Page 103 of A House of Gold
I look at him, at this angel who's planned an elaborate heist just to hurt a rival, who's dressing me up and sending me into danger for his own territorial games, who's being completely honest about using me as a weapon.
"You're terrifying," I tell him.
"I know." He offers his arm. "Shall we?"
I take it, and we step toward the mirror.
The spaces between are less disorienting this time.
Maybe because I've done it before. Maybe because the binding makes me more anchored to Croesus, harder to lose in the gray nothingness. Or maybe I'm just getting used to the feeling of reality pressing in from all sides, trying to collapse back into shape.
We walk through static and formlessness, Croesus's hand firm around mine, until shapes begin to resolve in the distance.
The House of Regret appears slowly, first as a shimmer, then as reflections, then as an actual structure that shouldn't be able to exist.
It's made of mirrors.
Thousands of them, millions maybe, fitted together into walls and towers and spires. Every surface is reflective, showing infinite versions of the spaces between, of us, of things that might or might not be real.
"Don't look too long at any one reflection," Croesus warns. "Idris's house shows you possibilities. Lives you could have lived, choices you could have made. It's easy to get lost in them."
"Sounds dangerous."
"Envy always is."
We approach a massive door, mirror-surfaced like everything else, and Croesus adjusts his mask.
"Remember," he says quietly. "We're just guests at a masquerade. Don't draw attention. Find Helena, break the contract, get back here. I'll be watching for Idris, making sure he doesn't follow you too closely."
"What if something goes wrong?"
"Then improvise. You're good at that." He says it like a compliment. "But call for me if you need me." He opens the door.
Music and laughter spill out, sophisticated, elegant, the sound of people enjoying themselves. We step through into a ballroom which defies geometry.
The walls are mirrors, the floor, the ceiling, all mirrors. Everywhere I look, I see infinite reflections of the masquerade, hundreds of guests in elaborate costumes and masks, dancing and drinking and laughing. Chandeliers that might be real or might be reflections cast light that fractures and multiplies until the whole space glows.
And I can't tell which guests are real and which are reflections.
"Stay close for now," Croesus murmurs, his hand on my lower back. "I'll point out Helena, then we separate."
We move through the crowd, and I realize the guests are dressed in costumes that represent different lives, different possibilities. A woman in a wedding dress dances with a man in a business suit, but her reflection shows her in rags. A man in military uniform stands alone, but his reflection shows him surrounded by family.
Everyone here is seeing what they could have been. What they wish they were. What they envy.
"There," Croesus says, with a subtle nod toward a staircase. "Second floor, private gallery. Woman in silver."
I follow his gaze and see her, Helena Cortez, elegant in a silver gown, climbing the stairs alone. Her mask is pushed up on her head, and even from here, I can see the emptiness in her expression.
"I see her."
"Good." Croesus's hand tightens on my back briefly. "After you break the contract, get back to the House of Gold immediately, if you can.” He presses the mirror into my hand. “The backup supplies are in the storage room I told you about, third floor, eastern wing, behind the Narcissus tapestry. Everything you need is there."
"Why won't you be able to come to me?"
"Because once you break the contract, Idris will feel it. He'll come looking, probably follow us back. I'll need to stay visible, keep watch for him without drawing attention to where you are." His voice drops lower. "I won't be able to come to you immediately without leading him right to you. So if something goes wrong, you'll have what you need."
"And if he finds me anyway?"
