The Thief and the Dark

by Amaryllidinae

For as long as anyone could remember, there had only ever been one Darkling—one person in all of Ravka who could summon the power of the shadows. No one, not even Esfir herself, expected that century-old truism would unexpectedly be proven false, and especially not by a common thief.

3. Chapter 3

Three

Silently, I beckoned the dark beast curled up comfortably within my soul to come nearer.

When it didn't react, I lost heart.

"I said call the shadows, girl," Baghra reprimanded from without. "Don't ask them to listen. Tell them to listen."

"But… How?" I wavered, almost overcome for fear of failing.

"Do you ask your legs to bear your weight, or do you simply make them walk?"

I hesitated, watching the slow rise and fall of the beast's great form as it rested, sluggish with the remnant exhaustion of a long, peaceful hibernation. Yet, even though others might have considered it a monster, I felt nothing but familiarity for the shifting shape of its gigantic, horned head, its great, furled wings, its powerful, trunk-like limbs… I knew this beast, and I wanted nothing more than to be nearer to it.

Pushing past the uncertainty that thrilled in my chest like a startled bird, I extended my hand towards the shadows and determinedly said: "Rise."

Immediately, the beast's eyes snapped open, revealing two empty voids as black and incorporeal as the Fold's writhing border. But I didn't flinch with fear as others might have, for I knew those eyes and the darkness within as sure as I knew myself.

Lumbering to its full and massive height, the dark beast advanced towards me, its clawed footfalls utterly silent. Then, stopping close enough to touch, the shadows seemed to consider the hand I offered. The hesitation was brief, though: in the space of a breath, the great leviathan gently pressed its massive, undefined snout against my palm and seemed to sigh, content.

o-o-o-o

My lessons went well into the evening.

Although she repeatedly professed that I was excelling past her (extremely low) expectations of me, Baghra still drilled me over and over and over again, pushing me farther and farther past what I thought were the limits of my newfound capabilities. By the time I was allowed to leave her hut and make the long trek back towards the Little Palace, the sun was barely a sliver above the trees, and I was exhausted.

As I approached one of the back entrances to the palace, I realised that I had no idea how to return to the Vezda Suite beyond recognising the doors I had been lead out of. Stopping just inside, I looked left and right down the hallway that stretched before me, trying to decide which way to go. All I wanted at this point was another hot bath, so the prospect of traipsing over the entirety of the enormous 'Little' Palace in the hopes of eventually finding where I wanted to go was daunting. I should have paid more attention this morning instead of thinking about the stupid Darkling, I groaned inwardly as I massaged the bridge of my nose between my forefinger and thumb.

"Despite absolutely beaming, you look completely lost," an unfamiliar voice said bluntly from my right. Hurriedly composing myself, I looked in the direction of the sound to find a tall and extraordinarily beautiful woman in a strangely coloured kefta. Lined with luxurious, reddish fox fur to compliment the deep auburn of her wavy hair, the kefta itself was a luscious cream and embroidered with gold thread that made her ochre eyes sparkle and shine.

"A little," I admitted sheepishly, "though I'm not sure about the 'beaming' part."

"Please, you're glowing," the glamorous stranger countered with a roll of her darkly-lashed eyes. Approaching without hesitation, she paused at arm's length and gave me a quick up-and-down look. "You must have had a productive day with Baghra," she observed keenly. Up close, I marvelled that she was even more stunning: her skin was quite literally flawless, her cheekbones were so perfect and sharp that they looked to be carved from marble, and her lips and cheeks were perfectly flushed to a light rose hue.

I blinked once or twice to clear the dazzlement from my eyes. "If that's what you call being berated, hit, and worked like a two-penny nag, then yes," I cringed, the gruelling memories of the day minorly eclipsing the exultation I still felt coursing through me. It seemed like so long ago now, but when Baghra had finally instructed me to open my eyes, I had found my outstretched hand overflowing with a pool of darkness. Diffusing through the air like ink in water, the shadows in my palm seemed to shift and stir on themselves, waiting to exact my slightest whim or deepest conviction. And although it paled in comparison to the sense of surety and power I had felt under the Darkling's touch, at that moment and with every summoning thereafter, I felt complete.

"That sounds like a day spent with Baghra," the woman opposite me agreed with a sigh. "My name's Genya Safin," she then smiled politely, stunning me once anew.

Again with the last names. "I'm Esfir," I answered, feeling suddenly plain in her presence, "but I have a feeling you already knew that."

"Possibly," Genya winked slyly.

"Well, in that case: who told you to expect me?"

"Do you really have to ask?"

"Of course not," I grumbled with a small roll of my eyes. I should have known that the Darkling would send someone to collect me after Baghra was finished abusing me for the day. What wasn't he aware of? "What odious task has the Darkling burdened you with after standing around and waiting for me for all Saints know how long?"

Genya laughed at that. Even the sound of her mirth was lovely, like the pealing tiny silver bells. "It hasn't been that long, but the next time I need to stop by Baghra's hut, I'll be sure to let her know just what I think about her keeping you so late."

"Forgive me if I'm conspicuously absent when that happens," I said with a grimace.

After letting out another exquisite laugh, Genya motioned for me to follow her with a graceful bob of her pretty head. "Come: I'm to escort you back to your rooms. You look like you need something to eat and a wonderfully hot bath."

"You've read my mind," I chuckled, falling into step at Genya's side as she led onward through the maze of the Little Palace's many corridors. This time, I carefully noted the twists and turns we took through the nearly identical hallways of the palace. As we walked, I couldn't help but take another look at her splendid but unusually coloured kefta.

Genya must have felt me surveying her. "I'm a Tailor," she said in explanation.

"Sorry," I apologised, "I didn't mean to stare. I've just never seen that colour of kefta before."

"It's alright," Genya smiled with the same ease that I assumed whenever someone asked about my odd haircut, "not many people have outside of the Grand Palace or Os Alta."

"That makes sense, but… I won't lie: I've never heard of a 'Tailor', either," I winced.

Genya laughed again, the sound like music. "That's because I'm the only one there is," she said proudly. "And, before you ask: no, I don't make clothes. I can modify a person's appearance—enhance someone's hair colour, flush their cheeks, remove a scar, temporarily straighten a broken nose, and so on."

