Page 56 of Fate’s Sweetest Curse (Mirrors of Fate #2)

Identity

Hattie

F or the past hour and a half, a theory had been forming in my mind.

Seated at the table in the library with a single candle flickering before me, I stared at the book Noble had retrieved for me— Arcane Basics —and reread the passage I’d found.

When balancing or neutralizing arcane symbols, it is recommended to boil or filter water to remove undesirable contaminates—otherwise effects can vary greatly. The source of water is also significant.

I stared at the crude formulas I’d scrawled in my notebook:

Gildium + Arcane magic + water = cursed blood Gildium + Hylder + water? = containment or cure?

Under that, I added a simple question and underlined it three times:

Water = source???

Perhaps that’s what I kept getting wrong—not the method of alchemy, but the source of the ingredients.

After Noble had left the lab this afternoon, I’d run a few preliminary experiments with the monster blood and various types of water-based tinctures.

They had not gone well. Not only had the Hylder repelled the Gildium in the blood as usual, the mixture had bubbled like boiling honey, only to harden, candy-like and sticky.

The stench had made me want to gag. Mariana had told me that monster blood burned when it touched the skin, but I hadn’t expected it to stink like rotting flesh, either.

Something about the water had only made the rancid liquid worse.

Discouraged, I’d returned to the library alcove to reread the notes I’d compiled.

Thankfully, the report on Noble’s blood hadn’t indicated a scent or sting, which meant something about the jagged cells in the monster blood were responsible for its vileness.

At least Noble’s condition wasn’t that bad.

Not yet. But his blood still had Gildium in it, and that… that I couldn’t seem to solve.

Just the thought of losing him to his affliction made me feel like I was suspended above a vast chasm, the fall inevitable.

Don’t think like that, Hattie .

I refocused on my notebook.

The water I’d used this afternoon had been from a well—and I hadn’t boiled it. Perhaps that was my problem? In the name of honest research, I probably ought to try water from as many sources as possible, but the idea was overwhelming.

I stared harder at my notebook, only for the words to blur. My mind felt like porridge. Perhaps I ought to return to this when I was fresh, maybe ask Uriel more vague questions. I was already late to meet Noble; he’d be worried if I delayed any longer.

Stifling a yawn, I snapped my notebook shut and tucked it into my satchel, along with Arcane Basics . After blowing out the candle, I pulled the cord for Willa .

Ten minutes later, she delivered me to the entryway of the Ocs.

The heavy wooden doors were locked and secured with an iron bar at this hour, the foyer crowded with extra guards.

I exited to a chorus of jangling keys and groaning hinges, offering Willa a wave as I slipped the blindfold into my pocket and stepped out onto the wide street.

Outside in the balmy dusk, I made my way south along the Walk, my footsteps echoing on the cobblestones.

Fenrir was finally warming with the season, the temperature quite pleasant considering the hour.

I breathed deeply, the air tasting of mineral grit and the meat-scented smoke pouring out of a nearby tavern’s chimney.

The Walk was by no means empty at this time of night, but it wasn’t crowded, either.

People mostly congregated in pubs and restaurants, music and jovial chatter spilling outside whenever someone opened a door.

Meanwhile, shopkeepers swept their stoops and locked up for the night, offering curt nods as I passed.

Fenrir was not an unfriendly city, but it was still a city.

There was an air of selfishness and survival here that the small towns along the Wend did not possess.

If I were Waldron right now, the curt nods of shopkeepers would be welcoming waves instead.

And I wouldn’t be listening to scraps of music and voices from the street—I’d be right in the thick of it, delivering pints to the delight of the Pretty Possum’s patrons, holding ten conversations at once, flitting between tables to take orders and chit-chat, hearing the same story from every point of view.

I’d be blushing at compliments about my concoctails, leaning in close to hear over the bard’s stomping tune.

I’d be making my neighbors feel full and happy and welcomed with my cheer.

I would also be fielding questions about my love life.

Anya would be teasing me about the way I looked at Noble, and I’d be lying to her about just how deeply I cared for him.

Martha and Hugh would be badgering me about when I wanted to “settle down with a nice man,” and Vera would tsk and remind them that “settling” was the wrong word to use when trying to convince a lovely young woman to go on a date with someone’s son, brother, or nephew.

