They were watching Catia’s fangs again as she spoke. Their gazes drifted down when she opened her mouth, and they met her eyes again on a pause, a little too purposefully. Over and over again. Catia touched one tooth with her tongue and glanced uselessly at the mirror behind their little table. She could guess at how each fang must cut her smile, twist her expression. But she had never seen them.
Before they had sunk in below her other teeth, her reflection had started to smear. In low light, she was nothing but an annoying smudge. The sort of thing that made her want to spit on the glass and scrub it with her cuff. In brighter lights she was a shadow that should not exist. Disconcerting. Stomach-turning, and impossible.
She had avoided daylight for months, just to keep herself believing that she was more than that shade in the glass. And to keep the others from seeing the strange way her skin bent the light even under their eyes.
And yet, the most irritating aspect of coming back from the dead was that no one believed she hadn’t gone evil.
The fortress was awake as Seryn slipped back in through the open gate.
It was well after midnight, and the lamps were lit as soldiers crossed and recrossed the yard. The walls crawled with too many shadows, the watch doubled by men and women crowded shoulder to should to oggle the mottled orange sky, the dim fire, and the sharp outline of the trees in front of it. A few of them glanced at Seryn, made a perfunctory check of her person, but didn’t seem to notice that she had come back twice. The yard rumbled with their curiosity. In one corner, someone was loading a wagon with water, the only bright point of hurry.
Trent arrived to breakfast looking as if someone had thrown deep purple paint in his face, and he’d been too timid to scrub it out of the corner between his eye and his nose. And he’d missed a large bit hiding under his eyebrow.
It took his four older brothers one moment to realize some jackum had punched him in the face, one more to snap their eyebrows down into heavy glares, and another to shove their chairs back from the table.
It is the dearest wish of my heart that this letter reach you in time. I have every intention of setting sail within the week, making for Port Andin with all haste. Upon arrival, it will be my pleasure to seek out Mr. Daleman, and speak with him on one of two subjects: his immediate restitution for heinous acts against my person and the persons of others dear to me, or his immediate cessation of breath.
Under the assumption that he will prefer the latter, and knowing the depth and intensity of such a discussion, I would very much like to have your company.