Chapter 11 · The Scapegoat Light

The last shard of mirror hit the floor without making a sound.

For one impossible second, the Mirror Hall held its breath.

Then every fragment spoke.

Eli’s voice came from the glass beneath Maeve’s boots, from the silver splinters buried in the velvet curtains, from the glittering dust caught in the seams of Orla’s coat.

I was the first killer.

The words passed through the room like a blade.

Maeve’s fingers tightened around her knife. The script had pulled the weapon into her hand sometime during the collapse, though she could not remember drawing it. Its black handle was slick with something warmer than rain. Her pulse beat against the metal. Once. Twice.

Across the ruined hall, Eli knelt amid the broken mirror. Blood ran from his forehead, down the bridge of his nose, and disappeared beneath his collar. He looked up at her, not at the shards.

“Maeve.”

She took one step back.

A curtain of glass shifted under her heel.

“Don’t,” she said.

His mouth closed. The word seemed to hurt him more than the cut above his eye.

Behind him, the Curator staggered against the wall.