Page 174 of Fallacies

Salem’s expression goes blank, and I push through the bathroom door before he can say anything else, shutting it with a soft click behind me.

The bathroom, of course, is just as hauntingly beautiful as the bedroom is—gilded crown molding, cream paneled walls, a crooked painting hanging over a massive clawfoot tub. There’s a small window on the adjacent wall, and the short curtain hanging above it has been pulled back too.

The faucet squeaks as I turn it, and while the tub fills, I peel off each layer of my uniform, doing my best to dodge my reflection in the mirror hanging above the sink. Imagining what I’d see there is horrific enough.

The soapy water is lukewarm when I step into it, and as soon as I’m submerged, I use a generous portion of my replenished Sol magic to heat it. I’ve always preferred my showers and baths hot, but right now I’d like it to be scalding.

The hotter it is, the more it will burn away.

I soon realize I’m sitting rod straight, far too much tension in my shoulders for a bath, so I force myself through a deep breath and lean back against the cool porcelain.

Relaxing on a day like this one feels selfish, but so was drinking enough to be hungover.

I couldn’t help it. Salem and I were finalizing our plan, something that should have held all my attention, but I’d see my medallion on the table, and my thoughts would drift to why I put it there.

I’d get sick to my stomach, and I wouldn’t hear whatever Salem had said about killing the sources or breaking open cages, and I guess I just…thought the whiskey would help.

It certainly helped me forget that my necklace wasn’t around my neck. Or that the man I’m in love with may or may not have known about the Lure. That he might have known this whole time and let me be drawn to him over and over—like a stupid moth to a handsome flame.

Only if the flame could tell the moth that it might not be attraction, but confusion. Magic. A higher power.

Except the moth doesn’t know if the flame even knows, cause she’s stuck on one side of a blood ward and asking “Did you know about the Lure?” through a blinking star feels like a damning question. One the moth isn’t sure she wants the answer to.

I sink beneath the soapy water.

I must still be drunk.

And fucking selfish.

There are at least a hundred Sol downstairs that are counting on me today. Specifically, my mental clarity and capability.

Pre-magic Lucina might have let her brain be meddled with by a boy, but post-magic Lucina will not. She has too many responsibilities. Too many people counting on her.

I break the surface of the water, the air in the bathroom thick with steam. I’m diligent with the soap, not because Salem told me to be, but because I desperately need it. I scrub every square inch of my body, then I wring out the dirt and sweat that’s accumulated in my hair.

Positive that I’ve washed every inch, I pull the drain and stand, suds sliding down my body as I reach for the towel hanging on the wall. I wrap it around myself and squeeze out the ends of my hair, crossing my fingers that there’s a forgotten hairbrush in one of the vanity drawers.

As Fate would have it—generous as she is sometimes—when I pull back the top drawer, there’s a soft-bristled brush beside a tray of old cosmetics. It’s silver-plated, tarnished, and heavy enough to be a weapon, I think, as I weigh it in my hand. I pull my damp hair around my shoulders and wince at the tangled curls.

Gently, I begin pulling apart the matted bits with the tip of the brush, noting that the dark circles beneath my eyes are much worse than they usually are.

I just look…tired.

Physically, I’m fine, but this is a different kind of exhaustion. It’s seeping into my skin from the inside, darkening my features and hollowing my cheeks.

Tearing my gaze from the mirror, I put the brush down, leaning against the counter with my palms pressed into the marble surface. I glance at the pile of clothes on the floor—my Ajax uniform—lying in a black puddle by the door.

The idea of putting it back on makes me want to take another bath. Maybe I could find something decent in the massive closet I hid in the other night. Preferably something that isn’t a ballgown or an embroidered parka.

My gaze drifts back to the sink, abruptly stopping on the hairbrush.

At first, I’m not sure what I’m looking at. It’s like my eyes have noticed something my brain hasn’t yet, but when it does register, I push off the counter and stumble back a step.

I’d set the brush down on its bristles, revealing the back of its casing. It’s silver, like the handle, with a monogram etched into the center. I hold my towel tight across my chest, my bare feet frozen on the tile.

EVR

All I hear for a moment is the quiet drip of the faucet. I scan the bathroom, pulling a hand towel off a silver hook. I hold it out, noting the gold thread embroidered into the cream-colored fabric.