“Swear.”
He lifts his hand. “I swear I will not use the mirror to harm innocents. Now, my dear, place yourself in my hands.”
I stare into his dark eyes, which burn with some mysterious passion. “Why?”
That’s still the question, the one thing I do not comprehend.
“Because it is what I want.” He draws me into his arms.
At first I feel nothing, except Rask’s embrace. His body, lean but strong, presses against mine. Under my ear, his heart pounds like a hammer against a forge.
Then the pain hits—just flashes at first, like needle stings in a limb held in one position too long. But it grows and spreads, until I feel my blood is on fire. I gasp and try to pull away, but Rask clasps me tighter.
His lips brush my ear. “Hush, stay strong. It will all be over soon.”
Heat, so much heat. It’s as if molten gold pours down my throat and oozes through every pore. My fingers claw at Rask’s chest, ripping off buttons and tearing through the soft fabric of his shirt. My bones crumple like paper. I bury my face in the folds of Rask’s shirt and scream and scream.
The pain subsides, rolling out like a tide. Hollow as a reed, I shudder and slide to the floor at Rask’s boots, my hands and feet twitching.
Rask bends over and sweeps me up into his arms. Striding down the hall, he kicks open the door to my room. He drops me onto the downy mattress of the bed and pulls off my slippers and robe, although I’m shaking so hard he must avoid being kicked or slapped by my flailing limbs. When I’m clad only in my linen shift, he tucks me under the sheets and pulls the coverlet up to my chin.
“Now you must sleep.” He strokes the side of my face. “Rest.”
I sink into the mattress like a drowning soul sliding to the depths of the ocean. All my limbs are limp, my hair floats like seaweed, and my heartbeat slows. Everything above me is lost in a blue-green haze.
Rask leans over me, his face as strange and inhuman as some sea creature. A merman, dragging me down to join him in the depths. His lips are close enough to kiss mine, but he does not, yet I feel he is drawing all the air from my lungs.
“Dying.” My voice is barely a whisper. “I am dying.”
Rask strokes my cheek again before he sits back. “No, my beautiful girl, you have only just begun to live.”
The blue water turns black, and I give myself up to the uncaring sea.
Chapter Twenty-Six: Beauty Revealed
A SHAFT OF SUNLIGHT spills across my face. I sit up, throw off the covers, and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Strangely, after the trauma I endured earlier, I experience no stiffness or pain.
I glance at the window. The sun hangs low over the sea. I slept most of the day, or maybe it was more than one day. There is no way to tell.
I stand and walk toward the tall worktable, but stop dead when I catch my reflection in a full-length mirror.
Who is this girl? I creep closer, staring into the eyes of the young woman walking toward me.
She is beautiful. Reaching the mirror, I touch my lips, now full and shaped like a perfect bow. My nose is shorter and its distinctive hump has been ironed straight. My jawline is softer, my cheekbones higher. My eyes, still hazel, are wider, and fringed with long dark lashes.
I run my hands over my body, which remains slender, but now includes sensuous curves in all the right places.
Strangely, I still see Varna Lund smiling back at me. Sten Rask kept his word. He only changed my appearance in subtle ways, yet how much difference those slight changes make! I spin, attempting to catch a vision of every angle. It’s amazing. Rask did not turn me into someone else, or some artificial doll. It’s still me, but me without flaws.
I laugh and run my fingers through my hair, which is no longer dull brown and broomstick straight. Now it’s thick and wavy and the color of polished walnut.
Examining my new face and body, I lose all track of time. As I stare into the mirror, something tugs at my thoughts. A memory—something I need to do about another mirror, something about destroying a terrible weapon.
Smash the mirror, Varna. You must smash the mirror.
Not yet. I want to enjoy the experience of being desirable. I wish to revel in a beauty even Erik Stahl would admire.
