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But whatever mysterious memory had surfaced for him, it fades quickly. When he speaks again, he is cool and distant. “It will be good for you to spend some time with your rival before your second test,” he says. “This is your last chance to succeed, and you may benefit from getting to know him better.”
My last chance to succeed. There will be three tests, and I’ve already failed one. “What am I doing for my next test?” I ask. “What is he going to do?”
But Raven doesn’t answer. Of course I can’t know yet. “Keep your enemies close, Rose,” he answers instead.
He says it like it’s a phrase he might have once been told, advice he must have followed when he was a Harbinger himself. I look back at the nightscape and try to picture him in my place, and wonder whether he had been unanimously confirmed or whether he’d gone through these tests himself. I try to see him bowing to the god of Death before him, taking orders, being mortal.
Who were you, Raven? I desperately want to know. How did you die?
But when I turn back to him, I just bow my head.
“I’ll keep it quiet,” I say, and he gives me a nod of approval.
15
To mortals, the Georgian-style building in Richmond overlooking the winding Thames River is nothing more than a food court. Built inside a former church, its once exquisite recesses are now filled with stalls selling pasta and ice cream in front of nineteenth-century stained glass windows.
To Harbingers, it is the London home of the god of Lies.
I stand before the stately entrance, staring at the front steps framed by white pillars that lead up to a massive set of open double doors made of petrified wood. At this time of year, the doors are adorned with clusters of gold ornaments and garlands of real pine boughs, the air thick with the scent of a winter forest. The stark white exterior is covered in a thick tangle of bare rose vines, climbing from the ground all the way up to the roof’s elaborate cornices.
It is a cold, brilliant day, without a winter breeze or a single cloud in the sky. People stream back and forth around me as they enter and leave the building, chatting and laughing with friends, their breaths fogging in the icy air. I look on as they make their way into the food court and disappear down the aisles, knowing that when I walk through, I will enter a difference space.
Then I take a deep breath and step through the opened doors.
All of a sudden, the interior I could see from the street outside—the food court, the crowds of customers—vanishes. Instead, I find myself standing before a green quad, the grass thick and pristine even in the depths of winter, the courtyard fenced in by four walls covered in lush curtains of roses.
Behind me, the doors shut without a sound. The bustle of the street outside—pedestrians, buses, construction—all suddenly mute, as if turned off by a switch, and instead I’m within an inner sanctum, the sound of wind whispering through the arched corridors intermixed with the bustle of servants and other Harbingers that now make their way across the estate.
One of Thorn’s messengers comes hurrying up to me now, a small, thin man with a slouched stance. He bows as he approaches, and across the ground, I see the shadow of wings on his back, so translucent that the silhouettes are only faint, unable to keep out the light.
“Regent-Elect,” he says. “Lord Raven sent you?”
“Yes,” I reply. “I’m here to see the Regent.”
The messenger purses his lips and seems to consider my request. At last, he says, “Please, come with me.”
As he leads me down one of the open corridors under tangles of ivy and roses, I notice that the large windows that should be looking out onto the curving Thames do not show the correct view at all. Instead, each window gives me an altered reality—a brick wall when there should be a view of the courtyard, a flight of stairs when there should only be empty space, a blue sky when there should be rolling hills.
The messenger notices my slowing pace and looks back to see my gaze lingering on each window. He smiles. “A newcomer to the estate, aren’t you?” he says, a cackle in his harsh voice. “Once you’re older and have been Regent for several decades, none of this will seem extraordinary. Lord Thorn grows bored of seeing the accurate view from each window. He enjoys a little game of illusions with the scenery.”
As we pass a window showing the interior of a hallway when it should lead outside, I wonder what Thorn’s other estates around the world might look like, what illusions they take on in other places in order to blend with their surroundings.
It takes me a second to notice my growing headache. Vaguely, I remember that I’m in an immortal place, and just like Raven’s estate, this space is poisonous to those who are not gods.
We make our way up three flights of stairs, then reach the end of a hall, where the messenger stops before a large set of double doors. He knocks politely.
A muffled voice answers from inside, followed by footsteps. A moment later, the door swings open to reveal Étienne.
He’s shirtless and freshly showered, his hair still damp, and dressed in nothing but a pair of dark trousers.
I freeze in my tracks at the sight.
He’s giving instructions to two other Harbingers standing in his foyer. “Thorn doesn’t want the man,” he tells one of them. “Only the letter. As soon as you can get it.” To the second, he says, “You know where to find your target. But be discreet. If he senses someone is on his tail, he’ll destroy the evidence.”
“Yes, Regent,” they both say in unison, then nod briefly at him before turning on their heels and heading out past us.
I’ve never seen Étienne in his element, never watched him as the authority figure who manages Thorn’s requests and leads his Harbingers. His silver silk bracelet gleams on his wrist, right below where the Wraith had cut him last night. The wound is wrapped now, but the way he holds his arm tells me it must bother him a little.
