Breathless, I tilted the card again and his hair returned to gold, and the blood marks vanished.
A deviah magician had created these cards. A magician highly skilled in art who knew how to layer enchantment within the illustration. Something I once longed to achieve. I felt an ache in my chest and I quickly tamped it down.
The second wraith card surprised me further; it was completely blank, save for the title at the footer: The Lost One. But when I angled the card to the light, a scene bloomed on the parchment. Stone walls, blue banners, trestle tables. The grand hall of a castle, with an empty throne on the dais.
I had read about this place before, in Knox Birch’s dream. This was the fortress in the clouds, the holding of the Seren Duchy. A chill snaked down my spine as I tilted the card again, watching the scene vanish once more, as if it had never been.
“Miss Neven!” Deacon scolded. “Now I know you’re holding not one but two of the wraiths! Me and Grandmama won’t want to trade with you this round. You have to keep them secret.”
“Deacon,” Mrs. Stirling warned. “Be nice. This is Miss Neven’s first time playing.”
I was hardly listening; I studied the first wraith card again. Inscribed at the bottom was the cursed man’s title. The Advisor. “What are the titles of all the wraiths? It’s been a long while since I heard the legend.”
“The heiress, the advisor, the master of coin,” Deacon began, listing them on his fingers. “The spymistress, the lady-in-waiting, the guard, and the lost one.”
“And who is the lost one? I don’t see them on the card.”
Exasperated that I had now informed him of the exact wraith I was holding, Deacon said, “They are the one who was left behind in the fortress when the duchy fell. As punishment for killing the duke. Everyone else fled before the nightmares arrived.”
I wondered if the lost one was just a myth, or if they still lived and breathed, alone in the abandoned fortress on the mountaintop. If they had ever stood on the parapets and looked down into the valley, down to where Hereswith had resided among lush grass and trees. And I remembered Imonie’s story, the one she had told me just after we had left home. A legend about the woman with her twin boys and how one of her sons had been lost to the mountain, unable to leave its shadow. Imonie’s tale had not stated why one twin was doomed to be trapped, but I supposed that legend complemented the game of Seven Wraiths. If the lost one was the assassin, the curse would not permit him to leave.
“Are you ready to play now, Miss Neven?”
“Yes, I understand the rules,” I said. “Let’s play.”
Mrs. Stirling went first. She set down the three of hearts, to match the three of diamonds that sat faceup on the table, which provoked a groan from Deacon. My turn came next, and I laid down one of my diamonds. Deacon did not have a match for the discard pile and asked to trade a card with Mrs. Stirling.
A few more turns passed around the table, and then my wish was fulfilled: I drew another wraith card from the deck.
The Spymistress. A woman whose age was hard to decipher with her smooth, angular face and long white-blond hair. She was slim and sinewy, dressed in black and dark stained leather, and when I tilted the card, horns bloomed from her head, leaves grew within her tresses. A trail of smoke escaped her mouth.
I froze, gaping at the card. A troll. The spymistress of the fallen mountain court was a troll.
“Miss Neven!” Deacon cried. “You have to guard your face! Now I know you have another wraith card in your hand!”
My attention remained fixed upon the card, how the spymistress changed in my grip according to which angle I looked upon her. Human. Troll.
Mazarine.
I thought of her hoard of secrets, her clever disguise, the old magic she knew. How time seemed to hold no power over her.
Deacon and Mrs. Stirling beat me in that round of Seven Wraiths; I conceded with the advisor, the spymistress, and the lost one still in my hands. But I gained a morsel of knowledge, something that could only come from defeat.
Mazarine had once been the spymistress of the mountain duchy.
She was one of the seven cursed, which meant she could not die, nor could she dream. And if she could not dream, surely my father would have known.
All this time, a wraith from Seren had been living beneath his watch, in our town. And he had never said a word about it.
“Miss Neven? I have a guest room prepared just for you,” Mrs. Stirling said to me after four rounds of Seven Wraiths, rounds I had encouraged so I could hold each of the doomed cards. To my own demise and Deacon’s victory. “Mr. Vesper asked that I do so, in case you wanted to spend the night here.”
I stood in the foyer. It was late—half past ten—and Phelan still had yet to return. I hoped he would stay away longer still.
“I’m not sure, Mrs. Stirling,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“Oh, my dear! You would not intrude. Mr. Vesper and I both worry about you walking home at night.”
I hesitated, but eventually nodded. “I am rather weary.”
“Come, let me take you to your room,” she invited me, and began to ascend the stairwell. “Take care, though. These stairs tend to be slick on odd-numbered days.”
The steps were a bit slippery, I noticed with amusement as I followed her to the second floor. The air smelled like roasting wood and evergreen, like meadow grass and the dust of old books.
“I’ve always loved this room,” Mrs. Stirling said with a pleasant sigh as she opened a door, lighting a few candles. “It has a wonderful view of the back garden, and on clear days you can see the sunset.”
I followed her into the bedchamber. The room was square, its wallpaper printed with climbing ivy. The bed was a good size, swathed in a canopy, and there was an armoire, a writing desk, and two windows trimmed with dark green velvet drapes.
And an oval mirror, hanging on the wall above the washbasin.
I stopped before I could pass by it, and Mrs. Stirling finished lighting the candles, reflexively spreading a stray wrinkle from the duvet cover.
“There’s also some new clothes in the armoire, if you would like to change, Miss Neven,” she said.
“Where do you and Deacon sleep?” I asked.
“Oh, we don’t live here. I live four doors down and will be here before first light to get the fires started and breakfast cooked.”
I hadn’t realized that I would live with Phelan alone. I had assumed Mrs. Stirling and Deacon lodged here. This was certainly a detail to keep from my father, and I hoped he would understand that my plan had finally taken root, and not worry when I failed to show up tonight. Tomorrow was Monday, anyway. I would have the evening off to go to my mother’s and explain the new arrangement to them.
“And you’re certain Mr. Vesper won’t mind me staying here . . . with him?” I inquired.
Mrs. Stirling smiled. “Not at all. Unless you feel uncomfortable with the arrangement, Miss Neven. And if that is so, I will sleep here tonight on the main floor.”
“No, that won’t be necessary,” I rushed to say.
“Oh, Miss Neven,” she said as if remembering something important, and reached into her apron pocket. “Best you take a remedy tonight, since you lost at Seven Wraiths.”
I held out my palm and she dropped one of Phelan’s vials in my hand. I proceeded to drink it, surprised by its sweetness. Honey with a hint of spearmint, and far more palatable than my father’s recipe.