"That's incredible!" I said, astonished. Although I fancied myself somewhat well-versed on the Grisha orders, I had never once heard of someone being able to change another person's physical appearance. As I thought about it, it seemed to me that someone able to manipulate the human body in such a way should've been wearing Corporalki red, but I didn't push the issue. If Genya was truly a one-of-a-kind Grisha, it made some sense for her to be wearing her own colours. After all, the Darkling had been the only Grisha allowed to wear black until I came along…

"Yes, but—unfortunately—I spend most of my time hiding the Queen's wrinkles," she complained.

I knew what Genya said was edging on (my loose concept of) treason, but I couldn't help but stifle a laugh. "Does sh e have that much use for your skills?"

"You have no idea," Genya grinned wickedly. "Oh, the things I could tell you… Your skin would crawl."

"Well, if you ever have a spare moment, I've been known to be exceptional at keeping secrets," I stage whispered with a genuine smile. Perhaps it was due to my inflammatory and boyish nature, but I'd never had many female friends before. Men always seemed to tolerate my coarseness and brashness better—not that it had ever bothered me, per se. Even still, I knew after briefly speaking with Genya that we would get along famously.

"I mean, if you insist," Genya drawled playfully. "I suppose I could be convinced to share a few sordid tidbits of information."

"In that case, I'll do my best to twist your rubber arm," I chuckled.

"You have to promise to share some stories in return, though."

"Meaning?"

"Well… I've heard that you were some sort of criminal before the Darkling found you. Is that true?"

I wonder who has the looser tongue: Ivan or Fedyor? "Maybe. Maybe not. It depends who's asking," I equivocated. "But, regardless: the Darkling didn't find me. I was set up," I clarified tersely, the sting of Zdisek's betrayal unexpectedly coming back to nip at me.

"You can't just say something like that and not elaborate."

"Maybe another time. After what Baghra put me through, I'm too tired to do the story justice."

"It seems like we have a date to swap war stories later, then," Genya grinned as we turned into a (thankfully) familiar section of the palace. I recognised some of the trinkets on display in the hallway, meaning we were finally nearing the Vezda Suite. A few moments later, Genya and I drew to a stop outside the double doors to 'my' rooms. "This is where I'll leave you for now," she said, her voice almost sad as though she didn't want to go. "I will be by tomorrow morning to help you get ready to be presented to the King. But, for tonight: an extra-hot bath has been drawn and a warm meal brought up for you. And I promise not to judge you if you want to soak while you eat—I would do the same," she winked.

"Thanks," I said earnestly.

"Of course," Genya smiled kindly. "If anything isn't to your satisfaction, ring for someone to come make it right."

I chuckled wryly at that; the idea of being waited on was still ridiculous. "I'm sure it'll be fine," I dismissed. Even if it wasn't, there was no way I was going to bother anyone about it. I'd eaten cold food and bathed in cold water more than enough times not to be concerned about such things now.

Genya shook her head indulgently, reading between the lines. She was smart—perhaps too smart. "Rest well: you've got a big day tomorrow," she smiled before retreating gracefully down the hall. For a moment, I watched her leave, feeling jealous of her poise, before I went inside the Vezda Suite and locked the doors behind me.

o-o-o-o

The following morning, I was (again) awoken by a loud and persistent knocking at the doors of the Vezda Suite. Poking my head out from under the covers, I glared in the direction of the sound. "Who is it?" I barked groggily.

"It's Genya. Open up, or I'll break down the door," the Tailor threatened impatiently.

Groaning, I forced myself out of bed and donned the black velvet robe hanging over the back of the dressing table chair. Shuffling towards the double doors on the far side of the room, I reluctantly freed the deadbolts from their homes. No sooner had I done this did Genya come barging through, exploding into the room like a Shu Han firecracker. What was worse, she was followed by a small entourage of very bossy-looking maids. I stood and watched, stunned, as the lot of them dispersed through the suite, tending to anything and everything that was 'amiss'. One young woman busied herself with clearing the remnants of my supper, and another went straight for the bed to begin making it. A third maid went right through to the bathroom to do Saints know what, and the last went about opening the heavy drapes and tending to the fireplace. Genya, meanwhile, strode directly towards the mirrored dressing table and set down the small trunk she carried.

"What's going on? Why'm I up so early?" I asked in a daze, unsure of where to look as the flurry of activity continued around me.

"I told you last night: I'm here to get you ready to be presented to the King," Genya muttered absently as she dragged an end table from the sitting area closer to one of the windows, followed next by the dressing table chair.

"Okay, but what's with all of your friends?" I asked, puzzled as they continued to buzz around the suite, leaving a path of tidiness in their wake.

Genya laughed, the beautiful, pealing sound making me jealous. "Did you think I could get you ready all by myself?" She answered pointedly. "I mean, I know I'm good, but…" She trailed off with an impish wink as she finished arranging the furniture and turned her attention to the trunk she had brought.

"Okay, first: ouch. Second: I don't know what you're going to do to 'get me ready'. I mean, sure, I'll get dressed, but what you see is what you get," I said matter-of-factly.

"Please, dear," Genya smiled, a smug grin spreading over her gorgeous lips. "You say that now. Just wait."

"But," I began hesitantly as the young maid who had initially disappeared into the bathroom reappeared to grab me by the arm. Dragging me awkwardly along, she eventually situated herself at my back and pushed me towards the tub, which was brimming with hot water. Before I knew what was happening, she was tugging at the sash of my robe, trying (and almost succeeding) to undress me. "Hey!" I yelped, slapping her horridly quick hands away. "Keep your dainty little mitts to yourself!"

"Undress," the young woman snarled angrily. "I'm to wash you."

"No," I baulked, astonished.

"Undress," the maid repeated, enunciating each syllable of the word as separate threats.

"No," I refused angrily and with similar inflexion and conviction.

"Miss Safin!" The maid cried, her eyes still fixed disapprovingly on mine as I glowered at her. "She won't bathe!"

"Get in the tub, Esfir," Genya ordered from the other room. "Or, Saints help me, I will put you in there—with or without your clothes on!"

"I bathed last night," I said assertively. "Why do I need to wash again?"

"Because I said so," Genya snapped as she popped her head into the bathroom door, her deep, auburn hair shining like a flame to match the frustration burning in her golden eyes. "Get in there," she ordered before disappearing.

"B-But," I stammered, looking from the empty doorway to the maid and then the tub. In a flash, the young woman next to me (who was at least a good foot shorter than I was and half as heavy) reached out, undid my robe, and ripped it off me, exposing my nakedness. I yelped and tried to cover myself, but the tiny bulldog at my elbow took no notice. Instead, she grabbed hold of my arm with surprising strength and carted me over towards the tub like a stubborn mule. Before I could protest, I was in the tub, the scalding-hot water less comfortable than it had been the night before.

