shadow magic, and the source of the dagger. After burying every compromising memory, she reinforced the barriers, walling it off from the rest of her mind, hiding it in plain sight.
“I’m Morra, and I run the kitchens here,” the woman said, drawing Veronyka back to the world around her. “What’s your name?”
As she spoke, Morra’s magic came back—harder and more insistent than before. Veronyka fought her instinct to draw herself inward and trusted that her safe house would hold.
Shadow magic only revealed active thoughts and feelings. . . . Morra couldn’t find what Veronyka refused to think about. All a shadowmage could see was the surface of a person’s mind—their current preoccupations. That was why Morra was questioning her rather than just taking what she wished from her mind.
“Nyk,” Veronyka whispered, pushing the word through her tense lips.
As long as Morra found the truths she sought, she’d have no reason to suspect deception. She was Nyk. She let the truth of it fill her up—and the fact that Nyk was short for Veronyka was unimportant.
Seeming satisfied, Morra pulled back. “How old are you? Twelve, thirteen?” she asked.
“Sixteen,” Veronyka corrected indignantly. She was used to people thinking she was younger than she was, and it was automatic to quickly—and somewhat defensively—set the record straight. In this instance, though, she wished she hadn’t been so rash. Surely it would have been easier pretending to be a young boy than a young man.
The apprentice in the corner snorted in disbelief at her response, further proving Veronyka’s theory.
“Where do you come from, Nyk?” Morra asked, speaking over the boy’s reaction.
“From lower down the mountain, miss. Just outside Vayle.” Again this was a truth, even if the full truth was that Veronyka was born in the valley, in Aura Nova. That, too, was hidden in her safe house. She knew, somehow, that any mention of the valley or the empire would compromise everything.
“Why, then, do you not speak with a Pyraean accent?”
Veronyka swallowed. “I . . .”
“Pyraeans on the lower rim speak with a certain lilt,” Morra continued thoughtfully, “and have a tendency to draw out their vowels. It’s very distinctive. Of course, there are more and more now living in Pyra who weren’t born or raised here. Traders and travelers, refugees . . . spies . . .”
Veronyka clenched her fists. Her maiora had spoken in a rough Narrows accent, and her years of education with the Riders had never quite cured her of it. Val had insisted that Veronyka speak properly—like the noble classes of the empire, without accent or dialect—but it had never occurred to her how that would stand out in a place like this. A hundred excuses sat on the tip of her tongue, but she feared a trumped-up lie would raise more suspicion than the truth.
“My grandmother raised me, and she was educated in Aura Nova.” She had been the one to teach Veronyka reading and writing, but Val was the one who’d drilled pronunciation and syntax into her, making up for what she saw as the old woman’s shortcomings.
“Is she still with you, your grandmother?”
“No,” Veronyka said, her voice wavering slightly.
“Have you any other family?” Morra asked.
Veronyka swallowed the surge of emotion. “Just my sister.”
“Ah, yes, your sister. Beryk said there was an uncanny resemblance. . . . Are you twins?”
“No,” Veronyka said carefully, keeping her thoughts and memories of Val as vague as possible, not wanting to reveal her face—or Veronyka’s true feelings toward her at the moment—to Morra’s prying magic. Being twins might better explain away her close resemblance to the girl who had approached Beryk in Vayle, but Veronyka didn’t want to lie unnecessarily. At least now, if Morra did see Val’s face pop up in Veronyka’s mind, it wouldn’t contradict her story. “We’re a year apart.”
“And this sister . . . She told you to come here? Why?”
“Yes. She overheard the steward, Master Beryk, speaking ancient Pyraean, and—”
“That’s impossible,” the boy burst out, cutting her off. He’d stepped forward and pointed an accusatory finger at her. “How could a country girl from Vayle know ancient Pyraean? It hasn’t been spoken since the Reign of Wisdom and is only taught in empire classrooms or by tutors in noble households.”
Clearly he desperately wanted her to be wrong, to be dangerous or devious so that he could justify his earlier actions. She felt sorry for him, but if only one of them was going to make it out of this interrogation unscathed, it would be her.