Page 39 of Crowned by the Shadow (Bound by the Veil #5)

They always do . That's why they seek out the herbalist's apprentice who lives on the edge of the kingdom instead of the court physicians with their clean hands and cleaner consciences.

"I'm listening."

He sets down the decanter and turns to face me fully.

In the lamplight, I can see scratches on his forearms, thin, deliberate lines like someone's been testing the sharpness of their nails against his skin.

The marks are fresh, some still scabbed over, but they follow patterns.

Not random violence . Something more deliberate.

"The voice grows louder each night," he says, and there's something almost like relief in admitting it. "It knows things about me that no one should know. Things I've never told another soul."

Ah . That kind of problem.

The room suddenly feels smaller, closer. I've dealt with haunted objects before, usually heirlooms holding onto emotions too strong to die with their owners. But voices that know secrets? That's either possession or something worse. Something that's been watching, learning, waiting.

"What sort of voice?" I ask, though I think I already know. There are only so many things that whisper secrets in the dark.

His laugh is bitter, hollow. "The kind that comes from behind covered mirrors."

Every muscle in my body goes tense. Mirrors .

Of course it's mirrors. The universe has a sense of humor darker than winter night.

I force my expression to remain neutral, professional, even as something cold and familiar crawls up my spine.

Something that tastes like silver and sounds like distant singing.

Not now . Whatever memories want to surface, this isn't the time or place. I need to focus on the client, on the problem, on anything except the way my gloves suddenly feel too tight against my skin.

"Show me," I say.

The request hangs in the air between us, and for a moment I think he's going to refuse. His face goes through a complex series of expressions, fear, resignation, something that might be hope. Finally, he nods.

"I should warn you," he says, rising from his chair with careful precision. "It... responds to certain people more than others."

What's that supposed to mean? But he's already moving toward the door, and I follow him deeper into the house, past more conspicuously empty walls and carefully draped surfaces.

The rooms grow colder as we walk, until our breath mists in the air despite the fires burning in every hearth.

My gloves feel tighter with each step, the silver threads warm against my skin in a way that should be comforting but isn't.

Something's wrong here . More wrong than just a haunted mirror. The air itself feels different, thicker, charged with potential like the moment before lightning strikes. My skin prickles with awareness, and there's a taste in my mouth like copper pennies and winter rain.

We pass a library where books lie open on tables, as if someone was researching something urgent and dropped everything to flee. I catch glimpses of pages, diagrams that look like binding circles, text in languages I don't recognize, margin notes in what might be blood or might be very old ink.

Research . He's been trying to solve this himself.

"How long have you been dealing with this?" I ask.

"Three weeks since it started speaking. But the... disturbances began the night I moved into my father's rooms."

His father's rooms . Not just inheriting the house, but taking the dead man's space, sleeping in his bed, looking into his mirrors. If there was going to be a supernatural reaction, that would certainly trigger it.

"Tell me about your father."

Lord Valtier's step falters. "He was... a complicated man. Ambitious. He believed in getting what he wanted by any means necessary."

Diplomatic . Which means the truth is probably uglier than he wants to admit. In my experience, family ghosts are usually family for a reason, they know exactly which buttons to push and how hard to push them.

We stop before a door at the end of a corridor that feels too long for the space it should occupy.

The door itself is heavy oak bound with iron, and sealed with black wax that bears the impression of a signet ring.

Lord Valtier produces a knife and carefully breaks the seal, his movements ritualistic. Practiced.

"How often do you reseal this?"

"Every morning. It... doesn't hold for long."

It breaks the seal from the inside . Whatever's in there has enough physical presence to affect objects in this world. That's either very good news or very bad news, depending on what it wants.

Wax chunks fall away with odd little marks, almost like something on the other side had pressed against the seal to leave its print.

The room beyond is small, intimate, the kind of space meant for private conversations or private sins.

And dominating the far wall, covered in thick black cloth, is the largest mirror I've ever seen.

