The crooked silver goblet I had made hangs from my belt beside the little pouch where I stashed Mother's ring. Because the surface of silver is greater on the goblet, Arcene is able to venture out of my room with me after unlocking the door. Her voice guides me to each of the silver pieces. Azalea's necklace, hidden in a smooth cloth pouch under her pillow. Therion's pocket watch, stashed in a secret compartment in his desk. Father's pen hid quite well.

It's in his study, in a small box. I believe it's somewhere on the bookshelves, Arcene says, her voice echoing as it bounces around the inside of the goblet. I look down at her reflection in the silver and find her face scrunched in concentration. The hum of trepidation and anger in my bones does not seem to affect her, but it drives every step of mine.

It's flimsy, but a plan begins to take shape, a script that I've worked and reworked until I am numb. With the silver, I will expose their lies. They will try to pin the blame on me, to mold me into the deluded son who can't deal with the pressures of the mirror and the anxiety of the Blackwoods' affairs anymore. They will try to stop me, tell me I cannot give up until Arcene and I have played every game and determined a winner. They will tell me I must save them.

And I will not buy a word of it. The little puppet Blackwoods, always fighting, always arguing, can plead innocence for an eternity, but I will not be turned by them.

I creep through the shadows, my back pressed to the wall. A light sheds across the hall from the open door to Father's study. I breathe a small sigh. If the door is open, he must be somewhere else in the house, perhaps listening to another one of Mother's fragile arguments, disagreeing with his decision to lock me up earlier. She won't reach for the key though nor unlock the door herself. She never does.

I'm greeted by the warmth of the fire as I step into the room. Father's bookshelves surround the room in perfect order, everything always in its place. My fingers itch to tear the room apart just to spit on him.

You should, Arcene whispers, and her silver eyes flick up to me. It is the least he deserves for his treatment of you. Tear it all apart, Kyren. Find that pen.

And I do. I rip books from shelves and throw them haphazardly on the floor. They hit the stone, their pages wrinkling and their covers bending. Some I open and tear their pages out, scattering them around me like snow. The tightness in my chest slowly begins to unwind, and a smile twists my face. I laugh a little too as excitement washes over my anger and skitters through me. I tear and toss and break and overturn until every inch of Father's perfect order is gone. Arms straining, I pull one of the bookshelves away from the wall and shove it over. It hits the floor with a crash that echoes through the hall, and I hope Father hears it wherever he is. I hope he comes running. I hope he sees his rat has escaped.

Be mindful of your strength. You are still weak. Find the pen. Arcene's commands ripple around me, and I nod.

I pick through the mess and sift through the ripped pages and bent books for a small pen-shaped box. When I find it, it is by the fire on its side, its lid lying beside it and the silver-cased pen exposed to the orange light dancing along its side. Arcene's face within it is warped, but she smiles. My face aches from doing the same. I snatch up the pen and fumble to stuff it into the over-full pouch.

"Kyren!"

Mother's exasperated voice cracks my perfect silence, hushing even the roar of the fireplace. Papers rustle and footsteps pound toward me. I turn just as Father snatches up my wrist. His eyes blaze and his stern face has taken on even more harsh lines than before. In a moment of weakness, his gaze flicks away from my face to take in the destruction, and he pulls back, gripping my wrist tightly. Then he yanks me up.

"How did you get out?"

I grit my teeth and wrench myself free—this time, my wrist slips from his grasp. Without his order, he has lost his control, and he's starting to slip. He starts to reach for me again, but I step back and hold the little pouch up. The top of Father's pen and Therion's pocket watch both stick out, gleaming in the light. Father freezes, allowing confidence to surge through me and bolster my voice. "Toss out all the silver?" I mimic. "Trap Kyren with the mirror and let him barter for our freedom from the spirit's curse? That was your plan. Did you think I would never learn the truth?"

Father recovers quickly, advancing on me again. I shift back and hit the desk behind me, but Father stops a measure pace away, his path blocked by his precious books which he has so carefully avoided treading on. His face twists into something new, but his venom is the same when he spits at me. "What are you babbling about, Kyren? How did you get out of your room?"

But Mother has taken the bait. She still stands in the doorway, but now she wrings her hands and looks like she wishes she could pace, but the floor is too covered in Father's books for her to dare. "Kyren, please come here. We want to speak to you."

"You don't want to speak to me!" I shout. "You never do. Every time I speak, you try to shut me up with interjections and blame and accusations. You whisper about me when you think I'm not listening, but I'm always listening, Mother. I know what you say. I know what you think. Did you forget who it was that earned your newfound wealth that you squandered?"

