Page 4 of Death of the Glass Angel
Face falling, Janus hesitated, wondering what he meant. She bit her lip and fussed with the crutch as she loitered, unsure if she should leave or rush to his side.
The tears halted abruptly as Evander sat up. A prayer passed from his lips. “May the light of the afterlife never be mine, for there is no room in Ellaila’s domain for the wicked.”
Wicked? Was Evander saying. . . had he been begging for forgiveness because. . .
Janus shook her head and backed up as Evander pulled himself to his feet, eyes still glued to the lake. No. Evander had done nothing wrong. This was Janus’ fault.She’dkilled Eros. Her spell had caught the room alight. She had climbed out the window without her little brother. She hadabandonedhim.
This washerfault. Eros was dead because ofher.
Because of her.
The world went quiet and dark, touched only by the rumble of thunder and the haze of thick clouds.
Words rang through her mind, looping on repeat.I killed Eros. It was my fault. It was me. I murdered my little brother.
Gasping, Janus dropped her crutch and spun around. If there was pain in her leg, she did not feel it.
She simply ran. And ran.
Andran.
2
Janus
Seven years later. . .
Most walls in the palace carried a slightly golden, orange shade. The sandstone used to build them was sourced from the mountains east of the capital and composed nearly all of the buildings dotting the city, circling the great lake. For five hundred years, the city had stood.
But this wall was different. A slightly red tint colored the sandstone, a shade found only in the northern canyons. All kings hailed from the east, as did Janus’s father, yet a third-century queen had famously imported culture from the north, including a rumored new wing crafted out of northern stone.
Ah-hah. Janus leaned back, satisfied. This room was newer than the rest of the palace, probably by about three centuries, though the stubborn easterners insisted inept northern hands had never altered the palace.
A man’s voice, tilted with the rich accent of Sigilus, called from the doorway. “Riveting, whatever you’re doing, I’m sure.”
Startled, Janus whipped around and slammed her ankle on the desk chair. Gemellus stood in the door frame, a heavy leather-bound book tucked beneath his elbow as he fussed with his vest. Though a cloth wrapped his blind eyes, he still appeared to be looking directly at her.
“Gem!” Janus exclaimed, both surprised yet relieved to see it was only her instructor. “What do you want?”
“Janus.” He responded dryly. “Your room is a mess.”
“How can you tell?” Janus muttered, scanning the room. Piles of clothing littered the floor, unmentionables amongst them. The bed was unmade, sheets scattered. Even the curtains above the window were inside out. How had that happened?
“How can I tell?” Gemellus repeated. “An aura of destruction surrounds you wherever you go.” He furrowed his brow and stepped forward, lightly kicking the foot of her bed. “Where is your trunk?”
“My trunk. . . ?” Janus repeated, bolting off her desk. She was supposed to be packing for a trip.
“Hm.” Gemellus hummed. He flicked his wrist, fingers lighting a cream color before Janus’ clothes picked themselves up, flying into the laundry basket tucked in the corner.
Janus watched the mess disappear, awed. Her tutor had been blind as long as she’d known him. She couldn’t begin to guess how he possessed a memory of her filled hamper. Every day, he proved his evoking talents far outstripped hers.
“I see you assumed they aren’t clean,” Janus noted.
“Are they?” Gemellus questioned.
“No,” Janus admitted, and Gemellus smiled.
“Your brother wants to see you.” He walked behind her and pushed her toward the door, cutting off her burgeoning excuses for why the meeting needed to wait. “Now.”
