Azalea and Therion immediately erupt in protests when I try to further explain. What nonsense! Azalea cries. Don't listen to him, Father. He loves the attention, Therion argues. I finish my soup in silence while they foolishly vie for Father's attention. A tiny smile curls the edges of my mouth. Mother, Azalea, and Therion may not have been swayed by my words, but I know Father will never pass up the chance—small as it may be—that my escapades can increase our wealth. He will silence everyone else, and I will be spared their ridiculous lies.

But I still am not sure what to make of the seeds they have sown. How could I have been missing for days when I was just wandering the halls last night? Unless Arcene's mirror world distorts time. That would explain why I am so withered.

A small part of me whispers that I had been that way far longer than I cared to admit. It was like a haze had lifted from my mind when I left Arcene's mirror, a haze that had kept me imprisoned for so long I had forgotten about it.

Before I question Arcene on how long we played her game, I have to ask how long we had been at the house.

Time had stretched on. Dust hangs in the air and over the furniture. When I glance at the garden beyond the drawing room window, it is untamed and overgrown. My body is sick, but it isn't the only one. Therion's hands are bonier than usual. Even Azalea's cheeks seem a little gaunt.

The arguing crescendos, and Mother joins in as well. She spins her lies against me again, always looking down on me with that fearful, wavering glare. It's no surprise that her affection has vanished, but I shrink a bit, clinging to the Mother from before.

Finally, Father pushes to his feet, and the room falls silent. He collects his book, fixes the front of his vest, and moves toward the doorway. "Kyren, join me in the study when you're ready. Azalea, prepare something else for him to eat and leave it outside the door. You and Therion are not to intrude."

"Father!" Azalea whines, incredulous.

He stops at the landing and shoots her a look so fierce that she takes a measured step back. "Do not make me repeat myself."

My smile grows, and I can't stop it. I rise as well, still unsteady but less weak and cold than before with her lukewarm soup in my belly. I shove the wooden bowl and spoon back into her hands as I pass. "Thank you, Azalea. You've been a great help."

If looks could kill, Azalea's dark stare would have me run through and I'd lie dead and bleeding at her feet. Instead, however, I wave and walk free from the room, leaving her and Therion to do nothing but stare in silence after me.

Mother mutters a last word to her other children before trailing me and Father, silent as a ghost. I cling to the blanket she draped over me, but I lift my chin and square my shoulders so she can't see how small I feel.

My world is spinning. The pieces don't fit together. More than anything, I yearn to see Arcene again, to ask her the thousands of questions whirling around me even if I can't guarantee she will tell me the truth. How did I let time slip through my fingers? Why is she so eager to make me her sigil bearer? What kind of game should I play? What do I do when I win my three? What truly happens if she wins?

My foot catches on a wrinkle in the rug. I gasp as I stumble, but Father grabs my wrist and yanks me upright again before I meet the floor.

"Walk straight, Kyren," he says without looking at me.

In spite of myself, I'm already wheezing. "I am. It's just that... my feet have forgotten."

"Since when did you become so sick?" Mother tsks and comes to my other side, taking my hand in hers. It's warm and inviting even though her face is all twisted up with fear. "It's that mirror, Tiernan. We have to try to move it again. Look what it's doing to him since—" Her gaze latches onto the ring on my thumb. Horror darkens her face, and she wrenches my hand up with such force that my shoulder screams in protest. "What is this? I told you to toss it all. See, Tiernan, he doesn't listen! Get rid of it before that thing comes back!"

"Her name is Arcene, and she won't appear if I don't have silver!" I cry, twisting my wrist and pulling against Mother's hold, but she only tightens her grip. "It's the only way I will see anything else besides the silver eyes. You have to let me keep this one. You'll never see it again, I swear!"

"Never see it again?" she echoes, her voice tripping up in a panicked question. "Where did you get this ring? It's—"

"I made it!" I finally wrench free of her grasp. The momentum has me stumbling into the wall and the empty table against it, one that once housed our silver trinkets. The corner digs into my side, sending a sharp stab up to my ribs, and I hiss as I fold in on myself, shaking. An ugly bruise is sure to develop there.

Mother starts toward me again, pity and sorrow swimming in the tight lines of her face. Father stops her with a hand on her arm. "Kyren," he says. "Get up. We will speak more about this in private."

I grit my teeth as I haul myself back up, one arm still wrapped around my side as it continues to smart. There's no one to listen anymore—no servants, no guests, and not even any other apprentices or silversmiths for the smithing workshop. It's just the Blackwoods now. And Arcene, if she deems it amusing enough to listen through the ring, and the ring goes with me everywhere now.

But I suppose he doesn't trust even Therion and Azalea with the mirror's secrets. I swell with satisfaction, and it's enough to convince me to follow Father into the study at a pace almost as quick as his. Mother walks beside him, wringing her hands again. She glances back at me occasionally. I can no longer decipher her expression.