"Is she—?" Genya asked as she popped her head into the bathroom, only to see me having my scalp washed raw. "Good," she smiled triumphantly before disappearing.

After I was scrubbed from head to toe, the young maid briefly disappeared from the room, only to return carrying a porcelain shaving bowl, brush, and straight razor. Immediately, she began to work the shaving brush in the bowl. "Sit still," she instructed stiffly as she began to lather the shorter third of my hair with the sweet-smelling sandalwood soap. This was one thing I wasn't going to fight over. Within a minute or so, the maid was trimming down my (admittedly overgrown) undercut to a perfect and barely-there shadow against my scalp.

"Quickly rinse your head in the water; I'll be back momentarily to dry you," she ordered before leaving the room.

"I can dry myself, thanks," I growled obstinately before dunking myself as instructed. By the time I surfaced for air, the maid was back and holding a large, fluffy bath towel out before herself.

"Out. Now," she said authoritatively.

Giving the scowling maid one last black glare of my own, I forced myself to step out of the bath. Standing like an embarrassed child, I allowed the maid to vigorously dry me off. Once polished to her satisfaction, the young woman abandoned the towel for the familiarity of my black velvet robe and held it out for me to don. Now covered again, she spun me around and pushed me back out to the main room and into Genya's waiting arms. Before I could ask what was happening, I was forced into a chair, the gently diffused light of the day streaming over my face.

"You clean up nicely," Genya observed, giving me an approving once-over before turning to poke around within the depths of her trunk.

"I could have done without the 'help'," I muttered sourly, glaring out through the sheer curtains at the sparkling lake beyond.

"You'll get used to that," Genya laughed politely before gently cupping one of her flawless hands around my chin. Then, directing my face back at her, she dazzled me with a smile. "Now," she thrilled as if rising to a challenge, "let's see if we can improve upon perfection."

I rolled my eyes at that. "Next to you, I'm hardly perfect."

"Do you think this comes completely naturally?" Genya asked as she gestured towards her perfect face. "Even I need some help to look this good."

"Fine, just… Don't change the shape of my nose or anything crazy like that."

"Never. You don't need fixing; I'm just going to enhance the assets you already have."

"I suppose it couldn't hurt," I sighed as Genya turned to rummage carefully through her trunk again. A moment later, she pulled out a long, iridescent raven's feather. Placing it on the crown of my head, she slowly began to pass it along the longer side of my hair. Once she had reached the bottom, she discarded the feather and began to wrap my burgeoning natural curls around her fingers, letting them drop one after the other. When she was finally finished playing, she stood back to have a look at whatever she'd done before plucking the hand-held mirror off of the dressing table and offering it to me. "What do you think?" She asked hopefully.

Holding up the little mirror, I looked at my hair. While it was naturally glossy, now it seemed to shimmer with waves of royal purple, sapphire, and emerald depending on which way I turned. My natural curls were perfectly accentuated into a cascade over my shoulder, spilling forth with luxurious volume. It was fantastic, and I couldn't stop my mouth from falling open slightly. "Wow," I breathed, still not quite believing what I was seeing.

"Glad you approve," Genya grinned. "Unfortunately, it only lasts a few days, but nothing good is forever," she sighed, going back to her trunk. Momentarily, she returned with a small shard of obsidian and motioned for me to put down the mirror and look at her. "Now, close your eyes and hold still," she murmured as she put her cool, perfect hands against my face. Closing my eyes, I felt Genya pass the stone slowly over my eyelids. "Alright, now open," she said.

Looking in the mirror I held, I found my lashes thick and dark and my eyes smokily embellished so that they looked almost as incorporeal as shadow. "How do you do this?" I asked stupidly, dumbfounded by my appearance.

"Lots and lots of practice," Genya purred. "Again: sit still. Lips and cheeks next," she instructed, tapping my hand to tell me to put the mirror down. Doing as I was bid, I froze and watched out of the corner of my eye as the Tailor gently passed luscious red rose petal across my lips. The fragment of flower spent, she abandoned it only to pick up a pale pink begonia petal and swept it ever so briefly across the apples of both my cheeks. Standing back to observe her work, she nodded before motioning for me to recheck the mirror.

"All Saints," I murmured, stunned anew. My cheeks were perpetually flushed to a perfect blush and my lips were stained a sultry, luscious red. I'd never seen myself so made-up. "All of this for the King?" I wondered.

"Yes. The King loves beautiful things," Genya smiled, though I could tell from the hardness in her usually molten eyes that the words she spoke caused her anguish. "The Darkling wants you to make the best impression possible," she murmured, turning back to her trunk to gently close the lid.

"You mean he doesn't want to present a dirty thief to the highest echelons of Ravkan society?" I asked bitterly.

"So you are a thief," Genya grinned as she turned back to me, motioning for me to face her properly.

"Yes, and a very good one," I muttered as I did as I was asked. Then, facing Genya, she tilted my chin upwards to better look at my face.

"Well, well. David owes me some money, then," she smirked as she began to pass her fingers here and there across my skin, her touch bringing with it the familiarly unpleasant itching that I had felt under Tasya's hands when she healed me. I struggled to stay still.

"Who's David?" I asked as Genya focussed on my chin for a few moments.

"A Fabrikator and a friend," she answered with a demure smile. However, I could tell by the way her happiness brought a fresh and natural flush to her cheeks that this fellow must have meant more to her than just being a 'friend'.

"You're sweet on him," I said confidently. When Genya stopped what she was doing to look at me, mildly shocked, I knew I was right.

"I—But… I never said that," she minimised. "David is just a friend," she repeated stubbornly as she went back to surveying my face.

"If you say so," I smiled knowingly, dropping the issue. "What are you doing that's itching so much?"

"Blending away your scars," Genya sighed. "You have a lot of them."

"I've been in more than a few fights," I admitted with a blasé sigh.

"What haven't you done?" Genya asked, politely amazed as her hands traced down my jawline and towards my throat. As her fingers began to pass width-wise across my neck and my skin began to itch, I flinched and reached up to grab her hand. Pulling her sharply away, the irritation that came with Corporalki 'mending' ceased. Shocked, Genya met my harsh stare. "What—?"

