by Jordan Rivet
Jessamyn began another circle around Mica, halting before she got far. “I must say, Micathea, your ear-work is not up to standard.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The ears. They’re not right at all.” Jessamyn pulled back her hair, offering a clearer view of her ears than Mica had seen so far. “Quickly now, see if you can’t fix that.”
Mica refrained from pointing out that she would be wearing her hair down today and twitched her ears until they settled into the correct shape.
“That will do for now.” Jessamyn leaned in so she and Mica were nose to nose, perfect mirrors of each other. Or at least, Mica thought they were perfect.
“Can anything be done about those eyes?” Jessamyn said petulantly. “My goodness, you must think I’m positively manic.”
Mica squinted, pulling back on some of the bright glint she’d added while Jessamyn kept up a running commentary. “Too far . . . no, that’s not it either. Get rid of a little more of that yellow tint. It’s a very specific brown.”
Just how much time do you spend staring at yourself in a mirror, anyway?
“How’s this?”
“I suppose that’s as good as it’s going to get.” Jessamyn sighed. “Do practice harder in the future, Micathea.”
The princess bustled over to a glass case where she kept an assortment of crowns and jeweled diadems. She unlocked it with a key she kept on a thin chain around her neck and pulled out a slim gold circlet set with a single emerald.
“Remember, you will not need to speak, unless it’s to agree with my father or express sympathy to his supplicants. You are there to show the petitioners seeking the emperor’s counsel how much their future ruler cares about their concerns. It is vital that they see you listening attentively, looking every inch the princess.”
“May I ask a question?”
“You waste everyone’s time when you turn one question into two.”
Mica held in a sigh. “Why not go yourself to hear the people’s concerns and send me to the dance lesson?”
Jessamyn burst out laughing. “Oh, Micathea, Micathea. You may be good at impersonating faces, but that does not mean you can imitate my dancing. Every lord or lady in attendance will know at once that it isn’t me. They would be mortally offended if they knew they were dancing with my Impersonator.” She was still chuckling as she ushered Mica over to a wardrobe bursting with multicolored silks to select an outfit for the audience. “Send you to the dance lesson. Imagine!”
Mica didn’t feel that adequately answered her question. Who cared if the nobles were offended? Her dancing wasn’t that bad! And she’d rather know that the future ruler of the Windfast Empire was actually listening to the citizens’ concerns. She’d seen little evidence of it so far.
“Princess, I’ve heard Talents are being kidnapped,” Mica blurted out before she could think better of it. “They’re disappearing right from Jewel Harbor.”
Jessamyn paused her scrutiny of the gown collection. Mica took that to mean she was listening and pressed on.
“Why isn’t the emperor doing anything to find them? These Talents are in danger, and no one in the palace is even talking about it.”
Jessamyn hesitated for a split second before saying, “This is hardly the time, Micathea.”
“But—”
She raised a hand sharply to cut her off. “Don’t you have a job to do?”
At that moment, Ruby and Alea bustled in to help them finish dressing. They paused at the door, casting curious glances between the two identical princesses.
Jessamyn arched an eyebrow at Mica.
“Yes, Princess.” She dropped into a curtsy, trying not to grind her teeth. “I am at your service.”
As if she hadn’t heard, Jessamyn spun to address her maids hovering in the doorway. “Well? What are you two waiting for? Fetch my dancing shoes.”
An hour later, Mica processed into the imperial throne room in a regal green gown more beautiful than any she’d ever seen. Jessamyn’s dark-red hair fell around her shoulders in soft waves, completely obscuring her perfectly rendered ears. The emerald on her diadem caught the light as she strode down the luxurious golden carpet stretching the length of the throne room.
Mica didn’t know where to look first. Hundreds of people filled the room, but the vastness of the space made it impossible to concentrate on their faces. The white marble floor gleamed, and the walls were draped with the banners of every island and principality in the empire. Windows encircled the top of the walls just before stone gave way to the enormous silver dome. Mica felt a swoop of dizziness when she glanced up at its highest point. It was a wonder the whole thing didn’t crash down on their heads.