"Kyren—"

"It was me!" The words explode from somewhere deep inside me, and I quiver from the force of them, my throat scraped as they tear up my insides. "I was the one who stood outside in the cold until my fingers were red and my bones were crying and my eyes were wet and weeping. I was the one who saw the magistrate at the market, who approached him. And when he told me he was looking for a silversmith who could craft a unique set of jewelry for his daughter's birthday, it was me who struck the deal with him! When he paid us a wealthy sum and pitched our business to all his rich, upper crust friends, it was because of me! Yet you say I can't be trusted, that Therion could do better, that all I'm good for is wasting away before that mirror."

The noise has attracted flies. Therion and Azalea have now joined Mother, lurking in the hall where they can watch warily.

I take a deep breath. Both Mother and Father have fallen silent, and I hold their complete attention. Father seethes, but Mother is like prey in a trap, peering at me with wild eyes and a frozen tongue. I curl my fingers tighter around the pouch and shake it for good measure, drawing both their gazes to the gleam of silver. "If you want to blame me for keeping silver and call me a liar, you should have looked yourselves in the eye first." I turn the pouch over and dump their silver on the ground. Mother's ring. Azalea's necklace. Father's pen. Therion's watch. It all sits there in a perfect pile, the lies they told me and each other. And Arcene lurks in it all, little more than a silver-eyed reflection of everyone in the room.

But as I stare at myself in the silver, I am tinted by it. The Kyren there is silver-eyed and silver-handed and silvered all over. Yet I don't mind. He is stronger, his face hard and his back straight. He is not a dirty and withering boy, the one that haunted me in the mirror for so long. The mirror, it seems, is the only good thing the Blackwoods ever left me. I had given them what they desired, but no more.

I see the recognition in everyone's eyes. They search out their silver, drawn to it by some unknown force. Azalea gasps. Father's fists clench. Mother looks away. Therion glances warily at her, his shoulders raised like he expects a strike.

"You wouldn't face the mirror," I say, my voice low. "You left it to me, never daring to approach it. You felt safe where you could lock it up, where I was the only one confined to its influence. Where I was the only one who could be driven mad by those silver eyes. You made each other suffer an empty and vain solution. You did nothing to solve your own problem. Just like you did nothing to gain your own success."

I smash my boot over the pile of silver. Therion's watch caves, Father's pen cracks and splatters ink over his carpet. He gives an indignant shout, but I am already scooping it all up and throwing it into the fire before he can stop me. It isn't hot enough to melt anything down, but it's enough to burn their fingers if they try to reclaim anything.

Like moths, they all race to the fireplace, tripping over each other and crying out as they struggle to reclaim what is lost. I drift to the door, but an emptiness yawns inside me. Something is left unsaid, and it sits waiting on my tongue. I pause, then turn to give them one last look. No one meets my eye. Their hands reach into the flames.

But Azalea's sobs and Mother's pleas and Therion's excuses and Father's hisses of pain are music to my ears, far better than any words I can string together. So I swallow them and leave in silence, a smile pulling the corners of my mouth.

I return to my room with a purpose. Father calls out for me, a pained and angry sound like that of a beast in a cage.

✶

"What more can be done?" I ask as I slam my door shut. I push my nightstand in front of it to keep it shut while I pace before the mirror.

Arcene appears there in full, watching me with careful silver eyes. "What more is there to do? Your point has been made. We still have games to play or our bargain will come to a stalemate." She folds her hands in front of her. "Do you not still wish to send me away and be free?"

"No," I snap as my pacing brings me back to the mirror where I can only look up at her. "Can't we skip the games? I won't save them. I want them to break apart and remain in this place forever."

She leans in so close she almost touches the glass. Her silver darkens with a promise. "If we don't play, it is only you that will be trapped—remember?"

"I don't care about that!" I cry, and I press my hands to the glass, almost wishing I could fall through. I can almost taste the power, the freedom. She promises a life untethered, and it is within my grasp. I think of her power to drive my family mad. I think of the tales of spirits and the magic they give their sigil bearers. They are untouchable, revered, and certainly not bound by anything but their pacts. And I want that more than anything. I want a sigil to tie my fraying ends together. I would rest with her at my side because no one would ever be able to touch me again.

"Forget our games," I say, and my breath fogs the mirror as I press my forehead to it. "Forget our bargain. Make me your sigil bearer, Arcene."

Her smile grows. "You will need a knife."

✶✳✶