Father closes the door behind us once we are all in the study. "Sit," he tells me as he marches to the fireplace and stirs it back to life. He must have been in the room recently since a weak flame was still waiting for him. I imagine Mother called him out to the drawing room in a panic, though I can't help but wonder why they never tried his key if they couldn't get into my room. And if they did try it, why did it not work?

Days, Kyren. You've been gone. But I hadn't gone anywhere—that much I was sure of. I was there. Days had not passed. It was night when I entered my room, and afternoon when I left it. They were lying to me, and I had to know why.

The ring digs into my finger again as I twist it and twist it. I can't remember sitting, but when I come to again, I'm slumped in the chair opposite Father's own at his desk. Mother paces behind me, her skirts shuffling across the floor. The fire roars, making the shadows dance and warming the chill in my bones.

Father folds his hands atop the desk, dark eyes piercing as they bore into mine. There are no ink blots on his skin anymore; instead, a fresh burn peeks out beneath his cuff on his right wrist. "Tell me about the spirit in the mirror."

I sit up straighter under his scrutiny and fill my lungs with air before I begin my tale. I tell him everything I remember—how I've watched the mirror for a time so long I've forgotten the start of it, how I learned the spectre could appear differently when I hold silver, how its eyes follow the ring. I tell him about Arcene, the beautiful silver woman and the sigil branded on her shoulder blade. I tell him about her power over the silver, about her penchant for games, and some of the details of our bargain. I do not mention my loss nor her threat over Azalea nor even Azalea's secret silver necklace. I'll hold that information over her another time.

His eyes light up again and, somehow, his face turns up in a smile. It is hard for anyone to resist a patron spirit's promises, and Father is no different. "You must continue to play with her. Offer her anything she desires. If you can win her favor, you will do so much more than just save us, Kyren. We'll surpass even the wealth we had before."

"We don't know that her words are true," Mother whispers. At some point during my story, she had come to stand with her hand against the back of my chair. She presses her fist to her lips now, brow furrowing in thought. "Elemental spirits are powerful, yes, but they are also known for their cunning. They will do anything or say anything to be free, and even their sigil bearers have great difficulty controlling them. There are many examples of tragedies that come from unruly spirits. Kyren isn't strong enough to control something like that." She pushes away and swishes to the fire, staring deep into the flickering depths. "I told you already, Tiernan, we must leave. Give up this place and start fresh somewhere else. We can't win against a spirit."

"This is our best option," Father argues, picking at an imaginary speck of dust on his sleeve. "It cost us too much to get here—"

"It has cost us ten times that to stay!"

"—We can't abandon a silver spirit for someone else to stumble upon. She was born for us to use. Her power belongs to us." Then his gaze swivels to me again, bright and all consuming. "Kyren, submit to her every whim. I don't care what she asks, you comply. No matter the cost, you must see this through to the end."

I nod and open my mouth to add something, but Mother cuts in again. "Mountains, Tiernan! Patrons have brought mountains upon their sigil bearers in a loss of control, killing thousands. In the South, I heard of a man who barely survived a battle against a water spirit, and his family still fights to suppress it daily—daily! Look at Kyren. He's barely hanging on by a thread. He doesn't have the strength to return to smithing, much less conquer a spirit! We must leave for his sake, and we have to scrape together enough for him to see a good doctor until he is well again."

Father slams his fist against the desk, rattling his ink pots and pens, silencing Mother. "I have made my choice. This is not up for debate."

Silence stretches as Mother finally lets go of her meager control. I turn in my seat to face her and force a smile, a soft and easy one that makes the lines in her face lighten. "I'm not afraid, Mother. I'm quite good at games, and I won't let her beat me."

She opens her mouth, and an argument sits on her tongue, but a glance at Father is all it takes to silence her again. His word is final, and I find no fault in it for once. I was already planning to continue to play Arcene's game, determined not to lose again. I will beat her. I will banish her from my mirror and the silver.

A soft knock on the door cuts through the silence. Mother crosses and opens it, accepting the tray from Azalea. This time, she has brought me warm tea, a little sandwich stuffed with greens and a little bit of shredded meat, and yet another bowl of lukewarm soup. It doesn't surprise me. The only thing she's ever been good at making is tea—and problems, I suppose.

I follow Mother's movements as she brings it to me, and my gaze catches on a wooden box hidden on Father's bookshelf. A faint memory tickles the back of my mind. I stand, slowly, and approach the box. "Is this your chess set, Father?"

"Yes," he says. His brow is furrowed again, his usual frown creeping back into its place.

I slip the box off the shelf and run my thumb over the clasp—an imitation silver so tainted there could no reflection in it anymore. It was a cheap thing. Father had always said he had bought it as a boy with the money he earned from his first silver work. "What are the pieces made out of?"

"Wood. The paint is chipping on some of the black pawns, but all the pieces are there if I remember correctly."

Chess. I used to play against Father as a boy, and it was one of the only times he looked warm and would dare to laugh. I slip the box open. Within, I find the pieces layered atop each other, and below that is the folded wooden board. My chest tightens, veins humming with excitement.

I know what I will challenge Arcene to play.

✶