"—Not that one," I said firmly.

"But, I told you: it's only temporary."

"No. It stays."

Genya blinked at me a few times before nodding. When I released her hand, she took a half-step back and gently cleared her throat. "I'm sorry," she apologised earnestly.

"It's alright," I said with a small smile.

Genya nodded thankfully before letting out a cleansing sigh. After looking me over proudly, she stood up just that little bit straighter, recovered from her blunder. "My best work yet—aside from myself," she beamed. Rising, I put the hand mirror back on the dressing table and went to look at myself in the full-length one in the corner of the room. "No! Not yet," Genya insisted, grabbing hold of me and directing me towards the privacy screen where my kefta was hanging alongside a clean shirt and britches. "You need to dress first so you get the full effect."

Although I rolled my eyes dramatically, I still quickly ducked out of sight to put on proper clothes. A few hurried moments later, I emerged from behind the dressing screen with my kefta properly done up and raced across the room towards the standing mirror. Genya followed close behind, anxious to see my reaction.

I almost didn't recognise my reflection when I slid to a halt in front of the glass.

The perfect curls of my hair tumbled naturally over my shoulder in an inky, iridescent waterfall that shimmered and shone in even the slightest change of the light. My pale skin was a flawless, flushed-cream sea, interrupted only by the subtle blush of my cheeks, the delicious rose of my lips, and the smokey darkness of my eyes. Without any enhancement at all, my violet irises seemed to burn, the intensity of their colour frighteningly alluring.

"Now, tell me that it wasn't worth getting up early for this," Genya whispered mischievously into my ear as she leaned in close to meet my gaze via the mirror.

"It was worth it," I murmured absently with an appreciative smile as I vainly looked myself over. I was an absolute vision in black. "Thank you," I said sincerely as I met Genya's eyes through the mirror.

"Of course: Grisha take care of each other—though, I try not to make an obvious habit of working on 'our kind' as the Queen puts it. She thinks it 'unfair'," Genya smiled just as a loud knock came at the doors to the Vezda Suite. "Who is it?" Genya demanded as she looked crossly away from me, clearly angry for the interruption of such a pleasant moment.

"The Darkling has requested Miss Esfir's presence in the main hall as soon as she is ready," the horridly familiar (though muffled) sound of Ms Orlov's voice barked from out in the hall.

"She'll be down right away," Genya shouted back with a roll of her eyes. When no response came, the Tailor sighed briskly and directed me towards the suite's double doors. "I hate that old bat," she grumbled under her breath. "I don't know how it got there, but the stick she has up that puckered ass of hers is preposterous."

I couldn't help but choke out a strangled snort of a laugh as we walked out into and down the hall together. "I was thinking the same thing," I whispered as we both broke out in a childish fit of giggles.

"Now," Genya said after we composed ourselves and began our descent down to the first floor, "a few pointers for when you meet the King. Firstly, don't speak unless you're spoken to—hard, I know," Genya placated when I tossed her a sceptical look, "but it's what's expected of you."

"This is going to be a disaster," I moaned as Genya linked her arm through mine to keep me from worrying the bridge of my nose.

"No, it won't," she encouraged. "Just let the Darkling do most of the talking and you'll be fine."

I scoffed at that. "I think he'd sooner throw me to the wolves."

"Ha, hardly," Genya jabbed in return. "If that were so, he would have had you hanged back in Kribirsk."

"Gossip travels faster around this place than a venereal disease in a cheap whore house," I bemoaned as we rounded the landing of the final flight of stairs.

"Secondly," Genya continued, ignoring my crassness, as we exited the tower and headed towards the main hall, "if you ever need to address the King directly for any reason, always refer to him as 'moi tsar' the first time, and then 'your Highness' after that."

"I'll just try to follow pointer one and not speak if I can help it," I sighed.

"And, if you need to address the Queen for some saintsforsaken reason, follow the same rules as for the King: 'moya tsaritsa' first and then 'your Highness'. Thirdly, bow at the hips if necessary—but not too far. And don't try to curtsy: I know that's one skill you don't possess," Genya implored quietly as we broke the threshold of the main hall and stopped. Instinctively, I looked up towards the Darkling's dais and found him hovering at the back of his throne, watching me watch him. "Did you get all of that?" Genya asked hurriedly a moment later, her tone panicked.

"Yes: don't talk; always 'moi tsar' or 'moya tsaritsa' first and then 'your Highness'; and bow, not curtsey because I'm inept," I parroted back hurriedly, my eyes never leaving the Darkling's.

"Good. Now, go to him," Genya instructed.

"What?" I asked, stunned, my gaze suddenly averted from the clear, quartz stare that held me.

"Go," Genya said again, unlinking her arm from mine to give me a slight shove forward.

Stumbling forward into the hall, I cast her a quick glare over my shoulder which she returned with an impish smile before turning on her heel and walking away. Left alone, I looked back to the Darkling to find him still watching me intently. And even though my breath caught nervously in my chest, I forced myself to continue onwards through the hall. Surprisingly, the Darkling descended the dais as soon as I began to move and, matching my pace, strode gracefully forwards to meet me beneath the central golden dome.

Standing before him, I made sure to draw myself up to my full height and puff my chest out ever so slightly to ensure I looked confident. "I hope I kept you waiting," I sassed beneath a false air of apology.

A half-smirk quickly graced the Darkling's lips before he composed himself. "Not this time, no," he said as he carefully looked me over, taking in every inch of Genya's handiwork. As he did so, his gaze pausing for an impossibly long moment on my lips, I struggled to decipher the emotion that reigned in his cool, grey eyes. It was somewhere between pure wonderment and clinical satisfaction and left me completely flustered.

"Well, in that case, I'll have to walk slower next time," I replied bitingly to try and hide the fact that I blushed softly under his attention.

Although I only saw it for a fleeting moment, another smile twitched at the corners of the Darkling's mouth before he brusquely strode past me, heading towards the main doors of the Little Palace. "My coach is waiting to take us to the Grand Palace," he stated authoritatively, never once looking back to see if I was following him.

Briefly, the thought of walking straight back up to the Vezda Suite crossed my mind. And although it would have given me tremendous pleasure to ruin the Darkling's plan to parade me before the King like some prized show pony, I knew that doing so would land me back in irons or, worse, six feet underground. Since I had no intention of allowing the Darkling the satisfaction of dispatching me quite so easily, I reasoned it was in my best interest to follow (however unwillingly) after him. With a few quick paces, I fell into step on the Darkling's right. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather skip the whole 'travel by coach' thing," I grumbled as we exited the main hall and entered the palace's long entryway. The thought of getting back into that damnable contraption—and alone with the Darkling no less—made my stomach clench uncomfortably.

