Page 13 of Immortal Game

“You’re joking.”

“I am very serious.” Ciara crossed her arms. “Unless you are invited to, you mustn’t open any closed doors. And do not steal anything. That much should be obvious, but considering the state you’re in, I feel nothing goes without saying. Can you manage that much?”

Ciara’s expression betrayed nothing of her thoughts.What was she playing at? What did it matter to her if Shea wandered off and got herself killed for committing some stupid faerie faux pas? It’d certainly make Ciara’s path to victory much smoother.

“Why are you telling me this, anyway?” Shea asked.

“Do you really think me so unsportsmanlike?”

“Do you really want an answer to that?”

Ciara winced. “I am trying to reform. That aside, it’d spoil the fun to see you killed so unceremoniously—and so early, for that matter.”

Shea noted that Ciara didn’t object to the idea of her death in general—only an uninteresting one. “So, what? I’m just supposed to give up and play nice?”

“Oh, no one expects you to playnice. Just that you play the game.”

And what game is that?she wanted to ask. Ciara’s, Midir’s, or chess? She supposed it didn’t matter; it was all chess in the end. That suited her fine. Better than fine, really. She could be patient. For all its complexities, chess was simple at its core: a series of concrete solutions to concrete problems. If she wanted to see Aideen again, she would have to win.

Ciara’s dark, hooded eyes swept languorously over Shea, until at last, their gazes met. Shea’s ears warmed. “What?”

“You cut your hair.”

Self-consciously, Shea touched her hand to the bare nape of her neck. She’d almost forgotten she hadn’t always looked like this. “You changed yours, too.”

She hadn’t really let that sink in until now. For years, Ciara’s hair had been the unnatural shade of black that came out of abox. To say nothing of the all-black wardrobe and dark eyeshadow. The natural red suited her better.

“Yes, well. The dye was tiresome to maintain. I enjoyed it for a brief time, but I enjoyed how much Midir hated it more. Both my pleasure and his displeasure have finally run their course, I’m afraid.” She tucked a lock behind one pointed ear. Lowly, she said, “Your new style becomes you.”

Ciara had never commented on her appearance before. It made Shea feel off-kilter and suspicious—and oddly flushed. Ciara’s expression changed as she watched Shea, her dark eyes agleam with curiosity and something Shea couldn’t exactly read. “Thanks.”

“Let us not delay any further, then. Come along.”

She brushed past Shea and glided into a hallway with long, purposeful strides. She did her best to memorize the twists and turns they took as she pursued the bright flame of Ciara’s hair like a will-o’-the-wisp through the woods.

At last, Ciara stopped in front of a door and rapped lightly on the frame. “This is your room. I suggest you remain here until the opening ceremony, which will take place at eight o’clock. Do not be late. Is there anything else you’d like to interrogate me about before I leave you?”

“No,” Shea bit out. “I think we covered everything, unless you have any more faerie fun facts you want to share.”

Ciara looked exasperated. “You are in a fine temper today, I see. Have you gotten it all out of your system?”

“More or less.”

“Excellent.” With that, Ciara headed briskly down the corridor.

“Actually,” Shea called after her. “One more thing.”

Ciara paused but did not turn around.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to pull here. But you helping me changes nothing.”

At that, Ciara did glance back. Shea could see little but the line of her profile—and her full lips, curving just slightly into a smirk. “You’re right. It doesn’t change a thing.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Shea let herself into her new room and made it as far as the bed before she collapsed, face down, into a dead sleep. She woke just as sunset stained the lake bloodred. Bleary-eyed, she took in her surroundings for the first time. The roots of a tree seemed to be either holding her room together or slowly tearing it apart. Branches pushed from the ceiling and fashioned themselves into the ornate frames of the windows. An entire wardrobe awaited her in the closet, and an outfit for the opening ceremony was draped over a lacquered privacy screen.

Shea dressed, then stood before a massive mirror to examine her reflection. Her anonymous stylist had done well. They’d chosen a loose white shirt and a long black overcoat so studded with crystals that it glittered as if dusted with a layer of frost. She had no idea how to tie a cravat properly, but at least they hadn’t tried to put her in a ball gown. By the time she finished knotting her tie, the absurdly ornate clock on the wall chimed the hour: seven.