Mirror Mirror

•11•

Erik lived, just as he was ought to do. After hearing stories from Father Erik and Madeline, and knowing him during childhood, I knew such a thing as poisoning would not do him in. No, as the courts would learn, the Angel of Doom could survive most anything . . .

~

It was a month after Erik's survival—and subsequent return to Ashraf—that he and Nadir were sitting on the veranda, drinking spiced coffee and discussing matters that I would never truly know. A lone messenger rushed to them and was sent away almost as fast as he had entered, nearly toppling myself and my tray of extra refreshments for both Nadir and Erik.

The man muttered out an apology in Arabic, but paid me no heed as he clutched a coin-heavy purse to his chest and continued his frantic retreat. The sight had me rolling my eyes with a huff of annoyance. There was only one man—one living corpse—who gave away money so liberally and with such nonchalance.

Erik . . . Had I believed in God I would have considered my husband's speedy recovery a blessing, but I now knew the truth. Erik had shown me that truth.

God did not exist.

And that knowledge was only solidified as I finally got close enough to my husband and my employer to hear what they were saying.

"Two months," Nadir's voice was cold. "Erik, surely you are mistaken, he must have longer than that—he must!"

I stopped dead in my tracks just before the veranda entrance and watched, numb, as Erik moved to sit beside the Persian.

"Nadir . . . the child does not deserve to suffer all that will very soon lie ahead of him."

"What are you telling me?" Nadir's response sounded as numb as I felt.

I hardly heard the words to come out from whatever monstrosity lay behind Erik's mask then—hardly felt the tray slip from my trembling hands and clatter to the floor. The two men shot up, startled at the noise, and I met both of their eyes as my limbs began to shake.

Two months.

Reza had two months.

There were tears in Nadir's eyes as he looked at me, and Erik took a step forward, one skeletal arm outstretched. "Poshratt—"

I did not wait to hear his words. I did not wait to begin seizing up in front of Nadir again. Before my legs became completely useless I turned and sprinted to the nearest room, slamming the door shut behind me and collapsing onto the floor in front of it, blocking it with the weight of my own convulsing body.

Despite my efforts my husband's molten gold voice surrounded me not long after.

"Foolish girl," that voice sighed as a vial was forced between my teeth. "Did you not realize this room had two doors?" I coughed as the muscle relaxant slid down my throat and the vial was removed. Erik helped me into a sitting position.

I was sobbing. My limbs stopped shaking, but I felt as lost and confused as if I were still in the midst of the seizure.

Two months . . .

It was as if my husband could read my mind, as through through some sort of fantastical sorcery. "Yes," he said, his lilting voice burning in my ears. "The child has very little time. That is why it is our job now to make him comfortable and happy. Tzipporah look at me."

Behind the mask those eyes that normally burned with a bright yellow hellfire had dulled to a wan and sallow hue. The change startled me and suddenly I was reminded of Erik's reaction to my long ago miscarriage. 'All children deserve a chance at life.'