” she demanded.

“Mind your business, bitch,” Mortimer assured her. “We’re just having fun with her!”

Raven listened, horrified, at the sound of tearing fabric and a slap against what sounded like human flesh. Her heart pounded and she couldn’t quell the wretched cold sweat breaking out on her skin or the sick feeling in her stomach that she couldn’t defend Irene. Pure, sweet Irene, who never felt anyone touch her with anything but kindness, carefully sheltered by her foster sister and doting parents.

Irene struggled, but they tore the sleeve of her dress as they tried to yank down her bodice. She chafed at the feeling of the cold ground as they shoved her down. “She’s got better tits than you, Val,” Mortimer laughed as he pushed down the homespun fabric and exposed a pert, shapely breast. He rolled the soft, pale pink nipple roughly, sickening her with the feel of his unwelcome hands. Stavros held her wrists up over her head while Mortimer fumbled with her skirts, avoiding her kicking feet. He shoved her legs apart, cursing as she managed to bring her booted heel down on his hand. “OW!” He slapped her again, and she whimpered when he tossed her skirt up, grinning at the sight of her long, well-rounded thighs and the plain white bloomers. “Not all that fancy, Stav.”

“Like an old granny’s,” his friend agreed. His cock stiffened at the sight of her when Mort yanked down the drawers, revealing her sweet little sex, its plump lips covered by a sparse, soft mound of reddish hair. “A real redhead, though, I’ll give her that.” Irene began screaming again when he stroked her belly and combed his fingers down into the curling patch. Her stomach pitched, and she began to gag.

“Quit wasting your time with her,” Valerie snapped, but the boys were tired of her voice after a while. They nodded to each other.

“Let’s ditch her.”

“Right.” They dragged Irene to up and snatched her away, running with her several meters away. The dumped her behind a tree and overpowered her again. She was weak and out of breath and hated the feel of the hard ground at her back, the smell of their sweat and harsh breath as one of them suckled her breasts, now that her dress was completely torn open and both of them were bare. Fingers invaded her, probing her snug, unyielding wetness. “Tight little thing.”

“Won’t be for long.”

She screamed, an ear-splitting sound that tore from her throat when she already thought she had no voice left. She didn’t see their faces grinning evilly down into her face as they pushed themselves into her, burning and tearing at her insides. “Gettin’ tired of listenin’ to her, but she feels nice.”

“The virgins always do. All nice and hot and wet,” Mort grunted. Irene sobbed and hiccupped, wondering when they would have enough and leave her alone. But all along, she thought of Raven, what her sister had to be hearing, knowing she was just as helpless as she was. That thought allowed her to slowly retreat inside herself, into an emotional black hole that swallowed up her pain, briefly taking it away. She no longer heard them, no longer paid attention to their rutting or the blood dripping down in runnels until the cleft of her bottom.

*


For the next hour, all Raven could do was listen to her sister’s weak sobs above her.

She didn’t know when she first realized Irene’s hurried steps were approaching the rim of the trap. Irene was clutching her bodice shut, and she looked like hell, face streaked with tears and her hair a mad tangle.

“I don’t know how to get you out,” Irene kept muttering. “Lord, please, tell me what to do…”

“Don’t cry for me,” Raven grunted. The grubs and worms were attacking her, slithering beneath her clothing and crawling over her sore skin. She still smarted from her fall, and the cold bit into her tiny wounds. Overhead, a crow cawed from the huge oak, warning them that they’d reached the witching hour. Their mother was beside herself by now.

“Don’t cry for me, Irene,” Raven insisted as she struggled. She toyed with the ropes binding her wrists. Her movements rubbed her skin raw, but she continued to writhe and manipulate her arms.

I wish I were long and skinny as a snake, she mused. With long, skinny arms and fingers.

Through an act of will, she breathed in stertorous, harsh breaths, working her shoulders until she almost dislocated one, and her hand slipped free of its bond. “Shit!” she cried as she rolled to her stomach. Her arm flopped limply to the ground and her palm smacked the leaves. She throbbed, but she was no longer bound. Raven flexed her blood-starved fingers, hating the resulting, painful tingles.

A trick of the light made her hand look…dessicated. Her fingers seemed longer, almost wraithlike in the darkness. She closed her eyes, then shook herself. When she opened them again, her fingers slowly shrank back to their usual condition.

“What the hell?”

“RAVEN!” Irene cried. “Are you there?”

“I’m here, sister. I…untied myself.”