Anya would ask what I was looking for, exactly, and I’d wax poetic for their enjoyment and my own: a man who was kind, a man who was humorous, a man who loved reading, a man who took the time to learn what I liked, and who encouraged me to indulge my passions.

Anya would beam at my display of romanticism, Martha would tell me a man like that didn’t exist, Hugh would take offense at Martha’s statement, Vera would chuckle at the ensuing argument, and all the while I’d be thinking about Noble—alone in Richold’s guest house on the edge of town—and wondering if I’d ever find a man like him who actually loved me back.

I wanted to hug the version of myself who didn’t know just how much Noble cared.

I wanted to introduce her to the version of me now, who felt his affection in every lingering look, attentive touch, and easy laugh.

And I wanted to rescue this current version of me— of us —from the prison of our hidden identities.

I wanted to take us back to Waldron and introduce the entire town to the Hattie and Noble who were free .

As much as I loved studying alchemy at the Collegium, there was nothing as sweet as the sense of belonging I felt in Waldron. To have that along with an apothecary license and the man I loved by my side—cured, healed —would be a true Fortune.

As I hurried down a narrow side street that connected the Walk to Rose Street—a shortcut to the Royal Inn—I imagined bringing Noble fully into my life in Waldron.

Picnics on Stone Hill. Swimming in the Wend.

Purchasing peaches from southern merchants and experimenting in the kitchen to get the spices just right .

The town had welcomed Idris—Anya’s once-Fated killer—with open arms. Perhaps they would soften to Noble once they saw the side of him that wasn’t quite so reclusive .

A smile broke across my face at the thought. There were still plenty of obstacles standing between us and that future, but perhaps my developing theory would get us closer to—

My vision went black as a burlap bag was shoved over my head. Arms closed around my torso, hauling me sideways. I let out a little yelp as my heels skidded across the cobblestones, the strap of my satchel digging into my neck.

“Very funny, Mariana,” I called out, laughing nervously as she wrenched me backward. “Is this really necessary?”

Her arms tightened, forcing the air from my lungs. Instinctually, I twisted my body, struggling to break free. The movement sent both of us into the alley wall, my shoulder slamming into the stone, followed quickly by my temple, a sharp smack that made my head spin.

“I thought we were past roughhousing?” I complained with a pained grunt. “And the burlap sack is quite demeaning. Couldn’t you have just snuck into my room again like a dignified—”

“Quiet, you.”

My blood went cold.

That was not Mariana’s voice.

The voice was female, but rough and raspy, her accent… eastern .

Animalistic panic charged through my bloodstream like a bull.

I thrashed in my assailant’s hold, jerking my shoulders and bucking my hips, but the arm banded across my middle held firm.

With my arms pinned at my sides, the new dagger in my satchel was out of reach of my desperate fingertips.

I shrieked, and a hand closed over my mouth, the burlap and palm muffling the sound.

“I am under no obligation to spare you,” my assailant growled. “You will cooperate.”

Fear stopped me short. My attacker took the opportunity to replace the hand on my mouth with a blade under my chin. She pressed hard, the sharp metal scraping against my throat .

“Give me a reason not to slit your throat, Alchemist.”

Alchemist .

I began to tremble. “What do you want to know?”

The blade cut a superficial but punishing line of pain along the underside of my chin, a dribble of hot blood sliding down my chest. “You know what.”

“I don’t.” I’d never heard my own voice sound so reedy and terrified. Tears slid down my cheeks, my mind going blank with fear that was at once fresh and familiar. “I don’t know what you want.”

The blade pressed harder, blood beading. “Guess.”

With the way she’d snuck up on me, she could’ve killed me outright—which meant she must’ve thought I was valuable enough to interrogate before murdering.

“The c—,” I tried. “The c—” I shivered, gagging on the vile taste that flooded my mouth when I attempted to say curse . I tried another angle. “Gildium,” I blurted through another horrible tang of Oath magic. “Hylder.”

“You’re fucking useless.”