She concentrated on imitating Jessamyn’s walk, which was somehow both stately and vigorous, as every eye in the immense room followed her progress. She curtsied deeply at the end of the golden carpet, then she looked at last upon Emperor Styl of Windfast.
He had a regal bearing and proud, cold features. Black hair, white skin, a thick, protruding jaw, and a high forehead. Though he remained seated, he was very tall, and he filled the massive throne easily. His face lacked the vitality Mica was used to from Jessamyn. He surveyed the throne room with a faint twist of his thin lips, as if it the place were full of insects and all the acknowledgment they deserved was a light sneer. Mica had never felt more intimidated.
“It is an honor to see you thrive, Your Imperial Majesty,” she intoned.
“May you thrive, Princess Jessamyn Styldier.”
The emperor’s greeting was formal, his voice as clear as expensive crystal. Mica ascended the marble dais and took her place in the finely carved chair at his side, proud her hands remained steady.
A palace steward stepped forward to announce the proceedings. “People of Windfast, you may now bring your supplications before His Imperial Majesty Emperor Styl, and Her Highness Princess Jessamyn.”
The emperor didn’t look at Mica as the audience began, remaining utterly aloof. She recalled what Caleb had said about how Jessamyn helped him see that the emperor wasn’t as scary as he seemed. She understood now why that was necessary. How did Jessamyn and her father interact when they were alone, if they were ever alone? As far as Mica could tell, they barely saw each other.
Imperial citizens were now lining up to make their entreaties. All were commoners, evidenced by their simple clothing and lack of attendants. The grandeur of the vast chamber made the supplicants look almost pitiful. One by one, they bowed before the emperor and shared tales of hardship: sons lost at sea, livestock lost to disease, limbs lost in accidents—which often led to lost jobs and homes. Mica couldn’t help imagining her own family members being forced to prostrate themselves before the throne, bending their proud shoulders to beg for aid. The nobles enjoyed direct access to the emperor as perpetual guests of the Silver Palace, but these periodic audiences were the only chance most ordinary people had to speak to their ruler.
It’s not fair. Mica’s heart squeezed like a fist in her chest, and she fought to maintain a stiff, pretty mask. It shouldn’t be like this.
As the supplicants made their requests, Emperor Styl offered words of encouragement and wisdom in that steady, crystalline voice. He helped where he could, offering jobs in the palace and settling interpersonal disputes, but too many supplicants went away looking defeated. Mica began to understand that no one resorted to audiences like this unless they were truly desperate, and sometimes it was too late for the emperor to help. She didn’t think he meant to be cruel, despite his forbidding demeanor. Still, it was frustrating to see that even the emperor himself wasn’t powerful enough to fix everything.
Whenever someone tried to argue with one of Emperor Styl’s decisions, whether through tears or angry words, he didn’t raise his voice or berate them for being disrespectful. Instead, he turned to Mica and said, “Do you agree, Princess Jessamyn?”
To which her answer, as Jessamyn had made her repeat over and over, was “Yes, Father. I b
elieve you have made a wise decision.”
Emperor Styl would nod, not quite meeting her eyes, and repeat his declaration to the aggrieved. When Jessamyn had explained this ritual, it sounded pointless to Mica, but now she saw how the people reacted to seeing the princess support her father’s decisions. They would nod, draw themselves up, and retreat from the dais with quiet dignity. The disappointment seemed easier to take when the emperor sought a second opinion from the princess, as if the supplicants wanted most to be heard, even when they had an unsolvable problem.
By the time the audience drew to a close, Mica was answering with as much calm certainty as she could muster. “Yes, Father. I believe you have made a wise decision.”
Then the very last person permitted to appeal that day marched down the long golden carpet. The squat little woman had soft eyes and gray at her temples. Mica recognized her.
“Your Imperial Majesties,” Edwina said, bowing deeply. “I am Edwina, a freelance Impersonator from a small village two days north of Old Kings. I come to you seeking help for my husband Rufus. He has been missing for three weeks, and I-I’m afraid he has been abducted.”