“RAVEN! THANK THE GODS! COME BACK! PLEASE!” Irene peered over the edge of the pit, long tattered plaits dangling down like ropes around her dirty, tear-streaked face. Irene was sickly and pale in the fading light.

“I’m coming,” Raven promised. She stood and limped to the side of the pit, looking for anything that she could boost herself up on. She found a few tree roots and tugged on them, but it didn’t help. Raven kicked off her shabby slippers in the hope that she could get a foot hold, and she attempted to climb. “Find a stick, Irene,” Raven suggested.

“Raven, I’m so scared,” Irene sobbed.

“Damn it,” Raven hissed. It grew colder, and she felt the grubs squirming around her toes, making her skin crawl. “Damn bugs. I hope the shitty birds eat you for their supper.” If Raven had wings, she could loft herself up and fly them home, but it wasn’t in the cards. Once again, she wished she were a snake, or better yet, a lizard with long, sharp talons and keen dexterity.

Her fingers dug into the dirt effortlessly, giving her purchase. Her shoulders strained and burned with the attempts to levy herself up. Her toes, as if wanting to aid her climb, lengthened and stretched, and she punched them into the wall of stony, hard-packed earth, clinging to the ropy vines and roots as easily as her hands would rope. She stretched, reached and grasped, one arm after the other, seeing the growing radiance from the moon slicking over her blue-black flesh. Raven’s lungs burned and the rocks bit into her skin, making her bleed.

She rose from the pit, struggling for air. Her airway was constricted with fear and her chest felt tight. Her breastbone and shoulders screamed for relief as she hoisted herself out, pushing herself up onto the waiting grass.

“Raven!” Irene gasped. “Tell me it’s you!”

“It’s me, you ninny,” she muttered, coughing. She spat out a grub, then vomited onto the ground.

When she saw Irene up close and realized what had been done to her, she wanted to vomit again.

*


The girls wandered home, dragging the apple bushel along. Irene never released Raven’s hand, but it felt stranger to her, somehow. Her fingers were icy and seemed longer, bonier, and she could have sworn one of Raven’s nails inadvertently nicked her flesh. She huddled close to her for warmth and found little.

“Thank the gods that you’re all right,” she whispered.

“I’m not all right,” Raven said bluntly. She wanted to shake her sister and scream at her, You’re not all right, either!

“You’re here with me,” Irene pronounced.

“I yearn to be anywhere but here.” They heard crickets as they reached their cottage, and Raven stopped Irene a few yards from the door. “I need to wash.”

“Mother will be furious.”

“She already is. We’re filthy. Might as well bring the water in.” She wandered toward the well and found the rickety bucket. Raven turned the crank, lowering it down until she heard the splash and deep gurgle. She pulled it up, hating the burn of the rusty metal against her scraped palm. The water was crystal-clear and caught the reflection of the moonlight. She dipped her hands into it gratefully and splashed her face, scrubbing at her grimy cheeks.

“Don’t dirty it up like that,” Irene scolded.

“Get your own,” Raven snapped. She continued to wash her face and hands, but then she paused, really taking a look at them.

Her fingers resembled lizard’s talons. Her nails curved into cruel-looking, hooked black claws, hard as slate. Her blue skin was a strange, crepey texture, not wrinkled, but wearing a coat of what looked like scales.

“Gods preserve me,” Raven whispered. “Irene…”

“Raven, come inside.”

“I can’t. Look.”

“I can’t,” Irene sighed, “or have you forgotten.”

“Come here, please?” Irene had never heard her sister sound meek a day in her life. She didn’t like this meek, frightened voice calling her over to the well, not one bit. Irene joined her at the stone-lined wall.

“What’s the matter?”

“Take my hand.” Irene obeyed her, again disconcerted by how cold her skin was. She let her fingers run over her knuckles, fingers and nails slowly.

“Raven…are those…claws?”

“Aye,” she mumbled.

“All right, then.” And with that, Irene fainted dead away. Raven shrieked.

*


The next few minutes were a blur.

Raven was hustled inside, and she cringed back from her mother’s glare and her father’s shouts as he carried Irene inside. He railed at her soundly, cursing her stupidity for keeping Irene out so late and endangering their safety. Raven’s mother settled Irene in her room, laying her on the bed and covering her with a heavy blanket.

“What’s wrong with you?” he cried.

“Father…!”

“How DARE you!” He swung out one large hand and slapped her hard, making her ears ring. Raven spun away and wept, rocking herself. She hid from his shame, but he took her shoulders and shook her. “How dare you fail your sister like that! Bringing her home, cold and dirty! And you’re in no better shape! How could y-“ The sight of his foster daughter stole his words and breath away. “Gods above…what happened to you?”

