Nothing continued to happen, except that I started to feel foolish and my toes went numb. And flower girl started pounding on the door again. I sighed, drew my robe around myself, straightened my shoulders, and staggered in her approximate direction.

It took a while, because my feet kept making detours to visit the dressing table and the tub, and then ran me straight into the wall beside the door. But I finally made it and grabbed the knob after the fourth or fifth try. I cracked it open to see a smooth blonde chignon and a pair of lovely gray eyes reflecting the light of a single candle.

I sighed again.

There were two types of people at the Pythian Court. The first were those like me, who were kind of a mess. We weren’t untalented—in some cases, quite the opposite—but we didn’t fit the graceful stereotype. That included people like Tessie, a tall, beefy girl who was only sixteen, but who already resembled a linebacker and hit about as hard. I’d dueled her once, and once was enough. Or Ermengarde, who was short and boxy and about as graceful as I was, but who had the rare ability to discern even minute disturbances in time. She was like a bloodhound on the scent, easily able to track down dark mages who were violating the Time Rules or visiting Pythias who were up to no good.

They proved that we misfits could be useful, but we didn’t exactly make the promotional material.

Iris did.

She could have been the poster child for Pythian recruitment if they’d had had one. She was the second type of acolyte: beautiful, serene, and poised. Tonight, she was wearing a pair of small, pearl drop earrings that gleamed softly in the candlelight and completed the young Grace Kelly impression she was giving off. And—of course—a white lace dress. Only on her it looked regal, almost princess-like.

Definitely Grace, I thought, as I clutched my blood-and-salve-stained robe with a pair of badly skinned knuckles.

“Uh, hi,” I said.

“Lady.” She curtsied—elegantly, of course—and when she came up, her face looked relieved.

“Is something wrong?” I asked.

“No, my apologies. I was just here when… when they brought you back. I am pleased to see you looking so much better.”

Better?

What the hell had I looked like before?

I had a sudden flash of panicked faces and running feet; of blood and lightning and horrible pain; of whips made out of living gold and strange beings in brilliant white, like erotic angels; and of watching myself burn to death, my body turning black and red and dead, dead, dead—

I shut those thoughts down—hard—before I started hyperventilating, and concentrated on not screaming. Just don’t scream, I told myself harshly. Just don’t do it.

“Lady?”

“Uh, yeah. I’m… better.”