It’s strange to consider this normal, to watch the banquet happen without worrying about what spoons to use. I know by now, my hands moving automatically for each delicate wipe of my face and tilt of my bowl. I eat only a little, wary of the blood tears that accompany a Heartless trying to eat human food. I used to be so worried about manners at the table, but now my mind is elsewhere, racing back and forth on a track by itself as my body moves on the track Y’shennria built for me.

The talk of the tables echoes in the high, gilded ceiling; at the forefront of every conversation is Varia. In hushed tones around pumpkin dumplings and game-hen soup, they’ll discuss witches, the war, and then look to her, positing among themselves where she’s been these past five years and why.

Varia, on the other hand, puts herself above the talk—maneuvering effortlessly through the social rigmarole with assertive humor and grace, talking easily with the ministers and the servants alike. She dotes on Fione, who’s seated right next to her, offering her small tidbits of food and touching her shoulder at every opportunity. Their glances to each other are warm, Fione’s smile apple-cheeked and rosy, and I’m reminded once more how much Fione loved—loves—Varia. And Varia, in return, seems keen on returning the affections. Perhaps now Fione will get the chance to tell Varia how she really feels, and that thought is a spot of brightness in the midst of all my shadowed pain.

Varia doesn’t once command me to come to her or do anything at all. She doesn’t so much as look at me. Neither does Fione—the few times I find her eyes on me, she skitters them away instantly and focuses on Varia’s smiling face. They’re utterly absorbed in each other. Malachite, looming on the wall behind Lucien, catches his ruby eyes on mine and flashes them away quickly. Neither he nor Fione can bear to look at me for long.

But at the head of the table, Lucien—

My chest compresses into a hard knot as I find his midnight eyes focused squarely on me. Has he been looking at me this whole time? I can’t bring myself to return his stare. My lie ruined everything. My own selfish desires cut down our chances before they could even grow. There is a me somewhere who’s not Heartless, who hasn’t lied to him, who sits beside him at this banquet and smiles at him, and he smiles back, and they are in love.

But I am not her.

I have, maybe, never been her. And now I never will be.