The Darkling shot me a quick sideways glance but otherwise ignored my complaint. "You should be honoured: the King rarely requests Grisha to demonstrate their power," he advised solemnly, the thin vein of contempt that snaked through his tone twisting sentiment of his statement. As we neared the main doors, four doormen worked together to swing the massive wooden barrier open, letting daylight stream into the hallway along with the refreshing smell of dew, grass, and fresh air.

"So it's not like there's any pressure or anything," I muttered bleakly as we stepped outside, only to be greeted by the last thing I wanted to see. The Darkling's coach was waiting for us, its lacquered body shining brilliantly in the sunlight. I recognised the team of four gigantic black geldings that pawed the ground anxiously ahead of their burden, eager to put their strength to use. But, unlike in the Frist Army encampment in Kribirsk (and every stop after that to Os Alta), a prim, charcoal-clad footman was standing at attention beside the open coach door.

"You'll be fine," the Darkling whispered, his voice so quiet that I wasn't sure he had spoken. Stunned, I hesitated and watched as he gracefully climbed inside ahead of me and disappeared.

"Miss?" The footman implored, breaking me out of my daze. When I looked over at him, he bowed and held his hand out to assist me up the steps.

Shaking my head to return some sense to myself, I sighed resignedly and approached the coach steps. "Thanks, but I don't need help," I declined as I swiftly and skillfully scaled the narrow coach steps and ducked inside the coffin on wheels. Finding the Darkling reclined to my right, I sat down on the opposite seat. As soon as I had composed myself (arms crossed tersely), the door closed behind me with a snap, and, not a moment later, we lurched forward towards the Grand Palace.

The silence that descended within the coach was more oppressive than the combined awkwardness I had suffered on the journey from Kribirsk to Os Alta. Regardless, I sat and endured it, my jaw clenched as I glared out the window to my right. The prospect of being made to perform like a dancing monkey for some puffed up twat made my blood boil, but I would be lying if I didn't admit that I was nervous about it, too. The King wanted me to demonstrate my power to him, but I wasn't yet able to do anything terribly impressive. I could call darkness simultaneously to both my palms as easily as breathing or make any existing shadow swell, dance, and jump on a whim, not to mention being able to make myself disappear at will, but that was about it. Baghra had tried to push me to expand the shadows I could bring to my hands to envelope the room—like I had done in the Grisha pavilion in Kribirsk—but I hadn't been able to. Maybe it was because, by that point, I was exhausted, but no matter how hard I had tried before Baghra sent me away in frustration, it felt like something was preventing me from conjuring anything more than useless parlour tricks.

I let out a small but heavy sigh to try and relieve some of the frustration that was tightening my chest. It didn't help. As I watched the grounds roll leisurely by, I could see, far off in the distance, the dots against the horizon that marked the Summoner's pavilions. Saints, what I would have given to be anywhere but heading to the Grand Palace… Even Baghra's hut seemed like a haven right now compared to the humiliation that awaited me.

"You have nothing to be worried about," The Darkling said out of the blue, his surprisingly mild tone bringing me out of my thoughts.

When I turned to look at him, I found a polite—almost coy—smile lighting his usually impassive face. Although it was atypical from what I knew of him, I had to admit that a bit of softness somehow made the Darkling's already sublime features even more handsome. "That's easy for you to say," I answered unenthusiastically after looking back out the window. "I'm the one performing like a dancing monkey, not you."

"You're right: I'm not—at least not this time," the Darkling allowed. Reflexively, I turned to fix him with a questioning stare. "Yes: I, too, had to prove myself before the King," he admitted with a hint of disdain. "Fortunately, he's not very hard to impress."

"Well, at least the bar is set low," I grumbled to myself. Though I'm sure I'll still find a way to trip on it…

We were coming up on the wooded tunnel that divided the grounds of the Grand Palace from those of the Little Palace. As if on cue, my heart began to race with anxiety.

"Regardless of your expectations of yourself, Baghra made a point to tell me that you far exceeded hers yesterday," the Darkling encouraged as the interior of the coach plunged into shadow.

"Funny, I didn't get that impression when she was hitting me with her cane," I drawled, mildly suspicious of the change in his demeanour, as I watched the veritable wall of trees go past. Although such affability was contrary to what I expected from the Darkling, I would have been lying if I said it wasn't preferable to his usual cold detachment. Perhaps he was more open because we were truly alone for once—away from prying eyes and ears—but I also couldn't stop myself from thinking that, beneath it all, he was somehow trying to play me. He was too shrewd not to have some other motivation behind this show of kindness.

To my surprise, the Darkling actually laughed, the timber of the sound rich, dark, and impossibly lovely. I had to look in his direction to make sure I wasn't hearing things. "Her methods are somewhat… Unconventional," he said as he relaxed a little in his seat, "but Baghra is an excellent teacher."

"It sounds as though you're speaking from experience," I mused.

A shadow briefly passed across the Darkling's face, his perfect brow creasing with the slightest bitter frown before he lightened his expression once again. "Yes," he nodded.

"Well, at the very least, we have that to commiserate over," I said wryly.

"I'd tell you it gets better," the Darkling replied, "but Baghra is a difficult person."

"I'm sure she comes by it honestly."

"You have no idea."

Maybe not, but I have the sneaking suspicion that you know Baghra better than you're letting on. "I'm sure I don't," I smiled as light flooded the coach, and we entered the Grand Palace's grounds. Then, glancing out the window, I saw the glinting, mullioned form of the King's greenhouse up ahead. My stomach tightened with renewed nerves, so, habitually, I pulled off one of the many rings from my fingers and began to fiddle with it.

"Are you truly that nervous?" The Darkling asked, the unexpected question making me jump.

Caught careless, I looked down at the thin silver band I was toying with and then back to the Darkling. He had been watching me fidget. "It's a bad habit," I said with a slight breath of a laugh instead of answering his question. I quickly put the ring back into its place and crossed my arms to keep my hands still.

"That wasn't what I asked," the Darkling said somewhat playfully as we rolled past the greenhouse, sending harsh beams of light reflecting on us through the coach windows.

"Yes, I know," I smiled. "I just don't want to answer you."