A wardrobe fills a corner of the room. One of its doors stands ajar and I spy a flash of gold silk. I skip over and throw open the carved wooden doors. There are so many beautiful robes and gowns and cloaks and shawls stuffed into the wardrobe, I can’t decide what to choose first.
In the past I never gave much thought to clothes. I just concentrated on keeping my appearance clean and neat. Now I want to try on every one of these gorgeous garments. As I pull out an armful and carry them to the bed, I notice all the colors flatter my newly heightened coloring.
Remembering Rask’s comments, I choose a forest green silk gown cut in a simple style, almost like a robe, but cinched tight at the waist. Its only trim is an intricate, twisting pattern embroidered around the square neckline—exotic birds on branches, picked out in tones of gold, green, and brown.
I slide my feet into a pair of suede slippers and run to the door, which is thankfully unlocked. I step into the hall and make my way to the drawing room.
Rask sits in the wing-backed chair, reading a book. He looks up as I enter the room, then leaps to his feet, allowing the leather-bound volume to fall, unheeded, to the floor.
“So you are awake at last. Come and let me look at you properly.”
I run to him. “I had no idea it would be like this. It’s perfect. Perfect in every way.” I complete a spin, holding out my full skirt with both hands.
“It is indeed.” Rask looks me up and down. “My sorcery has definitely not failed me.”
“Can I do magic too?” I dash to the fireplace, where the fire has died down to embers, and snap my fingers.
“Not like that.” Rask steps up behind me. Placing his arms around me, he grips my wrists. “You still need instruction. Relax and concentrate on the power within you. You will feel it. The tiniest tug at first, like the pull of a thread, then it will rise and rush through your body like a river.”
I close my eyes and allow Rask to lift my right arm as if I am his puppet. He slides his fingers from my wrist to lightly cup my hand.
“Concentrate,” he whispers in my ear. “On warmth, on fire and flame.”
It feels as if his fingers are shooting sparks into my skin. My upraised hand trembles.
Warmth. Fire. Flame.
“And there it is.” Rask drops my hand and steps back.
Flames leap up amid the ashy logs, reigniting a roaring fire.
I wheel around to face him. “I did that?”
“Yes, but that is very simple magic. There’s much you still need to learn. Much I must teach you.”
“I can work magic.” I hold out my hands, examining them with wonder. “I have such power.”
Rask smiles. “You do. Of course, you always possessed the potential. I would not have attempted to transform you otherwise. It wouldn’t have worked. It might have killed you instead.”
I turn my hands over, examining my palms. Totally unmarked, yet somehow I called forth fire. “Gerda said that’s what happened to some of the girls she encountered as wraiths. Mael Voss attempted to convert them into the Snow Queen, but they went mad, or died.”
“Not died, as you recall. It was a more horrible fate—living forever with no mind and no will of their own.”
Rask speaks these words with such violence I look up from my hands to study his face.
“That’s what Thyra Winther feared above all things.”
“As do I.” Sten Rask turns his head so I can no longer see his eyes. “Anyway, now that you have the beauty you’ve always craved, I think we should allow you to have a little fun with it.” He crosses to a small table with legs carved like a falcon’s talons.
“What do you mean?”
He picks up a thick ivory card and waves it at m
e. “We should take you to a ball.”
“THESE PEOPLE SUPPORT the emperor. So it’s best if you do not refer to him as the ‘Usurper.’” Rask leans over me to adjust the fall of my brown velvet cloak. “Also, you’re my ward, don’t forget that.”
“I remember.” I brush his hand away. “Stop. I know how to dress myself.”
“It appears not.” He slaps his leather gloves against his bare palm. “Based on the way you’ve pinned that cloak.”
I huff and stare out the window of the coach. We’re not flying this time and somehow Rask has produced a man outfitted in ebony and gold livery to drive the black horses. At least I assume it’s a man. Perhaps it is a transformed rat.
“Something amuses you?”
I shove my black net gloves against my lips to stifle my giggles.
“You’re supposed to wear those, not eat them.”
