VEIL
The surge of pride coursing through my veins at the Oracle’s words is incomparable. It’s as if I’m sensing my god’s power for the first time in its entirety. Unadulterated and infinite.
I feel invincible.
“Thank you,” I reply demurely. My smile drops as countless other questions try to clamber out of me all at once. I start with the one at the forefront of my mind. “Why did my family get banished?”
Again, I’m almost convinced I see a sliver of a smile on the Oracle’s lips before she answers, “Long ago, your ancestor killed a servant of the god of trickery, thus resulting indamnatio memoriae.”
“Trickery?” I repeat as a cold chill travels down my body. “The Foley family?”
She nods.
I try to gather my thoughts quickly, not wanting to waste more of the Oracle’s time. “Is this why I found myself as Gemini’s sacrifice during the Feast of Fools?”
“Perhaps,” she answers. “The gods have their reason.” She pauses, tilting her head and peering upward, as if listening. She then pins me with her pale blue eyes. “It isn’t the first time your paths have crossed.”
“Do you mean?—”
She gives me a short, dismissive wave, and I know my time is running out, so I change the subject and ask one final thing.
“I must know more about my god. I still feel so disconnected. How can I learn more?”
“Your god is always speaking, child. Listen.Feel. And trust that all that needs to be revealed shall be revealed.” Then she looks to my right. “Mercy can teach you how to listen.”
Mercy’s brows lift in surprise, and we both sputter to politely dismiss the invitation.
“Leave,” the Oracle declares.
Her command is final and we snap our mouths shut, whispering thank-yous before walking out on quiet steps.
The silence as we make our way back up to the ground floor of Mount Pravitia is stifling. However, this time, I’m not as affected by it. I’m beginning to wonder if this is simply more a part of Mercy’s personality and less to do withmethan I originally thought.
Before reaching the large doors of the main entrance, someone who appears to be an employee scurries up to Mercy and hands her a blood-red envelope. She opens it in front of me and audibly groans when she reads the letter inside, the parchment matching the color of the envelope.
Her attention reluctantly falls on me. “Tinny is inviting us to high tea.”
“Tinny?”
“Constantine,” she responds with an impatient puff of air.
“Us?” I ask incredulously.
It seems I can’t utter more than a single word at a time, let alone fully process what she’s telling me. She nods, her gaze as hard as the stone floor beneath our feet.
“When?” I rasp.
“Now.”
“You’re here!”Constantine chirps, followed by happy little bounces as she stays seated on one of the chaises, her injured leg elevated on a pouf. Her dress is a cloud of pink ruffles and gauze, paired with equally eccentric platform shoes.
“Did we need to have high tea inthisparticular room?” Mercy huffs as she looks around in disdain.
If I focus only on the rugged area near the fireplace—with its chaises, divans, and short tables containing towers of scones and macarons—the atmosphere is inviting.
That’s if I ignore the countless shelves of Victorian dolls, locked behind glass cases, all around us. Then the atmosphere turns from inviting to uncanny. I have the strange feeling of hundreds of eyes on me as I find my way to where Constantine and Belladonna are sitting.
Constantine makes a vexed pout, as if Mercy is hurting the dolls’ feelings. “They wanted the company.” She turns to the dolls. “Didn’t you, darlings?”
