Pilar’s stomach tensed at a lakeside cottage. Would she ever see a cottage without imagining Orry inside it?
Her boot stuttered on the floor. She caught herself.
“Don’t worry,” Nell said. “You get used to the glass.”
“You sure do know your way around.”
“I should, considering how many years I spent roaming these halls. Celeste is wrong, it hasn’t changed at all.”
“Years? I thought you said residents were always coming and going.”
“Look! The Manjala.”
Nell was dodging the question. She stopped in front of an egg-shaped door. Annoyed, Pilar peered through the glass.
Inside was a large circular room with curved wooden walls. The Manjala, apparently. The vaulted ceilings reminded Pilar of the sanctuary on Refúj, where Morígna had gathered all the Dujia and turned them against her. Some sanctuary that turned out to be.
But whereas the sanctuary was always dark and foreboding, this room was bright and clean. At the front stood a tall woman in a white tunic and short trousers. She balanced on one leg, arms extended in a V. The sole of her left foot pressed against the inside of her right thigh.
Intrigued, Pilar mashed her nose to the glass. A dozen people faced the front, mostly women and a few men. Each stood on a gray wool blanket, mirroring the tunic woman’s pose. Some better than others. One bald man wobbled wildly, arms flailing in the air.
“That’s jougi,” Nell said quietly. “An ancient form of movement and meditation, very calming for the nerves.”
“That”—Pilar pointed at the man fighting wildly to stay upright—“does not look calming.”
“Is it a kind of athleticism?” Mia asked.
“More of a practice, really. They rotate through different teachers. I liked a couple, some are rotten. I stopped going when I was younger, caused quite the stir, believe me. Oh, and look, there’s the Rose Garden! I’d almost forgotten.”
She hurried past the Manjala, prodding them farther down the hall. Pilar eyed her warily. What wasn’t Nell telling them?
“It’s actually a greenhouse. A house of glass inside a house of glass! Over a thousand varietals of roses, every shade in every color you could ever imagine.
Mia wandered through the rosebushes, oblivious to Nell’s evasive parries. “Moon Shadow,” she said, reading from the name placards. “Lilac Dawn. Kiss of Fire. Vermilion Queen.”
With a sigh, Pilar followed. “Since when did roses have names?”
“Look at this one.” Mia ran a finger down a black bloom with dark red veins. “I’ve never heard of a Black Rose.”
“Sounds like a bad fantasy novel.”
“It’s a very rare variety,” Nell said, coming up behind them. “Celeste cultivates them. Before she was the Keeper, she used to be the House gardener.”
Nell cradled a Black Rose, careful not to tear it off the stem.
“They’re wildly expensive. No one takes them out of the House, though if you did, they’d fetch a nice price. Watch this.”
She closed her eyes.
A breeze rippled through the greenhouse. All around them, the bushes swayed. Blooms trembled on their stems. Thorns gleamed a little brighter.
The roses were changing. At the heart of each bud, a black stain appeared. It spilled slowly outward, oozing onto the petals like drops of ink. The color spread. One by one, the roses darkened, blackness blotting out the pink and peach and yellow. Red veins wormed over the dark petals. Pulsing. Bleeding.
When Nell opened her eyes, all the roses had become Black Roses. She smiled.
“As the Shadowess says: sometimes it takes only one to turn the tide.”
She uncupped her hands. The flowers were already fading back to normal. Pink and peach and yellow, with no sign they’d ever been anything else.
“That was magical.” Mia stooped to sniff one of the roses. “You touched them and they came to life.”
Pilar’s stomach twisted.
Had Nell altered the roses themselves? Or was it Mia’s and Pilar’s perceptions she had shifted? The whole thing happened so fast. Thanks to Lord Dove—and for that matter, Queen Freyja—Pilar knew your own eyes could deceive you.
But, she reminded herself, that could also be a good thing. In all the times Pilar had relived her past, only when she’d seen her own story through Mia’s eyes had she believed it wasn’t her fault.
After they’d set sail for Pembuk, Pilar had struggled to hold on to that conviction. But soon the usual feelings crept back. Anger. Shame. She heard Morígna’s voice, and her mother’s. Two women who’d said they loved her but who had blamed her in the end.
The worst part? They weren’t wrong. Awful things happened to girls who opened themselves up to other people. Girls desperate to be loved.
Pilar snuck a glance at her half sister. Whatever was happening between them—or not happening—hurt. In their Reflections, Mia’s presence had made Pilar feel stronger. But the more Rose tried to fix her, the more broken she felt.
“Did you see what Nell did?” Mia ran her fingers across the peachy roses. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen magic that beautiful.”
“Just because it’s beautiful,” Pilar said, “doesn’t mean it’s good.”
Mia rolled her eyes.
“Could you try not being combative, Pilar? Just this once?”
Before Pilar could answer, Nell beckoned. “Come on, you two. There’s a lot more to see than just roses.”
Eagerly, Mia trotted along beside her. Pilar started to follow, then caught a twitch of movement over her shoulder. She turned.
The original Black Rose, the one Nell had touched, was wilting. The bloom sagged. The petals shuddered, curling toward the flower’s heart, and fell, one by one, onto the dirt below.
Pilar was happy to leave the Rose Garden behind. It was beautiful, just like everything else in the House of Shadows, or Manuba Vivuli—whatever you wanted to call it. But in her experience, the ugliest things often lurked under the most beautiful. Especially where magic was concerned.
Watching the flower die had filled her with a strange, uneasy feeling. And on that feeling’s heels: anger. She’d been right in what she said to Mia. But of course Mia hadn’t seen the dead flower, because she’d been too busy chasing after Nell. Pilar could imagine the kind of look she’d get if she dragged Mia back to the Rose Garden to prove her point.
She heard the Swallow before she saw it. Clank of silverware. Roar of voices. They walked into an enormous, echoey hall with high ceilings and colorful tile floors. Children, women, and men crowded around circular tables, eating, drinking, and joking between chews.
A chair screeched over the tile.
“Nell? Nell!”
A boy was charging toward them. Pilar knew instinctively who he was.
Nell let out a sharp cry. She opened her arms as her brother tumbled into them.
They both burst into tears. Spun round and round. Hugging. Breaking apart. Hugging again. They were laughing, crying, talking on top of one another. Same fast clip, same high volume. How could they even understand what the other was saying? But somehow they managed.
“Pilar! Mia! Meet my baby brother.”
He was still clinging to her neck. Looking at them shyly.