Mica’s heart sank. She remembered Edwina’s affectionate smile as she patted her sleeping husband on his paunchy belly that day in Lord Ober’s carriage. Now she looked fragile, as if worry had eaten away at the bones inside her soft body.
“Go on, Madam,” Emperor Styl said, his voice formal but not unkind. “Where was your husband last seen?”
“On his way to Jewel Harbor.” Edwina’s voice gathered strength as she continued. “He wanted to ask Lord Ober for more work. Times are hard, you see, and we have three little ones. But Lord Ober tells me he never arrived at all.”
“Perhaps a highwayman—”
“Forgive me, Emperor Styl, but my husband served on the Imperial Army’s Elite Impersonator division in his youth. No mere highwayman would trouble him.”
Mica blinked in surprise, picturing the man’s slouched shoulders and puffy face. It was difficult to imagine him as elite anything, much less in the army, which was rumored to use professional Impersonators as assassins—something they categorically denied.
“Have you spoken to the City Watch?” Emperor Styl asked Edwina.
“Yes. They tell me he probably found another woman.” She swelled with indignation. “He would never. I can’t believe it of my Rufus. And anyway, he’s not the only one gone. There have been other Talents kidnapped without a trace.”
Emperor Styl paused for a beat. “Madam, I assure you the City Watch—”
“They won’t do anything!” she said. “He has served all his life. Why isn’t the empire protecting its own?”
Emperor Styl rose to his feet so fast Mica jumped. His shadow seemed to fill the entire dais.
“I am afraid I agree that your husband has found another woman, Madam Edwina. I urge you to move on with your life.”
Edwina took a step back, as if the emperor had slapped her.
“That’s a cruel thing to say,” she hissed, “but it doesn’t explain the other Talents missing. Don’t you care about them?”
Emperor Styl remained utterly calm in the face of Edwina’s passion. “You must let it go and return home. Do you agree, Princess Jessamyn?”
Mica started. The squat little Impersonator looked at her, angry tears coursing down her round cheeks. Mica knew her line, but she couldn’t bring herself to utter the words, not when she too had seen how little the nobles cared about Talents like Danil and Rufus. Jessamyn had barely acknowledged the issue when Mica brought it up earlier. She thought of Sapphire’s letter, pressed beneath her pillow back in the princess’s quarters. Perhaps she had been placed here for a reason.
“Do you agree, Princess Jessamyn?” the emperor repeated.
“No.”
Emperor Styl’s mouth stiffened, the only hint that he was surprised. Mica rushed on before he could stop her. “Father, I believe this woman’s fears are founded. There is a danger to Talents. We should be doing more to find the missing and make sure no more innocents are taken.”
Murmurs spread through the crowd, rippling like wind over sand.
“And what do you propose, daughter?” Emperor Styl finally met her eyes. There was no shortage of vitality there now. He was furious. Worse, it suddenly dawned on Mica that the emperor knew she wasn’t the real princess—had probably known it all along. And she had just contradicted him in front of the entire throne room.
She felt as if she’d just tumbled off the edge of a cliff—and she was still falling.
“W-We need to make sure the Talents are informed of the danger,” Mica said. If she was going to lose her job—and possibly her head—she might as well get it all out now. “And we need to reassure them we’re doing everything we can to s-stop these disappearances. They have to know we care about Talents and appreciate all the ways they help our empire thrive.”
She pressed her hands into the intricately carved arms of the throne. The murmurs grew louder. She was going to throw up. She didn’t dare look the emperor in the face—until his response made her gape at him in shock.
“My daughter is correct,” Emperor Styl said smoothly. “Talents have worked since the youngest days of the empire to keep our islands unified. The service, discipline, and obedience of our Talents protect the Windfast Empire against all threats. It would be stupid to think we don’t care.”
Mica swore the emperor’s eyes flickered to her at that, and she wished she could turn herself into a chair. Impersonation only went so far.