"It was an honest question," he pressed, not taking the hint to drop the subject.

"That doesn't change the fact that I don't want to answer it," I evaded.

"Why, are you afraid I might actually be human and capable of empathy?" The Darkling asked, hurt buttressing his otherwise impish statement.

"No, I'm afraid you're human and you'll use the answer against me," I riposted.

The Darkling scoffed quietly in disbelief. "You're not a thief anymore, Esfir," he said, some seriousness returning to his tone. "You're Grisha, and we take care of our own."

"I don't see why I have to be one or the other," I mused flippantly, glossing over the second half of the Darkling's statement with projected confidence. But, internally, I was wincing as the earnestness of that assurance—that Grisha rely on and help one another—came back to haunt me.

"Because Grisha are not thieves," the Darkling said pointedly.

"At least not that you're aware of," I cheeked.

"Because Shadow Summoners are not thieves, then," he clarified stiffly.

If anyone has the authority to make such a definitive statement about Shadow Summoners, I suppose it would be you… "There's a first time for everything," I winked before turning my attention to the window, but I couldn't focus on the palace grounds. Instead, I watched the Darkling's ghostly reflection, his face centred perfectly amidst the etching of his symbol on the polished glass. He continued to look at me for a long moment, a deep frown that screamed of frustration darkening his vibrant eyes. I instantly felt a pang of regret for being so contrary, but as the Darkling looked away from me to brood, I knew I was too far committed to the jab to take the words back.

From then on, we sat in a horrid sort of silence that made me want to squirm with awkwardness.

When the coach finally came to a stop, I let out a quick, shuddering breath that did nothing to relieve the oppressive tightness that had returned in my chest. Then, as the door opened with its customary snap, I flinched but didn't move—couldn't move—and sat staring at the gaping daylight. Because, for all my backchat and swagger, deep down, I was utterly terrified of failing.

"Although it's what you expect of me, I won't let you fall," the Darkling said suddenly. When I reflexively spun to face him, wide-eyed and trembling, I found him readily meeting my gaze, his cool, grey eyes piercing through me as through glass. "I'm not the villain you think I am, Esfir," the Darkling murmured after an impossible pause, the intensity of his voice seeming to hang in the air when he then briskly exited the coach.

As I hesitated, reeling, I barely had time to register what had just happened before the gloved hand of a footman appeared at the door, waiting to assist me. And although it was the very last thing I wanted to do, I somehow managed to collect myself and follow after the Darkling.

Refusing help down from the coach, I descended the narrow steps with practised grace, and, once my boots hit the gem-like gravel, I paused to straighten my kefta. Then, satisfied that I was presentable, I looked ahead, fully expecting to see the Darkling's back as he stalked away. But, instead, I found him waiting impatiently for me, standing straight and proud with his hands clasped formally behind his back.

Carved out starkly against the brightness and overwhelming gaudiness of the Grand Palace's façade, the Darkling was the definition of perfection—from the subtle, confident lift of his sharp jawline to the firm set of his shoulders and finally the sheen of his jet-coloured hair. Despite the 'morals' of my better self, I could have stood forever, drinking in the whole of him, but I didn't have the chance. As soon as I (accidentally) met his stare, his quartz eyes glistening as brightly as the gravel beneath our feet, he turned and walked away, leaving me wanting.

Forcing myself to recover from such baseness, I closed the distance between us as discreetly as possible, trying not to appear as though I was scrambling to catch up. As I fell into step on the Darkling's right, he barely seemed to notice my presence. He only shot me the most cursory of sideways glances as we approached the heavily-guarded entrance to the King's palace as if he was finally checking to see that I was there. However, I saw more of him in that instant than I had when he was facing me a moment ago. Although the Darkling's usual guise of aloofness was back in place, I could tell by the slight furrow that marred his brow that he was somehow struggling to bend back to true. It was as though being forced to spend time alone with me had changed him in some way, and, somehow, I think I felt the same as we walked together, each suffering under the closeness of the other in abject silence.

"When we are brought before the King," the Darkling finally said quietly as the main doors were opened in advance of us by two porters clad in cream and gold, "let me talk as much as possible."

"Why, are you afraid I'll say something that might injure the King's delicate sensibilities?" I asked back in equally hushed tones, hiding behind a false shell of confidence.

"Possibly," the Darkling answered in a whisper, his mouth twitching upwards in a suggestion of a smile. "As much as some people might appreciate your… Candour, it won't serve you well at court."

"I honestly don't know why you'd think I would say something that might ruffle an aristocrat's feathers," I sighed softly, taking mock offence, "but I'll try to keep my mouth shut anyway—for the King's sake, not yours."

"Good," the Darkling exhaled, minorly relieved but also mildly amused. "Though, if everything goes according to plan, we won't be here long," he muttered for my ears alone, ignoring the liveried pages that followed in our wake as we passed through the main doors to the Grand Palace.

I can only hope, so long as your 'plan' doesn't involve me or any sort of prowess in summoning…

Entering into the Grand Palace proper, I cringingly took in the ridiculously opulent entranceway that spread out before us. The expansive, black-veined marble floor was interrupted only by a sky-blue runner trimmed with gold tassels, marking one of two ways forward. Either we proceeded down an impossibly long and statue-lined hallway or climbed up one of two symmetrical, curving staircases. The entryway walls were positively gleaming with gilded scrollwork, windows, and columns that would have made a psoglav slaver with greed. Overhead, the vaulted ceiling displayed an exquisite fresco that depicted the Saints in all their horridly magnificent stages of martyrdom. I had never seen such a horrendous expression of wealth in my entire life.

Without waiting for a guide, the Darkling confidently led the way up one of the staircases. Keeping as close to him as I could, I listened as the flustered pages scurried after us, finally falling reluctantly into step at our backs. Reaching the landing, we entered a short, mirrored passageway before bursting into a cavernous hall, the runner beneath our feet abruptly ending. The walls of this new room were alabaster white and lined with countless columns, the capitals of which were gilded and glistening as they supported an airy and equally opulent gallery.

Six massive chandeliers loomed overhead, three a side, their golden branches veritably overflowing with shards of crystal and unlit candles. At the end of the intricately patterned parquet floor sat a gigantic ten-stepped dais carpeted in blue and gold. Two thrones, one marginally smaller than the other, sat (occupied) at the top of the platform beneath a tasselled canopy, flanked by two jade trees, embellished with diamond-encrusted leaves. On the back wall behind the thrones, the King's double eagle was displayed in dazzling gold on a field the palest blue. As we approached, the clicking of our boots against the floor echoed ominously around the cavernous space.