“She’s a changeling,” her mother whispered. She dropped the cool cloth she’d just dunked into a basin to bathe Irene’s face and neck.

“No. She always was,” her father replied numbly. “Now…she’s a demon.”

“Father…no. Please.”

It was true. Irene hadn’t been able to see the fine coat of scales that now covered Raven from head to toe. Only now, she only had three on each foot, revealed by her now bare feet. She’d worried her father would thrash her for losing shoes that cost good money. Raven’s amber eyes shimmered in the firelight, pupils slitting reflexively to handle the increased radiance as she widened them.

“Get. Out.”

“Father, NO!”

“OUT! OUT OF MY HOUSE, DEMON! WITCH’S SPAWN!” You’ve cursed our home long enough!”

It flew in the face of his hopes, destroying the last of them. He’d always prayed that it wasn’t just their lot in life to dwell in misfortune and poverty, and he wanted to believe that Raven and Irene would each make their way, somehow. It was foolish to ask his god every night to let each of them marry generous men of means who wouldn’t beat them or trod them under their heels, but he couldn’t hold out much hope for Raven. She was intelligent and cunning but hideous. Even her tall, winsome body wouldn’t hold any appeal with its gleaming blue skin and that…he could only call it devilishly red hair how, the color of blood.

Raven’s hands rose to cover her mouth, and she turned to her mother, beseeching her.

“I have nothing for you here. I disown you. Leave our home.”

“Mother!”

“You’re not my child.”

As the second child who fed at her breast whirled and ran out of the house, her heart broke. Irene wept, but she held her back in bed when she tried to get up to run after Raven.

*


The change was Valerie’s fault.

Raven told herself this as she ran. She didn’t know where she was going. She ignored the pebbles and leaves beneath her feet, even when they grew slick with her blood. She stumbled, recovered, and ran again toward the edge of the village, drawn by the torches and lanterns outside. Food. She hadn’t eaten, and her stomach clawed with hunger.

She could steal something, perhaps. She hoped someone had a loaf of bread cooling on a sill, or that she could steal scraps before they were thrown out. Like her.

She hid in a garden and found some radishes. She barely paused to clean them off on her filthy skirts before she crammed them into her mouth. She rooted and dug in the freshly turned dirt and found a potato. She dug into it with a sharp-edged rock, puncturing the side of the tuber enough to reveal its succulent white flesh. She crunched down into it, heedless of the bland taste. If she managed to build a fire later, she could cook the rest of it, but in the meantime, she needed nourishment.

Raven took her leave when she heard a man hurry out from the back door of the well-appointed cottage. “Get out of my yard!” he cried, holding up his lantern. “I know yer out there, ya little brats!” Raven scooted behind the trees before he could get a good look at her. He made a low threat to come back with his rifle, making up Raven’s mind for her that it was a good idea to skedaddle.

She ran again, keeping to back yards and alleys. She hated the dank feel of the cold ground on her bare feet; she could need to steal some shoes, too, or find some wrappings of some kind. An old burlap flour sack provided the temporary solution to her problem when she tore it in two and bound her feet.

The sounds of laughter jarred her from her musings. She heard the high, feminine giggle of the one girl she despised most.

“She had worms in her hair,” she said distastefully.

“Val, that’s cruel,” tsked Emma, another of Raven’s classmates, who was just as privileged. Emma Frost’s father owned a millinery, and he sent her to school in the fanciest bonnets and pristine white frocks.

“We left her in the dirt, right where she belonged.”

Shock evoked another change in Raven’s body. Her talons retracted, and slowly, the scales began to fall away, leaving behind only smooth blue skin. Raven curled her toes, peering down at them. There were five on each foot now, once more. She was relieved and could almost weep with joy. Now she could go home!

…only she couldn’t. Could she.

Nay. Her parents banished her. She no longer had a home, or a family, or even a name. Demon, they’d called her. Witch’s spawn.

Raven’s blood simmered in her veins. Her cheeks felt hot and she tasted bitterness on her tongue. Her hands balled up into fists, and she dropped the half-eaten potato.

They’d made her change. She knew this, that her transformation was borne from the need to survive, and to adapt. Out of desperation, her flesh molded itself into the form she’d needed most, with only a thought. Raven wondered dimly why she hadn’t been able to do it before.

She listened to the girls gloating and felt her anger grow.

