“Why is that?” I asked, breathing through my mouth.

“I thought you would want to enhance your beauty,” she said, arching her brow. “Most of your kind chase after such things. They want an attractive glamour, something to draw the eye and admiration to them. But not you.”

“No,” I whispered.

I wanted to be unremarkable upon appearance. I wanted to be underestimated, overlooked, on the verge of being forgotten. I wanted a trustworthy face that inspired friendship, a face that could draw out a secret. A face that one would never assume hid something vengeful beneath it.

It was time to speak my burning question. One forged from my greatest fear.

“How long will this magic of disguise last?”

“The longevity of this spell depends on you, mortal girl,” Mazarine replied. “On how well you guard the stone half of your heart. Be vigilant and your disguise will last unto death. But should the stone within you crack . . . the rest will soon crumble, little by little, until your disguise falls away.”

I dwelled on that for a moment. “But you said this enchantment will make me colder. So the chances of me cracking anytime soon are slim.”

“It will make you colder. But even the deepest of ice eventually gives way to fire, Clementine.”

Her answer satisfied me, and I nodded. I wasn’t worried about my disguise failing me anytime soon.

“Although do keep in mind,” the troll added, “mirrors are your greatest enemy. They will not lie for you, and your true reflection will always shine brightly upon them.”

“Yes, I will be careful in their presence,” I whispered.

A quiet moment pulsed between us. Mazarine extended the goblet, waiting for me to accept and drink.

My mouth went dry as I took hold of the cup. She murmured an incantation, one that was unfamiliar to me, a guttural language.

The room was suddenly too warm. My heart was fighting vibrantly in my chest, hammering against my bones. The pain of it breaking was harrowing, and I gasped, falling to my knees.

It felt like I was drowning again.

It felt like I was being cloven by an axe.

I couldn’t breathe, and tears were streaming down my cheeks, but through the haze of my anguish, I saw Mazarine clearly. Her face was stark and amused as she held the rim of the goblet to my lips.

“You must take three swallows, Clementine.”

I took the first, forced it down like the bittersweet remedies I had drunk all my life.

I took the second, and my heart was an instrument being strummed one final time. The melody trembled through me, a sorrowful ballad that echoed through every bend and corner of me. One that begged me to reconsider.

I took the third swallow, and the pain bloomed unbearable in my chest. I felt heavy, as if I had been filled with molten gold. I was both burning and freezing, and I quivered.

A moan escaped me.