Page 154 of Death of the Glass Angel
Eventually, a butler approached with an empty tray in hand. Gluing herself to his backside, Des slipped through the door behind him.
Altanese taste was. . . garish, to say the least. Tables with animal bone artifacts littered the hall, and numerous deer or boar heads gazed through sightless eyes from their mounted frames.
She passed a mirror and saw nothing in the reflection. Shaking off the eerie feeling, she searched for the woman—and anything useful.
A murmuring voice emerged from a nearby door. Silently padding to its threshold, Des peered inside.
A cracked window poured cold air into the office, fluttering the curtains. Heras stood before a mirror, fixing her curls into a bun.
Behind her paced an old man with white hair dressed in black robes—Alfaris.
“This is frustrating,” Heras said, releasing an exasperated sigh.
“I know.” Alfaris sounded like he was consoling her. The old man reached into his down-turned hood, running a finger along the turtle tucked safely within. “But, the Ballad of Burgundy Rose is a favorite of mine. It doesn’t end the way you would expect.”
“No, it doesn’t.” Heras agreed. “Do you think. . . are the actors for this performance good?”
“I think so.” Alfaris nodded slowly. “The main star resembles the hero—touched by flame and devoid of life.”
What in Yesharu’s name were they talking about? Des squinted, confused as the pointless conversation droned on.
“I hope you’re right.” Heras raised her head. She looked tired and worn.
“I usually am.” Alfaris folded his arms. “You-” he cut himself off. “There is a somewhat dangerous stunt near the end. He needn’t take the risk.”
“He will,” Heras muttered.
Oh. The truth clicked for Des, and her head snapped up. They were speaking in code. Had Heras’ memories truly been removed from the maevruthan, or had she skirted suspicion by only corresponding in riddles?
“Sometimes I wonder if I made a mistake.” Heras finished tying her hair and dropped her arms. “Tonight, most of all.”
“You made this decision. You cannot take it back, now.” Alfaris chastised.
“But what if-”
“Don’t glance behind.”
“Lest we lose our way.” Heras finished the mantra, a similar phrase to the one Felsin had shared.
“Altanbern’s children yet to be born will thank you—even if another must be buried.”
Another must be buried? Was he talking about Heras’s child or a figurative one?
Stepping back, Heras exhaled. “One more dance.”
“Wait.” Alfaris held up a hand, blocking Heras from leaving. “Do you love him?’
“Of course.” Heras sounded offended. “He’s my son.”
Alfaris lowered his hand. “Then, tell him so, before it’s too late.”
“I. . . you’re right.” Heras bowed with respect before pulling open the door and exiting.
A heavy burden weighed on her shoulders. Shadows lined her eyes. What, exactly, awaited them in the future?
Des shrank into the hall as Heras passed. She lingered, waiting for Alfaris to leave—but he didn’t. Figuring he hadn’t seen her yet, Des risked stepping into the office.
The old man loitered by the window, gazing wistfully into the night. Watching him closely, Des searched for signs he could see her, but none came. Tiptoeing, she approached the desk, though she didn’t have high hopes of finding anything.