“Her sister just sat there, crying like a little blubber baby.”

“You’re horrid, Valerie. I’ll bet she made a mess out of herself.”

“She was already a mess. Both of them were. We did the world a favor, throwing out that garbage.”

“You left Irene there in the woods?”

“She’s not helpless,” Valerie scoffed. “She writes better than I can, even though I can’t imagine how. She knows her away around the class without any trouble. I’ll bet her blindness is only an act.”

“That’s ridiculous. And if she found her way home, then she’ll tell.”

“Nay. Never. She knows I’d never allow it.”

“It’s not up to you to allow anyone anything, anymore.” Raven crept out from the shadows. She grasped a small lantern hanging from a hook over the doorway of the Coopers’ house. They stared at her, reviled and disgusted.

“Ew. Look at you, you’re wretched.”

“Yuck,” Emma agreed. “Get away from here, you beast!”

“You bitch,” Raven spat at Valerie. “You made my sister cry.”

“So? You cried pretty loud, too,” Valerie joked, enjoying herself. She folded her arms beneath her breasts smugly. “You just laid there with the worms all over you, like the slug you are. Gods, Raven, you’re such a freak. No one likes you. You should have never been born.”

Raven felt dread swamp her. She’d spoken that thought aloud to herself every day since she was old enough recognize her own reflection in the pond, watching her features warp and ripple in its glassy surface.

“Why don’t you just roll over and die?” Emma crowed as Valerie stepped forward and poked Raven in the center of her chest, hard.

“You first.”

Before Emma could even blink, Raven clutched the lantern, bring it up in a roundhouse swing and plowing it through Valerie’s patrician face. Blood spurted from her nose, spraying over her light blue muslin gown. Emma clapped her hands over her mouth, nauseated and terrified. The blow felt so good that Raven delivered another one, bashing her with it so hard that the metal frame of the lantern bent. Power surged through Raven’s body, spiked by adrenaline and hatred. She’d always longed to wipe the smug look from Valerie’s face, but now her face was gone, too, mangling and buckling with each blow, ivory skin disappearing under pools of sticky red gore. Her blood drained back into her blonde hair, staining it. Emma stumbled back, trembling.

“You’re…a monster,” she gasped.

“Really? I’m not the one that tied someone up and threw them into a pit to rot. A monster would also scare a helpless blind girl and abandon her on a cold, dark night. But I’m the monster. You found Valerie’s little story entertaining, didn’t you? You like how she threw out the trash.”

“Please…leave me alone. I-I’ll p-pay you. Look at y-you, you’re poor and dirty. You don’t have to be. I’ll never tell, if you’ll just let me go.”

“I like seeing you like this.”

“What?”

“Afraid. Begging. Just like Irene.” Raven’s pupils slitted again, and she swung out with a clawed hand, not pausing to wonder about the change again. Three long, cruel bloody streaks tore open Emma’s perfect ivory cheek. Emma stumbled back, stunned, and she gave a low, gurgling cry as she fled.

Raven sped after her, ignoring her aching feet and the cold air. Emma was now a liability. Raven calculated her options as she admired Emma’s flight, seeing how gracefully her white skirts whipped out behind her as she ran. She closed in on her, and Emma’s heart pounded at the rush of nearly silent footsteps that practically ran up her heels.

Raven’s bulk barreled into her, knocking the wind from her lungs. She landed face-first in the dirt and clawed futilely at it, trying to drag herself from beneath the blue-skinned, alien creature who was breathing down her neck. Raven drove her knee into her back, wrenching a cry from her lips. “OOOWW!”

“Shut up!” Raven tangled her fingers in Emma’s hair, fisting her hand in it and yanking hard. It was so satisfying to do what she’d always dreamed after having so many of her serviceable, clean dresses ruined by girls like Emma dipping her pigtails into the inkwell.

“You can’t do this to me! You’re nothing! You’re garbage! HELP! HELP ME!” Emma cried, but her shrieks were low and strangled since she couldn’t gulp in enough air.

“You’ve wasted enough space, far long enough,” Raven muttered. She crooked her arm around Emma’s slender neck, grasped her head in her long, bony hand and jerked, twisting her neck until it snapped.

It was a stroke of luck that Emma hadn’t bled on her fine white dress. It was just Raven’s size.

*

Raven trod in the new, purloined slippers through the woods, tugging the crudely covered bodies with inhuman strength in a rickety wheelbarrow. She felt like she’d walked for miles, but she refused to stop until she reached a familiar clearing. Panting, she reached the huge oak and set down the lantern. Raven wheeled the cart to the mouth of the pit and stared down into it resolutely.

