Witches Burn at Dawn ✔

6. Yaroslava

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Now

The apartment is frozen in time.

I follow Mir down the hall, and despite the sunrise oozing its shy pale pink through the floor-length windows, despite the soft carpets beneath my feet, everything seems frozen like photos hanging along the walls. Most of them are shots of people, some smiling and laughing, some caught unaware. I recognize Adélard and Kadri and Mir in those pictures, but I don't know anyone else. These new photos are the only thing that doesn't fit, their frames shiny, their colors vivid.

I glance around, searching for any hint of what kind of magic is performed here. But I see no candles, no spell books, not even a gemstone or those stupid tarot cards that are always too fickle to read right.

So far no advantages on my side.

At the end of the hall, Mir pushes a door open and walks in. When I peer inside, I realize it's a bedroom: there's a giant mirror in a brass frame that I consciously avoid, a wooden closet, a bed, not a double one but big enough to sink in pillows and blankets and forget everything, and-a carved armchair, standing apart from the escritoire desk, facing the window as if it's a throne, as if someone was observing the dawn just a moment ago, but left, spooked by our presence.

For a moment Mir simply stands by the window, somber. A lean, shady figure against the light. Then he straightens his shoulders and turns to look at me, his expression neutral.

"Waiting for an invitation?" he asks as I haven't yet crossed the threshold.

"Maybe." But the truth is, I'm stunned. This is exactly the place Tatya dreamed to live in. There's a door to a balcony, concealed behind the curtains, not a rooftop but still a place for a little party. I saw a bottle of champagne in the fridge, and who's here to stop me from pouring myself a glass?

The only difference is Tatya's gone, and I'm a slave, a spirit summoned to do the bidding, to be sent away once the work's done.

No, I won't play by anyone's rules this time. I'll take everything I want. And if I am summoned, I can as well pretend to be a queen. After all, someone gave me this ridiculous title while I was buried. "What is it you need my help for?" I ask on my way to the armchair-throne.

Mir watches me carelessly nestle in the armchair, his eyes tense around the edges. He doesn't feel safe in my company, even without powers, I still look like a threat. And when he hands me the envelope Adélard's brought, he makes certain his fingers don't touch mine. "This."

It's just an envelope, but I have an inkling I won't like what's inside. It feels...dead. Magic feels that way sometimes. It has many faces, it can feel and smell and sound whatever you need it to in order to be tricked--like a morning rain, a mother's embrace, a sense of freedom. But if you have a fear, its face is your fear.

Isn't that what you wanted?

No.

Taking a breath, I open the envelope.

"Seen this before?" Mir asks, perching on the desk, a safe distance from me.

There are more photos. As I draw them out, my first impression is that it's some sort of art: a girl's body painted silver. But the longer I survey the pictures, the more unsettled my thoughts become. No artist can be that meticulous. The shots are taken from different angles so I can see everything -- the folds of her clothes, her palms, her eyelids, her lips, every single lock of her hair -- is unnatural, all polished silver. Like a statue lying in the grass, fallen asleep. A living statue.