The frame is silver, real silver, not plate, and worked with designs that seem to shift in my peripheral vision.

The craftsmanship is exquisite, the kind of artistry that costs more than some people's houses.

Old money . Old power. Old enough to have accumulated the kind of history that leaves stains.

Even covered, the mirror seems to watch . There's a presence to it that makes my skin crawl, like being observed by something that doesn't quite understand what humans are supposed to look like.

"It started speaking the night I inherited the house," Lord Valtier says, his voice barely above a whisper. "Just whispers at first. My name. Then... other things."

I approach the covered mirror slowly, every instinct screaming at me to run.

But Melora's training kicks in: observe, analyze, diagnose.

The air around the mirror is warmer than the rest of the room, and there's a scent like winter flowers and something metallic.

Blood? No . Older than blood. Stranger. Like silver left in moonlight too long.

The cloth itself is expensive, silk, by the feel of it, and heavy enough to block light completely. But there are... impressions in the fabric. Places where it drapes differently, as if something on the other side is pressing against it. Fingers . The shape of a hand, palm flat against glass.

Something wants out .

"What does it ask for?" I say, not taking my eyes off the cloth.

"Nothing. It just... knows. It told me about the night my father died. Things no one else was there to see. It told me about the woman in Harwick I never married. It told me about the money hidden in the estate's foundation, about the deals my grandfather made, about?—"

"That's enough." I hold up a hand. The last thing I need is a catalog of this man's family secrets. Some knowledge is dangerous just to possess. "What do you want me to do about it?"

"Silence it. Forever, if you can manage it."

Forever . He doesn't just want the problem solved, he wants it erased. That level of desperation usually means the voice isn't just sharing embarrassing family history. It's threatening something he values more than money.

I'm about to respond when the cloth moves.

Not falling, moving, like something's pressing against it from behind. Like fingers tracing patterns on glass. The silk ripples in complex designs, and for a moment the shapes look almost like script. Like someone writing in a language I should recognize but don't.

And then I hear it.

"Aurea..."

My name. It was a whisper all silver and wind, and it didn’t just know me now, I felt like it always had. Vertigo. Like standing on the edge of a memory, or remembering a dream just as you wake. The sound resonates in my bones, familiar as my own heartbeat and strange as starlight.

How does it know my name?

The vial slips from my suddenly numb fingers and shatters on the floor.

The potion spreads in patterns that shouldn't be possible, spirals and sigils that gleam like liquid starlight before soaking into the stone.

And in that brief moment before it fades, I swear the patterns look like script.

Like someone writing my name in silver ink, over and over, as if repetition could make it real.

Lord Valtier is staring at me with something that might be fear or might be recognition. "You heard it."

It's not a question. And suddenly I understand why he really brought me here. Why he was willing to pay so much for a simple silencing charm. Why his eyes keep darting to my gloves. Why his servant recognized what I was wearing.

He knows what I am .

He's been testing me .

The realization should terrify me. Instead, it feels like relief. Like finally exhaling after holding my breath for years. Whatever I am, whatever these gloves are hiding, this man has some idea of the truth. And that means maybe, just maybe, I can finally get some answers.

Behind the black cloth, something else moves. Something larger than fingers. The entire surface ripples, and I can hear... breathing . Slow, deliberate, like something savoring the moment.

"Aurea..." The voice comes again, closer now. Warmer. Rich with recognition and something that might be longing. "You taste of forgotten silver."

My hands clench into fists, and the gloves feel like they're burning now. Not painful, exactly, but warm in a way that makes me think of summer lightning and the bright light of stars. There's power moving under my skin, responding to that voice like a tuning fork struck by the perfect note.

What am I?

And Gods help me, I want to pull away that cloth and see what's calling my name with such desperate recognition. I want to understand why that voice sounds like coming home to a place I've never been.

I want to remember why, when I’m afraid, my blood tastes like silver.