Page 37 of The Court of Venus

“Wouldn’t you consider that relevant information?”

He ignored my glare and stood, drawing out any stains on his clothing with magic, and led us through the serpentine hedges, through the gallery and into the most precious wing of the palace, where the king lived and plotted and slept. Every guard stood at attention for us, murmured “Your Grace” as Roland passed.

One boundary wouldn’t let me through. Roland opened the door, stepped through the sheen of magic wavering in the frame, then tossed me his signet ring. “Wear that.”

I slipped it onto my finger, though it was far too large for me, and successfully tricked the barrier. As we made our way through the many layers of the king’s chambers, I handed the ring back to Roland. From the corner of my eye, I saw him breathe softly on the metal, scrub his thumb slowly over the band. Eventually it was returned to its rightful place on his knuckle.

The king’s privy chamber was unkempt, as if storms ravaged it daily: books thrown about a desk, piles upon piles of paperwork and pots of ink and quills, dark tapestries that blocked out the daylight. Smoke danced from candles only recently blown out.

Roland searched the king’s desk and handed me the mirror I’d been promised.

I tried my best to remember the proportions of Prospero’s body. He was narrower in the shoulders than Roland, closer to Hal’s height. Prospero’s head was slightly too large for the rest of him, as if it had grown faster with all the knowledge it had to hold.

I held my hand up to Roland’s brow. “Where do you think he came up to on you? There?”

“Lower than that. His shoes always had a little heel.”

I placed my hand against the bridge of Roland’s nose as a marker.

“Lower.”

Lower, then. I moved slowly, waiting for him to stop me. When I reached the bow of his lips, he said there, that was it, his breath hot against my palm. The warmth slid down my body. Lower, as he’d promised.

I huffed at his arrogant smirk. Wrenched my hand away and shook it out at my side. He eyed it, amused. “Liar,” I said. “He was nearly as tall as you.”

“If you say so.”

I gripped the mirror tight, staring at my reflection. But I couldn’t do it. I breathed in and out and still, I remained myself.

After Prospero took me from the inn, I never saw my true father ever again. Prospero raised me in his stead, sat at my bedside when I was ill, tucked me in at night. Once—when Roland couldn’t be found—he sewed a gown that had caught on a nail, just as a mother would. When I learned of his death, I could still recall his face perfectly. Then the details of him eroded away. Only by submerging into memory could I resuscitate him, only in dreams could I hold on. So, I imagined him now the way I’d always loved him best: my hands flipping the pages of a book, his smile as he leaned over my shoulder, his ink-stained fingers pointing to the cipher I was to memorize.

In the mirror, my features started melding with his. My lips became his lips, thin and wry. I grew his blue beard streaked with flecks of gray. I had the rip in his ear from a brawl, the laugh lines, too, and the crinkles around his eyes.

I’d found some twisted way to see him again, and I had to stop myself from screaming.

I shifted back to myself and buried my head in my hands, relieved to be in my own body.

Sideways, heavy rain began pounding the windows. And softly, Roland said, “After the king made me lord chancellor, I told his chamberlain to remove the portrait of Prospero in the hall. It made me angry. Angry because in the end, he was a fool. I thought he was master of everything and everyone, even the king. Yet even he was outwitted and outplayed in the end.”

“By you.”

He crossed his arms, considering. “Yes, by me. And by many others. By his own pride.”

“There are things I want to ask him, and only him. I think to myself, ‘No one will know what to do but Prospero.’”

Roland stared at the floor. “Me too. I wake up with questions for him on my lips,” he admitted. “Every single morning. And sometimes, when I’m late, I wince as soon as I walk through the door. I’m expecting his reprimand, of course.”

My smile wobbled. This truce was uneasy. Like newly scabbed skin—one of us might too easily draw blood. Again, I wiped my eyes, and Roland turned away, sensing I wanted privacy as I transformed once, twice, and on the third try, I managed to look like our old master again.

I stood in the middle of the room as Roland circled me. His gaze so searching, so intense, I wanted to curl up from the heat of it, like paper in a fire. “The nose, Mouse,” he tutted. “It wasn’t so straight.”

I angled my face to the side and added a slight hook. “Better?”

He leaned forward to inspect my work, nodding his approval.

“Give that back to me.” I gestured toward his signet ring. “He would be wearing it, not you.”

Roland hesitated for a moment, reluctant to part with the symbol of his power again, returning it to me with a sigh. “It’s essential we get this right. We should practice.”