The King and Queen waited impatiently, perched haughtily atop their tawdry thrones and flanked by pike-wielding guards, to receive the Darkling and me. The hall was easily large enough to hold at least two hundred courtiers, but aside from the scant handful of servants and guards waiting and hidden in the wings, the throne room was empty. Daylight streamed, uninterrupted, through the windows that interspersed the elaborate columns flanking our approach, making our black-clad bodies cast harsh shadows across the polished floor. As we drew to a stop before the King and Queen, I looked instinctively to the Darkling for guidance. When he bowed, ever so slightly, I did so as well, making sure to dip just a little farther forward to reinforce the unspoken hierarchy that dominated the room.

Standing straight and proud, the Darkling bent his head as he said: "Moi tsar. Moya tsaritsa. May it please you to have Esfir, Shadow Summoner, presented humbly into your service." Even though the Darkling had addressed them directly, I could feel the eyes of the King and Queen lingering on me as I righted myself from bowing and stared impassively at the bottom step of the dais.

"She bows," the Queen tittered superficially. "How positively quaint."

Only because I don't know how to curtsy properly, you twat, and I'd rather not embarrass myself more than necessary, I seethed internally. Thankfully, aside from the small nod of acknowledgement I felt obligated to make, the King and the Darkling both ignored the Queen's remarks.

"So, you've found another of your ilk, Darkling," the King said, the nearly imperceptible sneer in his voice grating.

"Quite by accident, I assure you, your Highness," the Darkling diminished, bowing his head respectfully. But, even though the King and Queen seemed to miss it, I could clearly hear the wide current of aggravation running through the Darkling's tone.

The King let out an arrogant sniff, wordlessly expressing his disbelief. "And where have you been hiding all this time?" He asked me suddenly, nearly stopping my heart. I hadn't anticipated that I would actually be addressed directly by either the King or Queen.

Although my first instinct was to look to the Darkling for guidance, I stopped myself from turning to him. Instead, I stared ahead at the King's brightly polished boots and nodded my head low in acknowledgement, all of this occurring rather unnaturally yet somehow automatically. "Kribirsk, moi tsar, on the shores of the Unsea."

"Hm, I suppose that's appropriate," the King almost laughed, his disdain prevalent.

"I've heard you dabbled in… Less than scrupulous affairs before coming to court," the Queen interjected smugly, the unexpected question catching everyone off guard. "Is this true? I'd hate to have a thief in our midst," she asked when a heavy silence fell over the already poignantly vacant throne room.

Although I stiffened under the accusation, I did my best to remain composed. Turning my head in the direction of the Queen, I focussed dimly on the stupidly-ruffled hem of her voluminous petal-pink gown. "I… I only ever did what I had to in order to survive, moya tsaritsa," I equivocated, my head falling reflexively lower than I would have liked. "Provincial life in the shadow of the Fold is—is difficult."

"I suppose it would be," the Queen dismissed with a snobbish sigh as though she had been hoping to be made privy to some secret tidbit of gossip.

I had to bite the tip of my tongue to keep from saying something objectionable.

"And what of your family?" The King asked though I could tell he was uninterested no matter what answer I might have given.

"I'm a foundling, your Highness," I muttered, my head dipping low in spite of myself. "I was raised by simple farmers until I was… Turned into the streets."

"Of course: a foundling and an urchin. Fitting… Well," the King sighed, clearly bored, "if you're truly another Shadow Summoner, let's see you prove your worth."

Instantly, my stomach plummeted to the floor. Even though I knew this was coming, I hadn't expected it to happen quite so soon. Somehow, I managed to bow respectfully, the thick tresses of my hair obscuring the panic that was trying to register itself on my face. "It would be my pleasure, your Highness," I said calmly from somewhere outside myself.

The first thing I wanted to do was (stupidly) reach for the Darkling's hand. I knew that if I was able to feel his skin against mine, that the sense of surety he had inspired in me—imparted to me—so long ago back in Kribirsk would allow me to use my power however I wished. Extraordinary or terrible, the things that I would be able to do would surely leave the whole of Ravka, never mind the King or Queen, awed. But as I felt him step away from me, allowing me to stand in the spotlight but be still close enough to rescue me if needed, I realised that, for all the undeserved confidence he may have felt in me, he would never allow me to use him as a crutch. And, as I stood alone before the King and Queen, at the epicentre of the eerily vacant throne room, I realised that I didn't want the Darkling to be the only thing keeping me from drowning amidst the turbulent and unfamiliar sea I found myself trying to navigate. As frightened as I was, I wanted to be able to rely on myself—as I always had—regardless of all my ineptitudes.

For the shortest moment, I allowed myself the opportunity to really look at the people who sat before me, raised on high on their ridiculous pedestal. The King was weak-chinned and pale, his bulbous nose veiny like an overgrown boil overtop his pale moustache. On the other hand, the Queen was perfect to the point of looking fake: her eyes were too blue, her hair too blonde, her skin too flawless. I could see Genya's fingerprints all over her face. But, for all their finery and falseness, the two people who sat, judging me, were, after all, just people.

The Darkling was right: I had no reason to fear them.

Exhaling to finally release the needless tension that constricted my chest, I pressed my palms horizontally against each other, taking the time to concentrate on the absence of light that was created between them—just as Baghra had taught me. Then, drawing my hands apart, flat, I watched as a thin ribbon of shadow connected my opposing fingertips, its edges shifting and writhing as beautifully as the borders of the Fold. Breathing deeply, I exhaled purposefully once more and turned my palms towards each other before spreading my arms wide. The small trail of shadow I had called expanded into an arch above my head, which bled darkness like a hovering, inky waterfall. Finally, looking up to the small swath of shadow I had concentrated in the overly bright throne room, I allowed myself a moment to recall the last words Bahgra had shouted at me before she banished me from her hut.

"The shadows are a part of you, girl," she had screeched for what must have been the hundredth time. "Stop treating them like some creature you use and consider them an extension of your very being. If you can't do that, you're useless!"

Exhaling deeply to centre myself completely, I closed my eyes and felt the shadows exuding from my fingertips. They were as much a part of me as were my arms or my eyes or my tongue. So, if I wanted darkness to overtake the room I stood in, I had only bid the shadows to do so. There was no 'magic' to it. There was simply me and the shadows and the limits of my will.

