-D. H. Lawrence
"One or another
Is lost, since we fall apart
Endlessly, in one motion depart
From each other."
Sayfa 69 - City Lights Books, The Pocket Series: Number 19
Makeup
I stare up into Talan’s heartbreakingly beautiful face. Even
though I should be scared out of my wits, all I can think about is
how desperately I wanted to see him.
“Nia.” Talan’s voice sounds wrecked, like he hasn’t slept for days. “You
came back.”
“I’m not allowed in Camelot anymore. They say I’m a traitor.” My
voice cracks a little. “They arrested me. I can’t go back there.”
“Did they arrest you? It’s hard to say when you lie endlessly.” His voice
is barely a whisper. “You faked your family. Your name isn’t Vaillancourt, is
it? And the man I buried—”
He breaks off, staring at me.
I feel myself crumbling into ash. “He was a member of the resistance.
Anti-monarchy. Demi-Fey.” I swallow hard. “And no, I’m not the farm girl
you thought I was. I’m Nia Melisande, Mordred’s daughter. He’s still alive,
in Avalon.”
He stares at me without moving. Not betraying a single thing.
“I grew up in America, speaking English,” I add. “I grew up believing I
was human. You heard my thoughts for years. I heard you repeating them
once in your sleep.”
A tiny twitch of his lips is his only reaction to my confession. “You’re
here only because you have nowhere else to go.”
Desperation crackles through my nerves. “I wanted to see you.”
His eyes flare like torches in the breeze. “I want to hear it.”
My heart is beating faster. My blood pumps hard. “Hear what?”
“You.” He switches to English. “Speak to me in English. I want to hear
how you sound.”
I stare at him, startled by the thickness of his accent. I’d only heard him
speak English once before, briefly.
Swallowing, I search for the right words. “‘Where fairytales come to
life,’” I say in my American accent. “That’s what I heard you say in your
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What did you get into
The torchlight dances in his dark eyes as he stares down at me. “Let’s
start with your name.”
“I’m Severine.”
“No. Your real name.”
“That is my real name.”
He cocks his head, and a lock of ebony hair falls before one of his eyes.
“If I desire, I can wrap you in a dream, girl. And in that dream, you will feel
compelled to say your real name a thousand times. You will say it for days,
for weeks, until you starve half to death, until the word no longer has
meaning. So, let’s try this again. What’s your name?”
Thunder rumbles outside, rattling the diamond-shaped glass panes.
I feel it then, a touch of his velvety power, brushing at the edges of my
mind. Threatening to wrap around me, to envelop my reality. He really will
do it unless I act fast. The shield in my mind isn’t strong enough. There
wasn’t enough time to practice.
Lying works best when it is laced with truth. I can give this evil fucker a
crumb.
I narrow my eyes at him, jaw tightening.
I should be acting like a meek girl, intimidated by the crown prince. But
Raphael’s words still echo in my mind, and the state of his ravaged, tortured
body burns my thoughts like a brand.
“Fine, it’s Nia.” I spit out the words. “Vaillancourt.” My words come
out sharper than they should, while my mind is whirring, making up a story
that would work, that would convince him I’m not worth his time.
“So, Nia. What are you doing here?” His voice is so uncannily familiar,
and the sound of his deep, velvety voice as he speaks my name sends a
strange rush of heat through my blood.
My pulse is racing out of control. Some Fey can hear a heartbeat while
standing nearby. I wonder if he’s one of them.
I lift my chin. “My family and I are tenants on farmland we don’t own.
To save him...
“Fine. Now, will you tell me how to save Raphael?”
He stretches out a long arm and plucks an apple from a tree. “Of course.
To save him, we must learn exactly where they’re keeping him.”
“So, you don’t know where he is?”
“In my dreams, I see mere glimpses. He is in Auberon’s fortress, but it’s
a vast place, with countless dungeons, cells, and torture chambers. I need to
think.” He takes a bite of the apple, closes his eyes, and leans his head back
against the column.
I grit my teeth in frustration as I turn back to look at the banquet table.
He’s actually still got ancient wine in the decanters. Dust and snow cover
the plates and the faded gold tablecloth. There are food trays with silver
domes on them. I hate to think of what’s underneath them.
I have no idea what Mordred is doing right now. Eyes closed, he seems
deep in thought. He begins to hum, an eerie, haunting tune that raises the
hair on my nape and pulls my attention from the banquet table. The song is
uncanny, strangely familiar, and his body glows with silver. And for some
reason, I feel as if the tune is beckoning me closer.
After a while, movement catches my eye from above, and I glance up to
see a cloud of silver moths fluttering down from the ruined ceiling. As
Mordred hums, they twirl and dance in the air, their wings ignited by the
slate-silver moonlight. Mordred holds out his hand, and a moth lands on his
palm.
He opens his eyes and clamps his hand into a fist, crushing it. The rest
of the moths scatter, flitting away from him. He opens his hand again, and
my breath hitches. On his palm is a jeweled silver moth, its wings decorated
with tiny, sparkling stones.
“Take it,” he says.
I take it from his palm, a lifeless moth made of metal.
“This moth will be my ears and my eyes. Carry it into Auberon’s
The one question. Running endlessly through my head. If it were Donna. If it were Cassie. My sisters.
For a second, I’m frozen. Frozen as they were just a moment ago. Transfixed, watching them. Pulling at his body, making shrieking noises of want that are terrible to hear. He’s mine, no he’s mine, no he’s f*cking mine, you c*nt, let go, we talked about this! He’s f*cking mine, mine, mine, mine. Even the Duchess is now squealing like a pig. If I weren’t seeing it with my own eyes, I wouldn’t believe it. The froth. The straight white teeth bared. The hissy screaming. The inhuman sounds issuing from their meticulously painted mouths. Mouths that have cited countless philosophers and critics in grandly appointed auditoriums. I watch them tug at him with a fury that no doubt they put into their graduate school applications. An endlessly entitled fury that will drive them toward the shiny pretty things of this world and not stop until they have claimed them.