As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Raven Adler didn’t exist anymore. Valerie had no doubt bragged to her friends that Raven was left behind in the pit, either too humiliated to return to school or as good as dead. What galled her the most was that she was considered an untouchable. Filth. No one would mourn her disappearance or even ponder it with their morning porridge.

The pit was abandoned. It would be a long time before anyone thought to check it; there were no new snares nearby, no lures set with fresh meat hanging from the trees. By the time either girl was found, no one would recognize their bodies.

Raven tugged them onto the ground and callously stripped them down. She bundled their clothes in a neat heap, separating Emma’s dress from Valerie’s bloodied garb. Raven then set about building a fire to provide herself some heat and light, driving away the beasts of the woods. She ignored the low hoots of an owl as she removed the bracelet from Emma’s wrist and the sapphire and silver rings from her fingers. She considered it a stroke of luck when she found a tiny mirror tucked in her bodice; the silly bint was, indeed, vain. Raven peered down into it. The scales had faded away again, and her eyes held less of that reptilian cast, but what if…?

She concentrated on Emma’s face, stroking her cold cheek. The unnatural bend of her neck no longer sickened Raven; if anything, she was growing more and more pleased with her handiwork. Raven focused on her awareness of her own body, trying to wield the power she felt inside when she struck Valerie, to find that strength. She remembered the fear on the girl’s face as she gazed upon her, seeing the cruel mask Raven’s face had twisted itself into, and she wondered if she could effect the change just by wishing for it.

“I wish I were perfect,” she said aloud.

And when Raven opened her eyes again and stared into the mirror, her wish was granted.

*


Raven left the wheelbarrow behind. Her legs were limp and she was exhausted, but she trudged back to the village in the stolen slippers. She wished she’d kept her cloak, but she had to burn it along with the rest of her own clothing, as well as Valerie’s. Such a shame, really; the blue dress would have suited her quite well, too.

When she reached Emma’s home, her mother fell upon her, shouting in relief that she’d found her. Raven quickly concocted a tale of being dragged from the garden by robbers when she went to the well, and that they’d grown tired of her fighting and cast her from their wagon. Tragically, Valerie, they’d kept. Her screams would haunt her…

Raven stayed up half the night, weeping prettily to the constable and sheriff until her mother shooed her upstairs. She fetched “Emma” some warm chicken broth and soft white bread, bathed her and dressed her in a fine linen nightgown. Her new mother gazed down lovingly into her face, as usual awed by her young, golden beauty.

“You’ve had enough of an ordeal, darling. Rest.”

It was the soundest, most comfortable sleep Raven ever had.

*

Emma Frost turned up missing a week later. Villagers unearthed her body from a shallow grave in the woods when they found some of her clothing nearby, inexplicably bloody. Raven grew bored with the blonde’s sheltered life, finally tired of her mother’s tendency to fawn over her, something she’d initially enjoyed when she entered the Frost household. Raven felt smothered, and Emma and Valerie’s friends annoyed her, constantly flocking to her to spread their gossip and talk of nothing but new slippers and how to curl their hair. Raven found out the hard way that Emma’s virtue was questionable, at best, when Stavros dragged her aside one day and tried to lift her skirts in the school’s cloak room. He closed in on her, grinning devilishly, and the stocky boy drove her back against the wall, grinding against her.

“Have you lost your mind?” Raven demanded incredulously. His hamlike hand was groping her breast, trying to drag down the delicate lace fichu around her neckline. She was repulsed by the feel of his tongue bathing her neck and his hot breath.

“Someone’s feeling naughty, aren’t we, little bird?” he leered. “Give us a kiss…OW!” He did her a favor, lifting her skirt; it left her knee free to shot up into his groin. She kicked him aside and righted her clothing as she stormed out.

That was the last straw. She’d had enough of the village, enough of the school that no longer added anything to her body of knowledge. Raven grew jaded quickly, and she knew she had to move on.

It was easy enough to make Emma “die” again; it was merely a matter of separating the bodies. The worms were enjoying their feast so far. Valerie, she left behind. She gave her corpse a little kick before she dragged Emma from the pit.

“Who’s been thrown away now?” Raven muttered.


*

Raven made herself over according to her mood, but she favored blonde beauty the most; it was nice to stick with the classics. Irene hummed to herself as she brushed Raven’s hair. Her own had grown silver over the years, but thanks to her gift, Raven never aged. Raven paused her sister’s chore to take the soft, wizened hand in hers.

