Maritza was quiet.

Frey swallowed, fighting to stand still as the room spun around her.

It’s fine, you’re fine, she told herself. Pretend everything’s okay until she leaves. Everything’s fine.

“Alright,” Maritza said, her voice uneven.

Finally, her prosthetics thunked as she moved to the door, opened it—and stopped. Then Maritza cleared her throat.

Frey wanted to cry. 

Just leave. Please? Come on, she thought, struggling to stay standing.

Her childhood sickness—mostly plaguing her with nausea, dizziness, and blackouts—had returned following her arrival in Lynsmouth. Its symptoms had been all but erased by a magical amulet Soren had given her, but that had been one of the many things she lost in the shipwreck.

So here she was—struggling with it again.

And, as though the gods themselves took joy in her suffering, it most often flared up when she was upset.

Maritza’s voice spoke over her thoughts.

“I’ll be in my own room getting ready. If you need me—or,” Maritza amended, “I’ll just return when I’m done, okay? Won’t take longer than an hour.”

“Okay,” Frey said. Her voice broke, betraying her.

I swear, if you decide to stay—

“Alright,” Maritza said uncertainly. “I’m sorry.”

Finally, she left.

The moment the door closed behind Maritza, Frey sucked in a sharp breath and let her legs buckle under her.

Gods, what would I have done if she stayed? she wondered. The room still felt like it was spinning around her, trying to press into her and swallow her whole. Frey’s whole body shook, but she curled into a ball as she tried to ignore it and how weak she felt.

Probably snap again, she thought, laughing brokenly. Then her heart twisted as she remembered how Maritza’s hands tightened around her necklace.

Like the one Frey used to have to cure her sickness, Martiza’s necklace was a conduit. She’d never mentioned it, but she didn’t have to—Frey could sense its magic radiating outward whenever Maritza was around. Whatever it was, it was powerful.

The only problem is that Frey couldn’t tell what kind of magic it had. That wasn’t her forte—but it was unusual enough for her to be able to notice it contained magic at all. Most people couldn’t recognize conduits as what they were to begin with.

So, it easily could’ve been anything from Soren’s water magic—stored in the conduit for Maritza just like he’d done for Frey—to something just meant to protect her.

Gods, why did I think she was going to attack me? Of course she wasn’t going to attack me, it’s Maritza. She's kind, and sweet, and—and timid, Frey thought brokenly. I scared her when she's done nothing but try her best to help me.

Anger swelled in her chest, accompanied by a more intense wave of heat and dizziness.

Frey buried her face in her legs and wrapped her arms over her head, struggling to think through the weakness wracking her body.

All because of Dad. Because he was there for her instead? Because he—

Dad, she thought, biting her lip. She couldn’t help remembering the last few moments before the shipwreck. The argument she’d had with him; how she’d told him she didn’t care. How obviously worried he’d been for her, while all she did was shout at him.

A mess of thoughts and feelings swirled through her—anger, grief, frustration, and guilt.

It was her fault they were there that day. Her fault the ship was wrecked, her fault Soren’s crew died at sea, and her fault that their families were now mourning them.

And she kept speaking ill of him. A dead man. For the things he didn’t do for her.

When all she really wished for was for him to be alive.

Why didn’t I just tell him I didn’t want to get engaged? she wondered, chewing her bottom lip. He asked so many times. And I just—stubbornly insisted on it just because, what, I thought he didn’t care? ‘I’ll show him for asking?’ It wouldn’t have shown him anything but how immature you are, Freya! 

And, oh, ‘wait, they’re faeries’? she thought mockingly, quoting herself earlier. He probably did tell you that, and you just weren’t listening! Because why would you, huh? It’s only your entire life from now on that you’re insisting on for no good reason! Levebolg, what is wrong with you?

By now, the sickness had passed. The room had stilled, no longer spinning around her or trying to swallow her. It was just her.

Freya Ula.

Alone with her thoughts.

Again.

Like she always was.

Her hand went to her pocket, where she used to keep Soren’s totem. A magical item he’d made to communicate with her from afar. It’d contained his essence—his magical energy and very being—and was able to materialize a magical puppet to protect her. He’d sometimes possess it to actually be there for her, even when he was thousands of miles away.

