Page 51 of Mortal Queens

The fae realm closed in on me once more with the stone beneath my knees and my painting beneath my hand. I took several deep breaths, long enough to go over the scene once more.

I adjusted my position to catch the chandelier’s light on the painting. The girl in red had been me, had been Dhalia, when she was selected. She’d come here to bring honor to her family.

But the vision told me nothing of how she lived.

I touched it again, but my own reality stayed put.

“There has to be more,” I murmured, touching it again, dragging my fingers over the entire painting to find another vision. Nothing.

“I need more,” I whispered.

My frustration at not receiving the full picture clouded the realization that someone was out there to answer my messages. I wasn’t alone. Somehow, I’d found someone willing to show me the tale of the girl who survived the fae, and it could be enough to save me too.

Without the rest of Dhalia’s story, there was only one thing left to do. I needed to send another message.

The one time I left my room all week, and that was the moment someone chose to visit. Troi stood in what could only be called battle gear—leather pants, metal braces on her arms, and two strips of blue paint down one eye over the red mask. I wasn’t surprised she’d chosen a mask that represented bravery. She was taking a slow circle around my room when I returned, hardly looking up as I opened the door.

“Troi,” I said with a fleck of surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“You, my friend”—she paused to graze her eyes over me—“need a new hobby.”

“I need to be freed, that’s what I need,” I said, closing the door behind me.

“Very true, but I can’t help there.”

I checked the brushes on the towel to see if they were dry yet. I’d completed seventeen new paintings this week, each with messages somewhere within, but a renewed energy now simmered, driving me to paint another.

“How are things?” I dried the largest brush on my skirt. “I have some stale muffins if you’d like one.”

“Bash is fine,” Troi replied.

I ducked my head. “That’s not what I meant.”

She leaned against the pillar nearest to the long fireplace. “He’s asked about you.”

My fingers stumbled over the paint. Troi went on. “The same way he’s asked about many other girls before. He shows interest, only to turn away. His heart has no cracks, Thea. And it won’t crack for the girl he knows isn’t going to live longer than a blink of his eye.”

My lips tightened. “I’m not a fool. I’m using Bash for the alliance, nothing more.”

She studied me through black-lined eyes, while her fingers traced the thin copper bands on her arm, creating a low, deep sound much like my thundering heartbeat. After a moment, she moved some of the paintings off my bed.

“As you say. In that case, it’s my job to make sure you don’t let down Bash as an ally, and that means your chess game needs to improve. Is it true you lost in under a minute?”

“Yes,” I admitted, but then added, “Brock set me up.”

Her brow arched. “It’s chess. That’s the point. Do they not teach you to play on the five islands?”

I sighed, moving to the closet to reluctantly produce the marble chess set Talen had left. Troi patted the bed.

“They play there.” I set the board on the sheets. “But not as rigorously. It’s just a game.”

“Well”—she set her queen and king first, choosing white for herself—“here, these games are your life, and you will learn to play them well. I won’t have my brother go down at your expense.”

“He’s lucky to have you.” I set my own pieces opposite hers.

She snorted. “If you could tell him that, I’d appreciate it. After . . .” Her voice hardened. “I’m his protector. It’s a role I take very seriously. King’s Protectors swear off all else—love, friendship, pleasure—for the sake of our kings.”

“So when I met you, that was you protecting him?”