Page 16 of Off with Her Head
I can't help but smile. "I thought I didn't take orders from you."
"You do when you're bleeding in my bed." She moves to the door, then pauses. "Ravenna?"
"Mm?"
"Thank you."
She's gone before I can respond, leaving me alone with silk sheets that smell like roses and the lingering warmth of her touch on my skin. I press my hand to the bandaged wound, feeling the way the crystals' poison fights against me.
Worth it.
She's worth it.
I study Scarlett's chambers while I wait for her return. Like everything in Underland, they're excessive, dramatic, designed to impress and intimidate. The bed is enormous, draped in red silk and black velvet. Crystal chandeliers cast rainbow prisms across walls painted with scenes from Underland's history—past queens, famous battles, the occasional execution. Roses bloom in vases of gold and silver, their petals the precise shade of fresh blood.
But there are personal touches too, easily missed amid the grandeur. A small book of poetry on the nightstand, well-worn at the edges. A sketch of what might be her parents, tucked half-hidden behind a jewelry box. A collection of polished stones arranged on a windowsill, catching the moonlight.
These glimpses of the woman behind the crown are more fascinating than any theatrical display of power. They speak of depth, of complexity, and of a queen who is more than her carefully constructed image.
The wound in my side throbs, but I focus on pushing the pain back to keep the black veins from spreading further. Our journey to Darkmore will have to wait another day, I realize. In my current condition, I wouldn't make it halfway there.
Time passes strangely in Underland, minutes stretching and contracting like elastic. At some point, Scarlett’s lady’s maids bring my mirror to her room, leaving it atop the bedside table. I'm not sure how long I've been alone when Scarlett returns, her expression grave as she closes the door behind her.
"The assassin?" I ask, pushing myself up on the pillows despite the pain.
"Dead." She sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that I can smell the rose scent of her hair. "A suicide mechanism activated when we tried to question him. Some kind of crystal embedded at the base of his skull. It... consumed him from within."
"Like the corruption in the man we captured at the border." I gesture to my wound. "Like this, but accelerated."
She nods, her gaze dropping to my bandaged side. "How much pain are you in?"
"I've had worse." It's not entirely a lie. The physical pain is manageable—I've suffered more severe injuries during rituals. But the crystal's corruption, the way it fights against my very essence... that's new.Disturbing.
"Liar." Scarlett's hand comes to rest beside mine on the bed, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the warmth of her skin. "The crystal's poison is unlike anything our physicians have seen."
"Mara's work, undoubtedly." I shift slightly, trying to find a more comfortable position. "She always was creative with her cruelty."
Scarlett's eyes darken with anger. "She'll pay for this. For the attack on the border, for sending assassins, for hurting—" She cuts herself off, but the unspoken word hangs between us.
For hurtingme.
"We need to understand what she's doing before we can counter it effectively." I gesture toward my mirror. "If I could just—"
"No." She places her hand over mine, stopping me. "You've lost too much blood already. Using your power now could accelerate the crystal’s progress."
She's right, of course, though I hate to admit it.
"Then we're at an impasse," I say, frustration evident in my voice. "We need information, but my mirror requires blood to function."
Scarlett is quiet for a moment, chewing on the inside of her cheek while she thinks. Then she looks up, those green eyes bright with sudden inspiration. "What if... what if we usedmyblood?"
"What?" The suggestion is so unexpected I'm not sure I've heard her correctly.
"Your mirror shows possible futures when activated by blood magic," she says, excitement building in her voice. "What if we combined our magics again, like in the garden? Your blood magic, my heart magic—would the mirror accept that as a substitute?"
The idea is unprecedented. Blood mirrors have existed for generations in Darkmore, and they've always been activated by the blood of their owners. The magic doesn't share.
Except... with Scarlett, itdoes. Our magics blend and strengthen each other in ways that should be impossible. In the garden, when we touched, power flowed between us freely. During battle, our magics complemented each other perfectly.
