Counting Shadows (Duplicity)

“Very well. Then welcome to death. You’re expected at the amphitheater by noon, and your Choosing begins soon after.”
    “Who are my Choices?”
    I can’t really be considering going along with this, can I? I shake my head, trying to clear my thoughts.
    “Father picked good Choices for you,” Farren says, his tone lightening a little. “The sons of Duke Glandor, and the son of a powerful marquis.”
    I don’t bother asking who this marquis is. It doesn’t matter.
None
of this matters.
    I nod slowly to Farren. “Tell Father I’ll be in the courtyard at the time he requested.”
    Farren’s eyebrows shoot up, like he hadn’t expected this to be so easy. “You’ll make a Choice?”
    “I’ll do as Father wishes,” I lie.
    He smiles at me a little, but the expression quickly darkens with worry. “Father wants you to Choose the eldest son of the duke. You’ll pick him, won’t you? You’ll please Father?”
    I force myself to smile back. It’s harder than usual to form the fake expression. “Of course.”
    Farren lets out a long, relieved breath. “Wonderful.” His smile falters again. “Just… Faye?”
    “What?”
    “Don’t Choose someone unexpected again, alright?”
    I smile back at him. “I promise,” I say, slightly relieved that I can say at least
something
true. I won’t Choose anyone unexpected, because I won’t Choose anyone at all. Ashe was my Guardian.
    And he’ll never be replaced.
Never.

Seven
    The aroma of freshly-baked bread strikes me as I step into my room. I breathe deeply, and the moment I let out the breath, the scent is gone.
    My chambers used to contain the castle’s bakery, and while I’m able to push away most of the visions, I still smell bread every time I walk in my room. It’s comforting, in a familiar sort of way.
    I walk over to where the ovens used to be, the spot where my wardrobe now stands. Running my hand over the wood, I close my eyes.
    I hardly remember my mom, but one clear memory remains of when she was alive. She’d stood with me in front of this wardrobe, lacing the back of a formal dress. I kept peeking glances at myself in the mirror next to the wardrobe, and she kept telling me to look straight ahead and hold still.
    Sometimes I replay that memory over and over again, straining to make out the exact words she said. But I can never hear them. There’s only her gentle tone and a certain softness that coats her sentences. Was it love that made her words so soft? Ashe used to tell me it must have been, that she was my mother and she must have loved me because of that.
    But why would she have taken her own life, if she loved me so much?
    I open the wardrobe, struggling to focus on the dresses inside. As I retreated down the hall and away from the balcony, Farren suggested I wear something red. It’s Father’s favorite color, he called after me.
    I settle on a black dress and pull it from the wardrobe.
    “An interesting choice.”
    I whirl toward the door, looking for the source of the voice. It’s definitely masculine, and definitely doesn’t belong in my room. I don’t even let Farren in here.
    I peer at the door; the lock is still in place. I force in a deep breath and reach toward my hip, only to remember that my knife is safely hidden in my nightstand.
    Or maybe not so safely.
    The man chuckles. “Over here, princess.” There’s something off about his voice; it’s distorted, almost like he’s underwater. And it echoes everywhere, making me turn in circles to find him.
    My mirror. I yelp and stumble back, faced with the mirror only feet from my wardrobe. The glass surface shudders, colors playing across its surface. Greens and reds and blues ripple out from the center of the mirror.
    I force my eyes closed for a long moment. When I open them, the colors are still there. I try again. This time the colors remain, but a shadow hangs over them. I edge toward the mirror, taking one hesitant step at a time.
    Half of me wonders if this is some kind of strange addition to my visions, but the other half discards that thought. As I glance around, I find that my bed is still rumbled from when I woke up this morning, and the light seeping in the window is the soft glare of a clouded morning.
    This is reality.
    I reach out and touch the mirror, but nothing happens. It feels just like it always does, cold and smooth.
    Then the shadow in the mirror grows, forming a shape. My heart pounds, and I edge toward the door. I want to run for it, but