of her face. “Just say when.”
We gathered around the mirror, huddling together over Chloe’s shoulders. “Everyone look closely,” she instructed. “Remember whatever details you can, and we’ll put them together afterward.” She met my eyes in the mirror. “Bri, can you think of anything reflective in the crater that might give us a close view of the hostages?”
“There are crystal chandeliers.” I cleared my throat. “There was one right over my bed. Should give us a view of the whole ballroom, if you can somehow use a surface like that.”
“I’ll try.”
Chloe twisted the stopper out of a small vial that sat on the table. The tingle of ancient Kireth alchemy made my skin itch with familiarity and dread.
“Can you actually use this thing?” Damon eyed the mirror with a visible dread.
“We tested it a few times. Never outside the city,” Chloe said, her lips tight. “But it’s all we have. It will work. I’ll make it work.”
Belle rested a hand on Chloe’s arm. “Save your own magic for what’s coming,” she said softly, bending toward Chloe, a rare, sympathetic crease to her brows. “Just do your best.”
Chloe’s fingers trembled as she poured the silvery liquid from the vial at the top of the small mirror, letting it drip down the surface like a tiny, slow-moving wave. She pressed her index finger into the silver goo and leaned close to the mirror.
The silver liquid dribbled down, then began to vibrate, the droplets separating unnaturally and drawing near the edges of the mirror, leaving the center clear.
For a moment, it simply reflected Chloe’s face, her dark gaze worried, and the crowd of us over her shoulder. Then the image flashed—a tree, another tree, the rocky overhang of what might have been a cave, the silvery-white sky whipping with stormy wind. The changes sped up, flashing too fast for me to track, and suddenly slowed and cleared to reveal the ballroom.
I pressed a hand to my mouth. Black-clad bodies lay prone throughout the ballroom, wrapped in enormous rose vines that writhed over and under them like a den of hungry snakes.
Elektra moved among them, a drizzle of silver liquid dripping onto first one Sentinel, then another. She stopped beside a blonde woman.
I made a sound. Someone’s hand squeezed mine—Ella’s. Mom’s face in the mirror was emotionless and frozen even as red marks from the torture curse appeared on her hands, neck, and cheeks.
There was a muffled noise from the mirror, an amused laugh. Elektra shook the last of the curse out of the bottle over her. “Feel nice, traitor?” she murmured. “Isn’t it satisfying when the weak are—”
There was a quiet sizzle, and the silver droplets disappeared, taking the scene with them. In its place was Chloe’s tortured expression, the rest of us a collection of wide, horrified eyes behind her shoulder. She met my eyes in the mirror. “Bri.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
I released Ella’s hand and paced to the other side of the room, blinking to clear my vision from the silver light, wishing I could clear the sight of my mother covered in burns the same way. I pressed my hands to my eyes, then dropped them. “Did anyone else see what that wind was doing?”
Damon rubbed his neck. “The wind? When did you see the storm?”
“In the first few reflections.” Ella studied me, her brow furrowed. “It was moving in a new way, wasn’t it?”
“Straight across the sky.” I motioned with my hand. “Straight toward the crater.”
“You think they’re … what, drawing the storm back toward themselves?” Chloe scowled. “They wouldn’t—”
“‘We’ll be swimming in magic.’” I was going to be sick. “That’s what they said, when I was there. They said they’ll be swimming in it.”
Damon’s eyes widened. “It’s headed right toward that statue you saw, the one that began the whole thing, isn’t it? And when the storm reaches full strength and absorbs every last bit of magic on the continent, it will all be stored up in that statue.”
“They’ll turn off the storm, move the statue inside their little sanctuary, and live like the ancient Kireth kings for millennia, never running out of magic.” Professor Kristoff stared at his hands. “They planted the sorbus, waited centuries to harvest it, and now they’ve won. All these years …”
“‘Finish the Master’s work,’” Prince Estevan said, pacing. “‘Control the continent. Rule the weak.’ Isn’t that what they like to say?”
I nodded. “That’s what their original Master wanted them to do. To rule us. I suppose they decided