Chapter Three: Behind Walls and mirror
510 Words
Tasia sat at her vanity, staring at her reflection in the polished glass.
The room was quiet, too quiet. Outside, the city murmured with life—carriages clattering over cobblestones, distant bells tolling the hour. But here in her chamber, it felt like the world had stopped.
Her fingers drifted to her hair. The maids had pinned it up beautifully for Chase’s visit. She pulled out the first pin, letting a curl fall. Then another. She watched herself come undone.
I was kind, she thought bitterly. That was my mistake.
She remembered the way he’d looked at her in the garden. Like a man trapped. Like someone who wanted to confess, but couldn’t. Or wouldn’t.
She let out a slow breath and stood. Crossing the room, she opened the balcony doors. Cool evening air spilled in, scented with rain that hadn’t yet fallen.
The city spread before her in gleaming lantern light. Spires and rooftops, all crafted to look regal, unassailable. She hated it.
She closed her eyes.
I’m to be his wife.
The words felt heavy. Like chains.
She thought of his confession. I had someone else.
Was she supposed to ignore that? Smile through it? Pretend it didn’t matter that he loved someone else while she was expected to give him everything?
She felt a tightness in her chest. A pressure behind her eyes.
Don’t cry.
She sat on the cold marble of the balcony floor, pulling her knees to her chest.
A raven landed on the balcony rail. It regarded her with one unblinking black eye.
“Go away,” she whispered.
It cawed once, harsh and mocking, before spreading its wings and vanishing into the night.
She shivered. She’d always hated those birds. The old stories said they were omens. Messengers for spirits who delighted in tragedy.
She glanced at the empty room behind her.
Her gaze fell to the writing desk.
She forced herself to stand and cross to it. She opened her journal and dipped the pen in ink, fingers shaking.
Mother says I should be grateful. That I’m lucky. That I’ll be rich, safe, secure.
Is it ungrateful to want love?
To want him to see me—not just my dowry?
A teardrop fell onto the page, blooming like blood in water.
She wiped it away with the edge of her sleeve, smearing the ink.
I’m afraid, she wrote. I’m so afraid he’ll never love me. That he’ll always wish for someone else. And I’ll be the fool who loves him anyway.
She dropped the pen.
When she finally looked up, the candles had burned low. Shadows danced on the walls, and for a moment, she thought she saw something move in the corner of the room. A flicker, like a figure turning away.
She blinked, and it was gone.
With a shaking breath, she closed the journal.
She went to bed fully dressed, curling under the heavy covers, praying to ancestors she barely believed in that she would dream of anything but blue eyes and polite smiles that cut like knives.
- Writer
