“You have drawn me so many times, Clementine. Why would I want another portrait?”
“I have drawn you in disguise, Mazarine of the Mountains. This time, I will draw your true face.”
Her humor melted, replaced by longing and the glitter of vanity. I had her, and I concealed my smugness as I continued to hold up the paper, waiting to be marked.
“But then again . . . perhaps you don’t want any evidence of your true nature on paper,” I said, and began to pack my supplies away.
“Wait, Clementine.”
I paused, and she fought a war within herself.
“The portrait of my true face will be enough for payment,” she eventually said. “But now the question I must ask is if you are willing to pay the cost of my disguise.”
“Tell me the cost, then.”
She poured a glass of wine. “I will take half of your heart and turn it into stone. It will divide you, and you will turn colder. Because half of who you once were will be no more, you will need to surrender half of something you love to hold the spell. Your art or your magic, most likely, since those are two things that have always been with you, growing alongside you year by year.” She took a sip of her wine, but her gaze never left mine. “So what will you choose to give up, Clementine Madigan? Your art or your magic?”
I didn’t want to relinquish either one.
For the troll was right: magic and art had been with me always. My two constants, my two greatest achievements. Both light and fire in my imagination, growing year by year alongside me, deepening and flourishing even in the hardest moments of life. And my dream of mastering deviah magic, when my magic and my art would coincide as one beneath my prowess, slowly began to die.
“My art,” I whispered. “I will give up my art.”
Mazarine nodded, but she wasn’t surprised. She had known my decision and my weakness, as I had known hers.
“Then let it be done,” Mazarine said, and rose from the divan. “Come and draw my portrait, and I will grant you my magic, a disguise of your choosing.”
I still had one more burning question to ask her, but I held it on my tongue as I followed her to the mirror. She stood before the glass and I brought out my board and clipped the paper to it, sitting close enough so that I had a clear view of her reflection.
The sight of her was chilling.
Terrifying and magnificent—the elements of a nightmare. I began to draw her true face. I soaked in the wild silver of her hair and the traces of forest that grew within it, the rocky planes of her face, the sharp crookedness of her bloodstained teeth, the shining slant of her horns, the unquenchable pools of her eyes. She was fierce and terrible and yet wholly tame in that moment as I strove to bring her to life on paper.
My hand was aching when I was finished. I stood and unclipped the parchment and set it into her waiting palms. Mazarine’s delight was nearly overpowering as she studied herself.
She said nothing, but her eyes were like dew, and she eventually looked at me again. She reached out and brushed my cheek with her cold knuckles.
“Wait here,” she said. “I need to fetch a few things for your disguise.”
I nodded, my voice hung in my throat, and I watched her depart the room. Thankful for the time alone, I resumed my seat and procured a new sheet of parchment and a fresh stick of charcoal.
I began to draw my final piece of art.
I designed my disguise, how I wanted to appear after Mazarine took half my heart away. An unexceptional face, an ordinary girl who would not garner a second look on the street. A few freckles, because I liked them, and bold brows because I had always wanted that in my own face. But the rest was plain. I traded my wild copper hair for sleek, long tresses the color of summer soil. A medium-brown shade that was rather dull indoors but boasted a hint of gold in the sunlight. No more gill scars in my neck or dimples in my cheeks. My eyes molted their dark brown for a shade of hazel. I gave up two inches of my height. The square cut of my jaw was narrower, and my skin would retain its pale shade.
I finished my sketch long before Mazarine returned. I was exhausted, so I closed my eyes and leaned my head back, resting until I heard the doors groan.
I rose to meet her.
At once, I was overcome by the stench. She was holding a goblet of something foul smelling, a cloudy liquid that made my stomach roil. I didn’t want to know what she had cooked and blended to make it.
She seemed unperturbed by the smell, interested by the sketches I had made.
“Ah, your disguise,” she said, admiring them. “Although I must say I am surprised.”
“Why is that?” I asked, breathing through my mouth.
“I thought you would want to enhance your beauty,” she said, arching her brow. “Most of your kind chase after such things. They want an attractive glamour, something to draw the eye and admiration to them. But not you.”
“No,” I whispered.
I wanted to be unremarkable upon appearance. I wanted to be underestimated, overlooked, on the verge of being forgotten. I wanted a trustworthy face that inspired friendship, a face that could draw out a secret. A face that one would never assume hid something vengeful beneath it.
It was time to speak my burning question. One forged from my greatest fear.
“How long will this magic of disguise last?”
“The longevity of this spell depends on you, mortal girl,” Mazarine replied. “On how well you guard the stone half of your heart. Be vigilant and your disguise will last unto death. But should the stone within you crack . . . the rest will soon crumble, little by little, until your disguise falls away.”
I dwelled on that for a moment. “But you said this enchantment will make me colder. So the chances of me cracking anytime soon are slim.”
“It will make you colder. But even the deepest of ice eventually gives way to fire, Clementine.”
Her answer satisfied me, and I nodded. I wasn’t worried about my disguise failing me anytime soon.
“Although do keep in mind,” the troll added, “mirrors are your greatest enemy. They will not lie for you, and your true reflection will always shine brightly upon them.”
“Yes, I will be careful in their presence,” I whispered.
A quiet moment pulsed between us. Mazarine extended the goblet, waiting for me to accept and drink.
My mouth went dry as I took hold of the cup. She murmured an incantation, one that was unfamiliar to me, a guttural language.
The room was suddenly too warm. My heart was fighting vibrantly in my chest, hammering against my bones. The pain of it breaking was harrowing, and I gasped, falling to my knees.
It felt like I was drowning again.
It felt like I was being cloven by an axe.
I couldn’t breathe, and tears were streaming down my cheeks, but through the haze of my anguish, I saw Mazarine clearly. Her face was stark and amused as she held the rim of the goblet to my lips.
“You must take three swallows, Clementine.”
I took the first, forced it down like the bittersweet remedies I had drunk all my life.
I took the second, and my heart was an instrument being strummed one final time. The melody trembled through me, a sorrowful ballad that echoed through every bend and corner of me. One that begged me to reconsider.
I took the third swallow, and the pain bloomed unbearable in my chest. I felt heavy, as if I had been filled with molten gold. I was both burning and freezing, and I quivered.