Without thinking about what I was doing, I quickly brought my hands together, high above my head, the sound of my palms colliding like a crack of rolling thunder. On opening my eyes, I was delighted (if not slightly relieved) to find wave upon wave of inky shadow spilling forth from where I had called them, filling every nook and every cranny of the monumental throne room with impenetrable darkness. Instinctively, I looked to my left to find the Darkling watching me as clearly as if we were standing in sunlight, his stare awed yet cunningly satisfied.

When the Queen screeched instinctively with fear, I immediately recalled the darkness I had summoned and allowed daylight to flood the throne room. The royal guards had stumblingly rushed forward, glaves at the ready to attack Saints knew what, but when the light returned, they froze stupidly, looking to their King for direction.

"All Saints," the King murmured, the blood draining out of his face from fear as he waved his guards back to their posts. "You mean there really are two of you?" He almost gulped as he placed his hand over the top of his Queen's to comfort her, her ridiculously voluptuous chest heaving with heavy gasps.

"It's as I told you, your Highness," an unfamiliar and greasy voice said authoritatively from the door flanking the King's side of the dais, "it's a sign from the Saints."

As I looked towards the sound, I saw a man in priest's robes entering the room. Without hesitation, he slithered up the steps to stand behind the King's throne, lurking near the sovereign's left hand. He had a long, dark beard and eyes that, from this distance, looked to be completely black. The King's double eagle was brightly shining on the chest of his robes, setting him clearly apart from any other of his order as someone important to the crown. He was eyeing me intensely, a deep sort of disgust, nearing almost on hatred, burning in his beady stare.

"The Apparat," the Darkling whispered almost inaudibly to me.

"Instead of a Sun Summoner, another herald of darkness has been sent to punish your people. Bleak times are ahead," the priest—the Apparat—hissed to the King, his poisonous words still somehow echoing around the entirety of the throne room.

"Silence," the King dismissed pointedly, though I could see in the way that he continued to grip his wife's hand that he was terrified of what he had just witnessed.

"Rest assured, your Highness," the Darkling said smoothly with a bow, "we only serve the crown and, by extension, all of Ravka."

"Of course," the King exhaled, lifting a hand to silence the Apparat when he drew breath to hurl more accusations across the room. "But I've seen enough. Go—both of you," he dismissed, rising from his throne. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the Darkling bend in another bow, so I did the same, lowering my gaze to the floor if only to avoid the Apparat's lingering, baleful stare. The sound of rustling fabric told me that the Queen had risen to follow after her husband, so I stayed low until another heavy silence fell over the throne room. I only felt safe to stand upright when I noticed the Darkling begin to rise.

"You will be the end of us," the Apparat, who was still lingering behind the King's throne, said to me, his skeletal hands curling around the gilded and sculpted edges of the chair he was using as a shield. His voice was so chillingly fervent that it sent a shiver racing up my spine.

As I opened my mouth to fire off an equally stinging retort, the Darkling cut me off by saying: "Come, Esfir. The King has dismissed us and you've lessons to attend."

"I—but—?" I floundered, ripping my eyes away from the Apparat's horridly piercing stare as the Darkling turned on his heel and began to walk away. And even though I could feel the priest's eyes boring into my back, I followed after the Darkling without glancing over my shoulder.

Wary of the pages which, once again, hovered behind us as we exited the throne room together, retracing the path back to the main entrance, I decidedly minded my words as I spoke to the Darkling. "What the hell was that about?" I spat under my breath.

"Pay the Apparat no mind," the Darkling murmured back as we hurriedly descended one arm of the swooping grand staircase. "All that matters is that you've proven your power to the King."

"Right," I scoffed as we finally made it to the entryway and nearly rushed towards the main doors. "I'll try to remember that while I'm busy punishing Ravka for its sins," I bristled as we burst back out into the daylight. The Darkling's coach was waiting for us right where it had been when we had entered the Grand Palace.

Striding forward in a sort of annoyed silence, the Darkling ignored my jibe until we were both shut within the relative safety and privacy of his coach. "The Apparat is a drivelling fool, and the King is a child to believe him," he cursed, venting his pent-up and (clearly) treasonous frustrations as our transportation lurched forward.

I gaped at him in stunned silence for half a heartbeat before collecting myself and nodding in agreement. "That is definitely one way to put it," I allowed, unsure of what else to say.

"I'm sorry," the Darkling sighed, running his hands through his hair before absentmindedly massaging the back of his neck. I'd never seen him act so… Natural. "I have very little patience for the Apparat. Although he has his uses, when it comes down to it, he's the worst zealot of them all, and I can't abide such blind stupidity."

"Yeah, I got that," I sighed, happy to see the Grand Palace shrinking into the distance. I'd had my fill of Kings and Queens (and priests, apparently) for one lifetime.

"You did exceptionally well," the Darkling said suddenly, changing topics so quickly it was almost dizzying. "I told you that you had nothing to be worried about."

I scoffed quietly at that, lowering my head to look at my hands as I pulled loose my favourite ring: a thick gold band engraved with the mirrored phases of the lunar cycle. A small diamond was inset at its centre, standing in place of the full moon. Carefully, I rotated it around my left middle finger, feeling the familiar texture of it. "I don't even really know what I did," I almost laughed, trying to diminish the honesty of my words.

"Maybe not, but what matters is that you made it look effortless."

"Only because I knew you were there—you know, to help… If I needed it."

"But you didn't need me, did you?" The Darkling asked, a hint of a genuine smile in his voice.

"No, and I never have," I admitted to my hands.

"And I hope you never will," the Darkling said quietly.

Yet, somehow, I knew he was lying.

---

AN1: A guest reviewer recently asked if The Thief and the Dark (TatD) will ever eventually merge with canon. I hope that, through this chapter, I've been able to provide the beginning of an answer to their question. My vision for TatD was to go down the path of a new Shadow Summoner, independent of the Morozova line, being born instead of the vaunted Sun Summoner and the implications that might have. That is to say, although characters from canon (both in the books and the television series) are present (e.g. Feydor, Ivan, David, Genya, etc.), Alina (and Mal) have not been born (at least not yet, or perhaps ever). ~A

AN2: As an additional note, I'd like to say thank you to everyone who has posted a review so far. It means so much to me to hear back from readers and I appreciate your criticisms as much as I do your praise. ~A