Page 42 of Burn Her They Said
Hendry—
I turn to catch sight of him, then my chest constricts as Malin nods down to my plate.
Tears well as I try to reconcile how similar their voices sound, though I know them apart, and I’ve always been able to tell who was talking. Yet, I suppose when you lose someone, your mind will seek them anywhere. Anytime. Just hoping that you’re wrong and they’ve really been there all along.
Coffee nearly spills over the rim when I grab hold of the handle and bring the mug of scalding liquid up to my lips. Malin catches my eyes in the mirror before flicking his gaze down to my untouched breakfast in a command.
I huff out a breath and force a berry between my teeth, vision glazing over while I will myself to remain upright, exaggerating the movement of my jaw the whole time.
Fray wrinkles his nose at me in the mirror at the sound of my chewing, and I narrow my eyes in response, though a pang of guilt trills through my chest with his playful nature being a balm to my heart.
Once they all finish eating, my Guards each pull their ceremonial masks down over their faces. The Imperial black fabric stretches from beneath their collar to fit flush across the ridge of their nose, leaving only their eyes and above exposed.
A small smile tugs in the corner of my lips as I watch them take turns applying the eyeliner next, holding the gold-plated pencil aloft as they carefully paint the symbolic black lines around each of their eyes intended to intimidate those who gaze upon them—much like my own image.
Drusilla pats a pale concealer beneath each of my eyes, making it appear as if I am more well-rested than the darkened crescents indicate. Next, she coats my lashes in mascara before painting a thick curved line across both of my eyelids, mirroring the dark lines my Guards wear. Once my lips and cheeks are given an unnaturally deep rosy hue, she slathers every inch of exposed skin in oil, making sure it glistens when I move.
The empire waist of the ceremonial dress cinches in, accentuating the dramatic curve of my hips, while the extreme cut of the bodice exposes the center of my chest to display the round shape of my breasts.
She gestures for me to lean back as she wraps a gold necklace shaped like a Dragon curling around my neck, and I wince from the chill of her fingers as she fastens its head over the end of its tail. Teardrop diamonds encrust the scales along its back, while ruby eyes glint back at me from under the lights of the vanity as I stare back at the witch painted to meet His Majesty’s standards.
Heart hammering with fear for whom he has assigned as Hendry’s replacement.
The sorcerer who needs to be on a train headed toward the Minacian border, but whom I expect to greet me on that stage where he would sentence us all to death if his soul allows him to make this vow to me.
Chapter Fifteen
Identity
Drusilla stalks a few paces ahead of us, acting as an unnecessary guide down several flights of stairs until we reach the wide gray hallway leading to the Throne Room, where every step forward is felt in my bones.
Cirrin takes hold of my arm, providing a gentle pressure to keep me moving, while Fray peers over and notes the contact with a quick release of breath.
Cool mist infiltrates my skin, soothing while it infuses me with energy. Though even Cirrin’s healing magic cannot settle my nerves, twisting and turning my stomach the closer we move toward the stage entrance.
Please, stop.
We have yet to publicly acknowledge Hendry’s death.
I can’t do this.
We need to bury him. Properly.
I won’t make it through this.
We should be honoring him, not naming his replacement.
Not hosting a ceremony, showcasing our lack of care for him and his service.
To the Dragons, the Empire, and me.
I cannot possibly pretend. Not today, and not like this.
My knees wobble once we come to a pause before the tall gray arches leading to the stage. I try and fail to pull on my mental wards, needing them to help wall off my feelings. Heart hammering with the inability to pull those internal doors closed, the ones I rely on so often.
Though no matter how hard I scramble for purchase, the Godsdamned things refuse to slide into place. Refusing to block me from all that is coming.
I reach out for my magic, then furrow my brow, as it is not much weaker than it has been of late, leaving only one other option as to why my wards will not slam into place when nothing else has changed?—
