Page 188 of Mother of Death and Dawn

“The day we get rid of you,” Laron said coldly. But her expression held a hint of something I might call concern.

They lengthened my restraints enough to give me a range of movement about the room. I discarded my dirty, bloody, urine-stained clothing. Water was dumped over me, and the grime scrubbed away.

I was given a white silk dress to wear. It slid smoothly over my clean skin as if an hour ago I hadn’t been covered in my own filth.

My jaw was tight, my nerves close to the surface.

I thought of Max, Sammerin, Serel.Where are you?

I wasn’t surprised by the showmanship. The Threllians prized beauty—even in their enemies. I knew by now that I was a gift for someone, and a gift from the Threllians would always be presented with a flourish, even if it simply meant swaddling death in velvet and silk.

I had come to the conclusion that I was most likely going to be given to the Fey. It made the most sense. The Threllians and the Fey were allies; both wanted me dead. By turning me over to King Caduan, the Threllians proved their usefulness to the Fey and made a dramatic gesture of goodwill.

Only now did real fear settle in my stomach.

I had been so certain that if my friends came for me, I would know it. But what if I had been overconfident? What if my careful measures were not careful enough?

A chillingly vivid image of Max, bloody and limp, pinned to the Zorokovs’ pristine walls flashed through my mind, and I had to fight to keep the bile down.

I imagined my mother, as she had wiped my terrified tears when I was a child.None of that.

None of that, Tisaanah.

I was not afraid.

The other maids left the room, leaving Laron and I alone. I sat in front of the mirror. I looked, despite everything, beautiful, or at least beautiful the way that the Threllians liked it—colorless and clean. My lips were pink and shiny, my eyes wide and framed with brown and pink kohl, my cheeks flushed with powder. Laron stood behind me and worked the final tangles from my hair.

I watched her in the mirror. The lines that etched her features were not the marks of cruelty, but of worry. In some ways, she looked familiar. I had seen the beginnings of those lines on my own mother’s face, even all those years ago.

I wondered if my mother had lived long after she was sold.

I wondered if she, too, had been bitter at the world that had taken her child from her, and at the hope that was too painful to even acknowledge.

“Your daughter should still be here,” I said.

Laron stopped brushing my hair but did not look up. Then she resumed.

“Should be.”

“I know she deserved more. She deserved the life that she dreamed about. I wish I had been able to give that to her.”

Laron’s features had grown hard. “Me too,” she said.

“Laron.”

At last, her gaze flicked up to meet mine in the mirror.

“Give me one chance,” I said.

A slow wave of anger passed over Laron’s face, and I thought for a minute that she would scream at me.

“They killed her for nothing,” she spat, between clenched teeth.

Now I understood. Her anger was not for me. Her anger was forthem.

“What if it doesn’t have to be for nothing?” I whispered.

Laron trembled with rage. Her eyes were bright and shining.

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