“I never wear gloves.”
“Which explains the condition of your hands when we first met. Never mind, just slip them on when we arrive.” Sten Rask looks me over. “You are quite lovely. I’m sure the young men will forgive a few peccadillos in someone so beautiful.”
“You do not?”
“My dear, I know your true nature, don’t I? And still, I enjoy your company, for reasons that escape me right now.”
“So, what am I to do about the dancing? All I know are country dances. Reels and such.”
“That’s another benefit of your new powers. Simply observe the other dancers for a few minutes and allow the knowledge to seep into you, right to the bone, and you will be able to waltz like a grand duchess.”
I stare at the manicured forest rising up on either side of the gravel road. We’ve entered the grounds of some great estate, owned by a family who support the Usurper.
No, Varna, these people would never call him that. You must say “emperor.” Remember, you are walking into the halls of the enemy. Be aware, be wary. Perhaps you can even learn something of value to share with the others ...
The others. I chew on the finger of one of my gloves. I wish Gerda could be here to celebrate me looking as beautiful as any lady in the land. I would love for her to see these fine traveling clothes, and admire the gorgeous gown resting in my trunk. I want her standing beside me when I make my entrance into the ballroom.
I press my forehead against the frame of the coach window. It’s likely I’ll never see my sister, or any of my friends, again.
“Varna, we’re almost there.” Sten Rask turns me to him, taking my face in his hands. “Do not lose sight of our mission. I have come to conduct some business—you are here to enjoy yourself and revel in the power of your new-found beauty. You may dance, flirt and collect admirers. Lead men on and break their hearts for all I care. But remember, it’s all a game.” He leans in until our foreheads are touching. “You can amuse yourself and learn how to make good use of your beauty, but do not fall in love. Never do that.”
I stay very still, clearing my head of the thoughts crowding my mind.
Rask lifts his head and stares deep into my eyes. “Be very careful. While I must associate with these people, they are not my friends. Enjoy yourself, but don’t expose our secrets. You are my ward, given into my care when your parents died unexpectedly. Stick to that story, smile, and find me if anything worries you.” His face displays a concern that looks oddly real.
God forgive me, I want him to kiss me. No, Varna, this is magic. He has spun some enchantment.
I twist the soft fabric of my cloak around my hands.
Rask releases me and sits back, calmly pulling on his gloves. He taps me on the wrist to remind me to put on mine. “We’ve arrived. Tidy your hair and straighten that cloak. It is time to dazzle them, my dear.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven: Then and Now
IT IS AN HOUR BEFORE the ball is set to begin. A livered footman ushers us through the front doors of the manor house, into a two-story hall with polished floors laid out in a black-and-white chessboard pattern. A white marble staircase sweeps up to the second floor.
A maid, who looks no older than fourteen, leads us upstairs, while two additional footmen follow with our trunks. We are shown into rooms next door to one another, although I can tell by a swift glance that Rask’s is decorated in a masculine style, while my room is a feminine boudoir, complete with rosebud wallpaper and white lace curtains.
The young woman offers to help me dress, since I have no lady’s maid of my own.
“I’ve never had a maid,” I tell her, as she bustles about, pulling garments from my trunk and shaking them out.
“This is lovely.” She holds up the gown I am to wear tonight.
Made from velvet the color of a rust-red October leaf, it has puffy cap sleeves and a square neckline. Elaborate gold embroidery decorates the sleeves, bodice, and lower portion of the full skirt.
The maid lays the gown across the bed before turning to help me out of my traveling clothes. “It suits you so. Must’ve been designed with you in mind.”
It’s true—the gown’s a perfect match for my new figure as well as my lustrous brown hair and light brown eyes. Strangely, I found it hanging in the wardrobe at Rask’s castle, so if anyone had it designed for me, it must have been him.
The thought sends color rushing into my face.
“You will be quite the queen of the ball.” The maid slips the gown over my head and loops the numerous tiny buttons that fasten the back of the bodice. “We just need to do something with your hair.”
