Page 85 of Death of the Glass Angel
“Yet they have for centuries. What good is a queen who is undermined at every turn?”
“Mother is not a queen.” Felsin stopped mid-stride.
“Imagine how much simpler everything would be if she were.”
Felsin narrowed his eyes. “Why did she miss the last Thruinc council?”
Brand threw up his arms. “Every year, the little kings and queens get together because they’re all afraid of something nobody sees. Altanbern should move on without them.”
“Our people created that alliance, if you’ve forgotten. Badulf-Esseg is one of our most revered ancestors-”
“You put too much stock in the ancestors, Felsin.” Brand chuckled. “No wonder you’re a hack fortune teller. Always glancing back.”
Let not the glance behind steal away your chance to change the foretold end.Alfaris’ mantra.
Felsin felt like he’d been struck. He gaped at his brother. “When did Alfaris tell you that?”
Brand’s scarlet eyes drifted away. “Is that your cat?”
A tiny white cat sat on the street corner, licking its paw. Felsin dropped to a knee beside Sors, eyeing him with confusion before lifting his eyes to the windows lining Janus’ suite. A candle glowed behind the glass, but no shadows painted the walls.
“Sors.” Felsin addressed the lazy-eyed cat. “You’re supposed to be with Janus. Why are you out here?”
The cat swished its tail in response. Scooping Sors up, Felsin hurried to the suite’s front door, where a guard stood at attention.
“Has the princess gone out?” Felsin called to him.
The guard tightened his grip on his glaive. “No, of course not.”
“Right,” Felsin muttered. Informing the guard of his hunch would only make him seem suspicious. “Sorry to bother you.”
Wandering away, Felsin gazed into Sors’ lazy black eyes before tucking the white cat into his bag, its head poking out. Perhaps he should have adopted a hunting hound instead—maybe it could have tracked the girl down. Sors was cute—but frankly, useless.
These roads seemed so empty, so cold. Light flecks of snow powdered from the blackened sky, painting a dust of white across the gray stone.
Brand lit a fire in his palm. “Hoping for a late-night tryst?”
“No, I. . .” Felsin trailed off.
The temperature rapidly dropped, sending a shiver down Felsin’s spine, and he halted as what appeared to be water pooled over his feet.
Yet he felt nothing, no wetness, no chill as his boots were soaked through. No sun lit the sky, merely the gentle glow of stars, yet the water below reflected everything above it—the sharp corners of buildings and Felsin’s black coat.
Phantom tendrils snaked along the mirror like grasping hands. It happened quickly, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. The chill parted as the water rushed away. South.
He had seen this before. An itching familiarity clawed at his mind, and he pressed a hand to the transparent crystal hanging about his neck, running his finger along its surface as though leafing through the pages of a book.
Dropping his hand, Felsin realized he would not find this memory among his people’s. When he’d tried to show Brand the night at the tavern, where assailants had cornered him in an alley, something had been missing.
The reflective water, the phantom hands. . . This was the work of the strange, glassy-eyed creature who had appeared in the chaos.
Both at his assassination attempt and Janus’s.
Panicked, Felsin lunged after it. Brand seized his wrist and yanked him back. “What are you doing?”
Felsin stared at his brother—once his best friend, now a stranger. A knowing glint hid in his eyes—recognition. “Do you have something to do with this?”
“What are you talking about?”