I swallowed hard. I was getting close to breaking my Oath, but even if I did, what useful information did I truly have? All my experiments had failed, there was plenty I was not privy to, and if these assassins were here , they probably already knew about Lord Haron’s plot.

I needed to get ahold of myself. To try another angle. To think .

Licking my lips, I stretched my magic past the rancidness of my Oath, tasting tears and burlap.

The bag didn’t carry the memory of potatoes, as Mariana’s had—it tasted like turnips.

Maronan turnips. I would know that flavor anywhere, because my aunt used to refuse to let me leave the dining hall until I finished eating mine; I’d slip them to the dogs under the table when she wasn’t looking .

The blade bit deeper, blood trickling from my chin now. It would take barely a slight re-angling of its edge to drag across my jugular, to bleed me out in this random alley.

Memories of my last days in Marona rumbled through my body like thunder.

A blade on my neck. A body holding me firm.

Powerless. Fearful. Vulnerable . It was a twist of Fate that defied the peaceful end that the Mirror of Death had shown me, and I had been terrified knowing my future was not yet fixed.

Now, for the second time in my life, I felt the fragility of my existence hanging on by the temporary mercy of someone who obviously wanted me dead.

Except…

Well, except this time, my attacker’s ire wasn’t about who I was , but who I wasn’t .

Fucking useless.

Pain lanced across jawbone, poked against my pulse-point. I moaned, tasting the damned turnips again, like a cruel joke from the past.

Useless.

What if I wasn’t useless, though? What if who I was …was useful?

“Marona,” I panted. “You’re from Marona.”

Her grip stilled but didn’t soften. It was a clue; it was enough.

“How did—?”

“I hate turnips,” I said, teeth chattering with adrenaline. “Marona might be famous for them, but I think they taste like ass.”

A mirthless chuckle. “A distraction. Nice try.”

The knife pressed harder; each beat of my heart throbbed against the metal point.

Footsteps were approaching, the strides jaunty. “Thought you’d be done by now, Corla,” a gruff male voice called.

“She not done yet?” another asked .

“Last chance to plead your case, Alchemist,” Corla purred in my ear. “Give me one good reason to keep you alive.”

Don’t fear your power, Hattie , Oderin had told me. He’d been talking about sword fighting, but the advice was sound.

My bloodline was powerful. Dangerous, but consequential.

It was the flip of a coin, a fifty-fifty chance. Either my identity would save me in this moment or end me.

I took the chance. “I’m Hattie Wynhaim,” I said breathlessly.

“The fuck?” the man behind us said, footsteps stopping short.

“Not possible,” the other murmured.

Corla ripped the turnip bag from my head, but nobody came within view.

All I saw were the walls of stone narrowing toward Rose Street, the dirty cobblestones, and the diamond-like stars above.

Past the curve of my cheek, I caught a glimpse of ruby red and steel—and beyond that, my captor’s shoulder, her wavy brunette hair.

My shallow wounds throbbed with the pounding of my pulse; sticky heat soaked the neckline of my dress.

Corla’s grip tightened around me, but her breaths came short and shocked in my ear.

Someone entered my periphery, but I didn’t dare move with the blade against my neck.

All I could hope was that they took in my curly blonde hair, blue eyes, and dark freckles and decided to believe me.

Because while it was unlikely for someone from Fenrir to recognize me outright, most Maronans knew the unmistakable features of my bloodline.

And they all knew my name.

“Your Grace…” one of Corla’s co-conspirators said, while another muttered, “She’s full of shit.”

“I am Hattie Wynhaim,” I said, more firmly this time.

And in spite of the icy fear of death in my veins, the words felt incredible to say out loud.

Exhilarating as the surge of Wynhaim Falls; refreshing as the spray that hazed around Wynhaim Castle.

Expansive as the sprawl of Wynhaim City, the capital of our kingdom.

Empowering as the knowledge that even King Braven was a guest in the home of my ancestors, his wife’s family. My aunt, Queen Yvira Wynhaim of Marona.

“I’m Hattie Fucking Wynhaim!” I screamed into the night.

My assailants began arguing, panicked by my claim. The blade against my throat dropped to the ground with a clatter. Then I was shoved—hard—against the stone wall, stars bursting across my vision. I fell, but the world went black before I landed.