“You came back for me,” Irene told her.

“I could never leave you behind. You need me.”

“Because it could never be the other way around,” Irene tsked, and she reached down to savagely tweak Raven’s ear.

“Never.” Raven’s smile was almost, but not quite, warm.


Raven napped for the next hour, feeling no doubts over Irene’s vision; there was no reason to make any pressing plans that would remove her from her chamber. Irene answered Victor’s low knock moments after Raven woke. Irene looked up, up, up into Victor’s craggy face, since he was a giant. He felt the same chill the old, blind crone always instilled in him, since her eyes still managed to follow him whenever they spoke.

“Give me the scroll,” Irene told him sharply. “I’ll leave it for her.”

“Where do you want me to set the box?”

“What box?”

“The gift. It’s downstairs.”

“Why didn’t you bring it up with you, foolish man,” Irene snapped. “Milady’s surrounded by incompetents.” Irene never referred to Raven as her foster sister among the king’s other staff. Irene feigned irritation with him to mask her surprise; her vision hadn’t included a box.

Victor grunted. “Milady’s surrounded by mighty nice digs, if y’ask me.”

“No one asked you,” Irene pointed out. “Go. Bring it up, and quickly.”

“Aye,” he muttered as he backed out of the doorway, mindful of how short it was. Victor was a giant of a man and the most intimidating servant the king had. Victor admired Jean-Luc’s comely second wife, silently lusting after her, but there was something about her that was slightly…off. Victor couldn’t put his finger on it, but she was easy on the eyes. He tried to stare past Irene into the chamber to get a glimpse of Raven, but Irene was quick.

“Put your eyes back in your head, lecher.” She slammed the door in his face and almost smiled at his muffled curse.

“That wasn’t very nice,” Raven murmured sleepily from her pillow.

“Don’t waste your time on that one,” Irene warned. Then she paused. “Oh.”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Irene had a fleeting vision of Victor’s future, and she shivered. “Never mind, sister.”

Victor lumbered down the corridor and found himself jerking to a halt as a tiny body darted out in front of him. “Hey!” Victor grumbled, piqued. The imp scuttled into the first open door he found, naked as the day he was born. Moments later, N’Dare nearly knocked him down.

“Which way did he go?”

“That way.”

“Goodness, that child can run…” she huffed. Victor snorted. The whelp was a handful. Cute kid, though, he mused. He’d break hearts one day, surely. In the meantime, Victor found it amusing that Prince Remy clearly hated clothes. Victor headed downstairs and retrieved the large box. He hauled it upstairs with little effort, hoisting it over his beefy shoulder. He set it down gently in Raven’s parlor, since the queen was now awake and decently covered in her dressing gown. She watched him with interest as he pried it open and carefully extracted a large panel wrapped in several layers of cloth.

“Goodness,” Raven murmured. “It’s big.”

“You like extravagant gestures well enough,” Irene sniffed.

“Be careful with it!” Raven scolded as Victor unwound the cloth. Inch by inch, he revealed a large, gleaming mirror framed in burnished gold. Its border was elaborately carved in a scalloped pattern, and crowning it was the sculpted visage of a woman, so realistic looking that Raven thought it would speak to her.

“Pretty…trinket,” Victor huffed as he struggled to hang it in just the right spot over the vanity. The old one stood propped against the side table.

“Don’t smudge it,” Raven warned him. “It’s no doubt worth more than your miserable life.”

“There,” Victor grunted once he finished. Raven made him do it over again three times before she was pleased with it.

“Out,” she ordered. “I tire of your stench. You reek.”

“You’re welcome, Highness,” Victor said cheekily as he took his leave, treating himself to one last glance at her cleavage. Raven made a sound of disgust.

“Wretch.”

“Lech,” Irene corrected her.


The mirror became her favorite possession, and obsession. Raven slowly abandoned all of her books, needlework, paintings and other hobbies as her fascination with it grew. Like Raven, the mirror possessed a special gift, becoming as indispensable as Irene.

Raven preened herself in front of it a fortnight later, smoothing her hands over her gown. She smiled, pleased. “Perfect,” she murmured. Her blue eyes glowed amber, briefly, but reverted as Jean-Luc’s voice traveled down the hall to her ears. She exited her chamber to meet him and escort him down to supper.

The finely sculpted face adorning the mirror frame smiled more widely at her departure. “Yes, Mistress. Perfect.”