She eyed it closely. Keys bore many designs, especially magical ones. Set within the hidden spot of a wall or inserted into a decorative urn, any lock might open with the key made to match it. But a map as well? That was more of a puzzle, and Niamh’s journal had yet to reveal that small secret.

The pendant half rotated one way and then the other on its chain as Imogen admired its new shape. Except for the eerie propensity to shift and writhe, the key was a thing of beauty, made to catch the eye of woman or man. Despite her misgivings and coaxed by an urging she couldn’t explain, she slipped the chain over her head.

The silver lay warm against her breastbone, and Imogen wondered anew at the magic that made something so delicate in appearance feel so weighty. Wanting to see how the pendant looked on her, she opened the blanket chest at the foot of Niamh’s bed and pulled out an ornate hand mirror.

Backed in silver decorated with curving designs of scrolls and roses, the mirror had been an endless source of temptation and at least two swats to the backside when Imogen was growing up. Using it to play pretend-I’m-a-queen had consequences.

Niamh, usually generous to a fault in accommodating her only child’s wishes, had been uncharacteristically territorial with the mirror and had punished Imogen for sneaking it out of the blanket chest. She’d never explained her possessiveness, and after a second paddling and early trip to bed without supper for her transgression, Imogen lost any desire to ask why. Now, years later, with Niamh’s journal to enlighten her, she suspected the mirror had been a treasured gift from King Varn.

She lifted the glass and eyed her reflection. Hers was a forgettable face and one only Niamh had seen as it actually was. Strong enchantments fooled everyone else into seeing an old woman who might have been Niamh’s mother instead of her daughter. Imogen looked beyond the pale skin and brown hair to the pendant resting against her collarbones.

A truly lovely piece. She traced the new design with one finger, waiting to see if the pendant would do as it had with Niamh and wrap a silver tendril around her knuckle. It didn’t move but sent small vibrations across the surface of her skin.

Imogen jerked her hand away as silver threads of lace suddenly unraveled and spread across her chest like a contagion of climbing ivy. Imogen’s admiration turned to terror, and she cried out as the metal strands slithered up her neck and over her shoulders beneath her shirt. The mirror fell from her hand, shattering glass across the floor as she clawed at her skin.

The crawling feeling halted just below her jaw, and her flesh stung where her nails had torn at the metal tendrils. “Oh gods,” she breathed. “What is this? What is this?” She ran her hand over what was now a filigreed collar and came away with a bloodied palm.