But, now, it was gone. Lost in the shipwreck.

Like the rest of her.

‘I’m so sorry, Dad,’ she wanted to say. ‘I miss you.’

But she couldn’t.

Frey took a slow, deep breath and unfurled herself, dropping her knees to the ground and hands into her lap.

Light assaulted her eyes when she opened them.

Dammit, she thought, wincing as a headache pierced behind her eyes. Just what I needed before this ‘gala’ bullshit. The nobles are already going to be headaches themselves. Now I have to deal with this, too? 

Sighing, Frey forced herself to stand, leaning against the chair to support her unsteady legs.

She was in a washroom—her washroom, technically. Though it was hard to think of it that way when it was part of Maritza’s home before she got to Lynsmouth and would continue to be so after Frey made other arrangements.

With Daleira, her fiancé.

Or, the faerie who’d soon be her fiancé.

Let’s not think about that right now, Frey thought, pinching her nose as she forced herself to look at the window. Maritza had drawn the curtain halfway shut for Frey’s sake—since bright lights kept giving her headaches since the accident—but had insisted on having it open so she, Maritza, could see what she was doing with Frey’s hair.

Fair enough.

Still painful, though.

Groaning to herself, Frey shielded her eyes and hurriedly drew the curtain closed before turning to the rest of the room. 

It was a typical upper-class washroom. There was the average “washroom” stuff like the toilet, sink, and the works; an excessively-sized tub Frey had refused to take a bath in; a separate standing shower; and the larger-than-necessary vanity Frey had been sat in front of for the past couple hours.

All the things she’d avoided when she’d stopped living in Arendal to hide in its countryside.

Well, she was avoiding the luxury things. Not—not the normal stuff. She didn’t have anything against those.

No, her problem was with the wealth.

Rich coming from her, of course. Besides literal royalty, Soren had been one of the wealthiest people in the world before his death. The only others at his level were a few company owners, the heads of some magic colleges, and some guy who ran a knight’s college.

And now that he was dead, all of that wealth came down to her.

Not that she wanted it.

She’d spent the past several years of her life literally hiding in a cottage miles away from the rest of society. She only visited the city—Arendal, her “hometown”—to attend to Soren’s business or to buy things she couldn’t get for herself.

For the past few years, Frey isolated herself from everyone and everything else. Then she minimized her use of Soren’s life, magic, and money.

And now she was inheriting all of it.

Well, not his magic. But he probably had more conduits stashed around if she really wanted it. But she wouldn’t look, and wouldn’t use it if she were to stumble upon any.

They’d be too much of a reminder of everything she lost.

Sighing, Frey massaged her forehead to deal with her headache as she went to grab the chair in front of the vanity.

But she paused.

And looked back down at the chair.

Did it always look like this? Frey wondered, frowning slightly and kneeling to rub her finger against the wood.

It was dark, but there was a clear—if subtle—color difference between the arm and the rest of the chair. The arm was a bit lighter. Then the texture was a bit different… but nothing came off when Frey rubbed it. Not even when she brushed her hands together to double-check.

Frey’s frown deepened as she looked between the different colors.

I would’ve noticed this earlier, right? I mean, how long was I staring into the mirror when Maritza did my hair? she wondered. Surely I would’ve noticed, right?

The situation was innocuous enough, but something about it nagged at the back of her mind. There was something to this she was missing.

But her thoughts came to a halt when she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

Frey wasn’t an unattractive person—that, or the people claiming otherwise were really good liars fishing for her dad’s wealth, which could also be true. But still—never before had Frey thought for herself that she was pretty.

Until now.

Even without makeup warping her face into a mockery of itself, the elegant buns, tiny flowers woven into her hair, and soft pink dress all came together to make even Frey herself think she looked beautiful.

If only she could recognize her own reflection.

Laughing weakly, Frey quickly wiped her tears away and picked up the chair to drag it back into her room. There was no need for it to remain in the bathroom.

And she’d forgotten all about the scarred wood.