Page 105 of The Faceless Queen

“King Tirian wishes to leave immediately after breakfast, Your Highness,” Abigail called out. Already, without my permission, she was coming inside.

I rushed into the bathroom, slamming the door behind me, grasping the sink as I stared at my reflection in the mirror until my fingers whitened from the strain. I was pale all over. I had held onto most of Olivay’s features, but my Samara form, the face of Princess Shamhira, was clearly showing through.

“Your Highness?” Abigail called again.

“Just a moment,” I said, trying to breathe. My hair was still dark, thank the Gods, but it was the texture I’d been born with, thinner and straighter than I’d had to wear since the cave. Upon closer inspection, I discovered my eyes had lost all of Olivay’s depth and darkness. My ice-blue irises blinked back at me.

My heart thundered as I pictured Olivay in my mind, bringing up the image of her I’d memorized in the cave, the way my face looked in the mirror when right next to hers. Her dark features, the way everything about her had been so beautifully and delicately designed. I needed to conjure it, conjure her. I needed a picture of her. It seemed as if there was art of every form I didn’t need to take: Brennan’s rendering of Samara the dancer, and Jaron’s art of Alyra—Gods, even in the vase where I’d hidden my mother’s locket was a rendering of the form I never needed a reminder of—my original Shamhira face and body. And yet there was not one of the art I did need. Had no artist been commissioned to paint Olivay’s likeness?

I glanced at the vase, as if willing another picture to appear, as if Orsete herself might conjure art of Olivay for me to reference. But the only images hiding in there were me in my mother’s locket, and Alyra, though I’d ripped that parchment to pieces before hiding it inside. I was going to have to rely completely on my mind and muscle memory.

“I can draw your bath,” Abigail said, knocking on the bathroom door.

“I just need one minute,” I shouted back. Sweat beaded at the nape of my neck, dampening hair that was too straight and thin to be Olivay’s.

“I’m sorry,” Abigail said, “but the King insisted—” The doorknob turned.

Panic twisted inside of me.

“I said,” I shouted, throwing as much venom into my voice as I could, “That I need a minute!” Then I slammed the door back on her face.

“I-I’m sorry,” she stammered.

My shoulders shook, and my chest heaved as I let my head fall back against the wooden frame, my body sinking to the ground. I barely had the energy to pick my head back up or sit up on my own now that I was on the ground.

Gods, I’d never woken like this before. Not in all the seven years I’d spent shifting into my various forms. It wasn’t just Olivay’s lack of athleticism that had worn me out. It was keeping up the complete, intricate details of her form. These weren’t just tweaks to who I was, to the features I’d been born with—this was everything—every inch of me.

Even sitting there, drained, barely holding onto my shift, I could feel myself pulling from the energy that lived deep inside of me. I was digging into the parts of myself I rarely had to call on, using more than just the magic I possessed. I was calling on parts of my soul. Every second I did, every second I maintained my shift, every second I didn’t feed, I was growing and more depleted. I squeezed my eyes shut, my head beginning to ache with the effort. I was going to have to fix this fast. Or I’d ruin everything, revealing my identity—or worse, end up in a box.

And if I didn’t, the Azete was going to strike at the wrong time, hurt the wrong person, exposing me.

And Abigail was in my Godsdamned room trying to get me ready to leave for the tour of Eskalon, the next Godsdamned event in our betrothal circus.

Panting, I reached for the doorknob, grabbing hold of it and using its leverage to help pull me back up. When I’d climbed back to my feet and stood on my own, shock washed over me at just how winded I felt.

I braced my hands on the sink and looked into the mirror, not even sure where to start. It had been so much easier when Olivay was in front of me, easier when I’d taken a full meal of her fear.

But I had no choice. I had to fix this. I sent a burst of magic to my eyes, painting them black. Then clenched my stomach as I poured a fresh burst of energy into my hair, thickening it, adding back Olivay’s texture and shine. Closing my eyes and gripping the basin, my chest heaved as more magic rushed through my body, its power dancing against every inch of my skin. I was tingling all over, my cheeks flushed from exertion, but as I looked in the mirror, I was once more Olivay’s color. Checking my hands and seeing they were hers, even down to the shape of her fingernails, I exhaled. The transformation was complete. Not one detail out of place.

Except for how I felt. Weak, and dizzy.

Carefully, I reached deep into the vase, pushing through the scraps of ripped parchment, the discarded art of Alyra, and pulled out my mother’s locket. I ran my fingers reverently over the finely detailed eagle wings, tracing the shapes of the sun and moon etched into the gold. With a flick of the clasp, I unlocked it and stared at my mother’s art of Orsete—her wings of fire, the wisdom and intuition that pierced through her eyes.

Give me strength, help me get through this. Brennan’s green eyes flashed in my mind, and I closed mine, willing away the image, willing away the twinge of pain it brought.

My throat tight, I closed the locket and tucked it back into its hiding place, shifting the vase back out of sight into its corner.

And through shallow, exhausted breaths, I approached the door and threw it open.

A sour-faced Abigail, angry and bitter, stared back at me. My body wobbled as I walked back into my room. I was growing even more tired with every step.

And all at once, the Azete stirred, uncoiling in my belly, rising to wrap around my heart. It knew what I needed, what it wanted. And there was someone right there, someone who could offer a meal.

Abigail was terribly annoyed that I’d yelled at her for doing her job. And she wasn’t even attempting to hide the incredibly bitter feelings she felt toward me.

Perhaps I just needed to annoy her a little more. Bring her bitterness to the next level, raise her nerves until there was a stream connecting us, and lifeforce for me to devour …

I glared. “Have you not been trained to wait for a princess to grant permission before entering a room?” I asked, satisfied that I was once more speaking fully in Olivay’s voice. “Have you never once learned the meaning of patience?”