Page 84 of Of Masks and Fury

Her breath hitched, but she nodded.

I closed my eyes and reached for my magic. The familiar warmth pooled in my chest before extending outward, flowing through my hands into Isi’s temples. I felt the moment contact was made, that jolt of connection that resonated through my entire body.

Then I was falling into memory, into the past, into a ten-year-old girl’s mind.

The parlor smelled of beeswax and dried flowers. Sunlight fell across the wooden floor where I sat, moving my charcoal pencil across parchment in careful strokes to capture a flower’s curved petals.

Mother had promised to check my progress after tea. Mother always kept her promises.

Voices drifted from the foyer. Mother’s voice, musical and warm. Then another, female but muffled. I couldn’t make out the words.

I focused on my drawing, adding shadows.

A sharp cry rang out. Mother?

Then thuds, a crash. My insides twisted with dread, my heart pounding as I dropped my charcoal and ran from the parlor.

I experienced it all through her eyes. The terror that seized her small chest. The way her hands shook as she gripped the doorframe. The paralysis that froze her in place as her gaze found her mother.

Marlane lay at the base of the grand staircase, her neck bent at an angle no living person’s should be. Her eyes stared at nothing. Her beautiful blue gown spread around her like a clear pool.

Isi looked up, up, up, to the top of the staircase.

Her father burst from down the hallway, dragging her attention his way. His face blanched when he saw his wife. He ran to her, fell to his knees beside her body, and gathered her into his arms with a sob that sounded like something breaking.

His grief was real. Raw. Devastating.

He hadn’t pushed her. Couldn’t have. He’d been too far away, and he’d come from the wrong direction. Genuine shock cratered his face.

He reached for the pendant around Marlane’s neck, the crescent moon with pale blue stones circling its curve. After removing it carefully, he slipped it into his pocket.

Guards arrived. Servants rushed into the foyer. People shouted and someone called for healers who couldn’t help. Others tried to pull the king away from his wife’s body.

Young Isi stood frozen. Watching. Her small hands pressed to her mouth to keep from screaming. Tears streamed down her face.

She’d lost her mother, and she knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

I pulled away, my hands falling from Isi’s temples.

The present rushed back. Afternoon sun. The hard floor beneath my knees. Pherin chirping anxiously from the headboard.

Disorientation lingered, the edges of the memory blurring my vision for a moment, her young grief echoing in my chest as if it were my own.

Isi sat in front of me, tears streaming down her face, her body shaking. We both breathed heavily, the shared weight pressing down.

“Minx.” Rising, I gripped her shoulders. “Breathe. This world doesn’t get to take anything you don’t want to give.”

She sucked in a ragged breath, then another, her hands clutching my arms.

I sat on the bed and lifted her, placing her in my lap, holding her while her body shook.

Pherin swooped down and landed on Isi’s shoulder, nuzzling her neck.

I held her while she cried. My chest felt tight, my throat raw from experiencing her grief, from witnessing that terrible moment through her eyes. The ache stayed with me, a shadow of her pain I couldn’t shake.

Finally, her breathing steadied, though tremors still ran through her. She pulled back enough to look up at me, her eyes red and swollen, and wiped her face with a lingering shudder.

“Tell me,” she whispered. “What did you see?”