“We shall look into your husband’s disappearance, Madam Edwina, and take steps to ensure no other Talents go missing. That is all we have time for today. May you thrive.”
And Emperor Styl marched out of the throne room before anyone could so much as bow.
Chapter Fourteen
Mica considered going straight to the harbor and boarding a ferry for Amber Island. Her brothers might tease her for not lasting long among the fancy ladies, but that was better than being beheaded by the emperor. She’d prefer either option to the lecture Jessamyn no doubt had in store for her.
“How bad is it going to be?” she asked Banner as they walked back along the east wing corridor. He had seen the whole thing from his post beside the dais.
“If I could transfer my impervious skin to you, I would.”
Mica sighed. “I appreciate the sentiment.”
She found herself looking forward to being sent home. Her parents would be happy to see her. She could catch up with friends she hadn’t seen much since she went away to the Academy. She could finally get some fresh air and stroll slowly down streets that weren’t packed with people. She wouldn’t have to come running when a bell rang or attend yet another tea party in a stuffy silk dress.
She was enjoying the fantasy so much that she almost didn’t react when Lord Caleb strode up the corridor and pulled her unceremoniously out of Banner’s hearing.
“Can we talk, Jessa? I have a problem.” Red lines marred his cheeks, and his waistcoat was wrinkled, as if he had been up all night, worrying and rubbing his face.
“What kind of problem?” she asked, careful to use Jessamyn’s voice.
“It’s about my—” Caleb stopped and looked closer at her. “You’re Micathea. I beg your pardon. It was easier to tell with the last one.”
Mica’s eyes widened, and it was an effort to keep her impersonation intact. “How did you know this time?”
“It’s the mouth.” Caleb scrubbed a hand through his hair, seeming distracted. “Where’s Jessamyn?”
“At the dancing lesson, last I heard.”
“I just came from there. No matter.”
“Wait,” Mica put a hand on his arm before he could walk away. “Is there any way I can help?”
Caleb seemed to consider the offer seriously, studying her as if he could see right to her true face. But then he shook his head and removed her hand gently from his arm. He lingered for a beat too long, her hand i
n his, before releasing her.
“Forgive me for interrupting you.”
And then he was gone, leaving Mica staring after him and wondering whether he’d blurred a bit as he left.
She was still trying to unravel the mystery of Lord Caleb when she returned to the princess’s chambers to change out of Jessamyn’s dress and face. What was his secret? If he was truly a Blur, it wasn’t enough to explain how worried he had looked when he pulled “Jessamyn” aside. Talents occasionally appeared among the nobility, and it was no cause for distress. Whatever it was, he had been close to confiding in her. How had her mouth given her away? She made her lip grow and shrink in front of the mirror in the opulent dressing chamber, attempting to get the shape just right.
Suddenly, a crash came from the antechamber. Mica dropped automatically into a defensive stance as footsteps pounded across the outer room. She turned to the door with fists raised just as Princess Jessamyn hurled it open.
“Well!” she shrieked. “I hope you’re proud of yourself for your little show, because you just undid months of work. I cannot believe you had the gall to contradict my dear father in front of his people, much less do it in such a spectacularly foolish and unprofessional manner.”
Something in Mica snapped at the scathing tone. She took a step toward the raging princess, squaring her shoulders for a fight.
“Yes, I am proud of myself,” she said. “Talents put their lives in danger every day for this empire while the nobles dance and gossip and throw stupid parties. People like Edwina and Rufus deserve to be taken care of after all they’ve done. Talents have been going missing for months. Obsidian has infiltrated the capital itself, and I am sick of everyone pretending it isn’t happening.”
“You’re sick of it, are you?” Jessamyn’s voice was suddenly so calm and quiet Mica was surprised she hadn’t transformed into a different person. “You, who’ve been aware of the problem for what? A month? Did it ever occur to you, Mimic, that there might be a good reason we are not talking openly about it? Did it never occur to you that we might be trying to solve the problem when you bumbled in there and ran your mouth in front of everyone?”