She asks me to sit at the dressing table and expertly pins up my hair with golden hairpins we find in my luggage.
“Need to leave it a little loose, a few strands here and there.” She tugs curls free to fall around my temples and down the back of my neck. “You have such lovely hair, miss. It doesn’t need any decoration. Not like all those other ladies, with their jewels and such.”
“You are quite right.” Sten Rask walks into the room and appraises me in the mirror. “She needs nothing more. We will allow those who don’t shine so brightly to wear the jewels.”
The little maid bobs a curtsey and disappears, but not before eyeing Rask up and down.
As I rise to my feet and study him in the mirror I can understand why. He’s wearing his usual impeccably tailored fawn breeches and knee-high leather boots, with dark brown cutaway coat and a white shirt with a wide, flyaway collar. His waistcoat is beige velvet, embroidered with a flame pattern in rust and gold.
“We are wearing the same colors.” I speak without thinking, then press my hands to my face to hide my blush.
“So we are. A well-matched pair,” Rask holds out his arm. “Now, come. Allow me introduce you to these thieves and vultures.”
We saunter down the stairs and into the main hall arm-in-arm, occasionally pausing for Rask to introduce me to a bevy of well-dressed ladies and gentlemen. The eyes of the young men light up when Rask mentions I am his ward.
“They think they stand a chance. The fools,” Rask whispers in my ear before he straightens and offers the men a dazzling smile.
When we reach the ballroom, Rask kisses my hand before releasing me. “Go fill your dance card, my dear. I must take care of the business I mentioned earlier.” He strides off in the direction of the main hall.
I stand next to one of the marble pillars supporting a painted dome that soars above the dance floor. Within moments, a crowd of men appears. Many of them carry glasses of punch, while some offer to escort me through the gardens.
“I am here to dance.” I hold up the gold-bordered card pressed into my hands when I entered the room.
The young men elbow one another to get close to me; to have their names penciled onto the card.
This is what it’s like to be beautiful. To be desired. The same boys who’d sneer at you, who would call you names, jostling one another for the chance to spend a few minutes with you.
I toss my head and laugh and allow them to fight for the honor of a dance.
AS THE EVENING D
RAWS to a close, my card is full, and men still press around me at the end of each dance, begging me to strike out a signature and pencil in their name.
I simply laugh and spin off with my next partner, executing the steps with thoughtless grace while the man chatters about his wealth, title, or military achievements. I listen without hearing, knowing their words mean nothing. Sometimes one of the dancers clutches me a little too close, or slides his hand too far down my back, and I casually adjust our positioning to discourage such attentions.
I could take any one of them for my lover. All I have to do is ask.
Smiling and spinning, moving across the polished floor on slippered feet, I’m a fine lady, a princess, an enchantress.
A desirable object.
I pause, my hand still held above my head, forming an arch my partner—a short, pudgy young man who claims to be the heir to a great fortune—ducks under. “Forgive me.” I drop his hand and flee the promenade of dancers.
I head for the open French doors that lead to the balcony. Crossing the flagstone-floored balcony, I reach the marble railing and lean against it, my hands gripping the balustrade.
Voices waft up from the dark foliage of the formal garden. One in particular captures my attention. I haven’t seen him since he left me in the ballroom, but it is definitely Sten Rask. I lean over the rail, but only see two shadowy figures facing one another. One is tall and broad-shouldered, the other short and willowy.
“You have the mirror, my pet,” says a woman’s voice that’s low and sweet and utterly seductive. “So when may we expect it to be delivered, as promised?”
“In due time.” Rask’s tone is strangely sharp.
“And when may I expect you to return home?”
“What home might that be?” Rask turns away, and the torches positioned on the edge of the terrace illuminate his face.
His eyes burn in his sculpted face—fathomless and dark as the sockets in a skull.
Scepter of Fire Page 23
