The empty corridors were icy and stripped of any friendly light, but the route was familiar to the young child, and she did not lose her way. Shadows slithered around her, whispering of misdeed and dark things, but her curiosity weighed more than fear.
Fingers splayed on cold walls kept her from falling; deep, warm breaths reassured her shivering heart. And then, as the corridor opened into the staircase, she saw the sliver of light ahead. She held her breath—and descended.
The light beneath the door was warm on Rhosyn's toes, but did little for the rest of her body. Steadily and stealthily, she lowered herself to her knees and peered through the keyhole of the door.
Every candle in Vanora's dressing chamber was lit, as they were every night. The servants took it in turn to light the candles before they retired. It had been almost a year now since the queen had received the mirror, and her need to be with it had only grown. The servants accepted their task without question—at least, they learned to. Rhosyn, however, had yet to understand her mother's sudden fixation on her gift.
The flickering candlelight filled the entire room equally, but Rhosyn's eyes were drawn to the inner chamber, where stood her mother and the mirror.
Vanora's back was to the door. She had shed her nightdress, and Rhosyn thought she could feel how cold her mother must be. She shivered, thankful for her own thin wrappings.
Over the sound of her own breathing, Rhosyn could hear her mother's voice murmuring softly to herself. The words were inaudible, but she could guess them. Vanora shifted often, using different angles of the candlelight to express different curves, different expressions—and always with her eyes on the mirror. Quietly, she crooned to herself, admiring her reflection.
Rhosyn pulled back slightly, and studied her own childish face reflected hazily in the polished doorknob.
"Am I pretty too?" she whispered.
She put her eye back to the keyhole. Vanora was on her knees now, clinging to the wall beneath the mirror. She was there a long minute, in desperate supplication to her glass deity. Then, deciding she had worshipped enough for the night, she turned.
The planes of her face were harsh in the flame and cold shadows all around her, and the look of ferocity and total dependence in her eyes made Rhosyn fall back from the door. As Vanora began blowing out candles, Rhosyn slipped back upstairs, haunted by her mother's image and a determination to never return again. She didn't want to be pretty. She didn't want to owe her soul to a piece of glass.