The Mask of Mirrors by M. Carrick; (different e readers txt) 📕

a child being murdered. One of the alley shadows disconnected; she saw rust-red fur, a white tail tip, and yellowed teeth. The curl of a black lip and blood rosettes staining the white ruff of a gentleman fox. He stepped out of the alley, black gloves hiding bloodstained paws, his charming smile a trap more honeyed than the spider’s web.

She backed away, shuddering. Then hands began touching her, little clever hands, picking her pockets and stripping away her shawl, tugging and plucking and taking what shreds she had left. Like the streets had taken everything Ivrina had, leaving her body cold and naked in the gutter.

Ren snarled and lashed out. The small body of the raccoon went flying into the wall. She fought them off, the fox and the spider and the owl and the rat and the horse, instinct taking over, the need to survive. They didn’t want her—none of them wanted her. Vraszenians were supposed to help their kin, but Ren didn’t have any; whoever her mother’s people were, they’d cast Ivrina out. Because of Ren. Because Ivrina had a bastard child, the daughter of an outsider.

And so they abandoned her to the savagery of the streets.

“Find them in your pockets,

Find them in your coat;

If you aren’t careful,

You’ll find them on your throat…”

The song echoed down the alley, down the street, down the hallway of the lodging house. Ren tiptoed past sleeping Fingers, clutching a small purse to her chest. It wasn’t much, but she’d tried all day. Better to come home with something than with nothing.

She didn’t want to disappoint Ondrakja. Disappointing Ondrakja meant more than the pain of punishment. It meant she would never help Ren get back what someone had stolen the day Ivrina died.

“What have you found, little Renyi? Come forward. You know I don’t like you skulking in the shadows.” Ondrakja’s smile was as brittle as the spun sugar on fancy cakes as she beckoned Ren into her parlour, where several Fingers crouched around her chair, a miniature court for their queen. She caught Ren’s chin, but her long nails didn’t dig in. “You must show the world your face if you want to shine. This pretty face is your gift.”

She tilted Ren’s head back and forth, like Ren was a mirror for Ondrakja to see her own beauty in. “What gifts has my pretty face brought me today?”

Tension eased out of Ren’s spine. Ondrakja was in a good mood. “I was in Suncross,” she said, “and saw a cuff there…” She spun it into a story, because Ondrakja liked stories, liked to see how clever Ren was—how clever she’d taught Ren to be. At the climax of the tale, Ren presented the purse.

Ondrakja emptied it into her hand, spilling out a forro, a few deciras, and a ring. She held the ring up to the dim firelight, making Ren hope hope hope—

“Are you playing a game, little Renyi?” The syrup-sweetness of her voice held Ren fast. “Are you holding something back? What have I told you about lying to me?”

Panic welled in Ren’s throat, but she fought it down. She could still save this—keep Ondrakja from flipping from Face to Mask. She just had to figure out which answer Ondrakja wanted.

But she’d taught Ren too many lies, too many lines. Which one did she expect to hear parroted back now?

“N-not to lie to you?”

“No!” Ondrakja’s hand came up, and Ren flinched. But no. Not Ren’s face, her pretty face. Not even rage would make Ondrakja damage something so valuable.

The ring flew across the room, striking the wood paneling with a sharp ting. “I said you can’t lie to me. I will know. I will always know…”

Another day. Another try. Another failure. And when Ren came through the door, Sedge was already there—he must have taken a shorter path back after the job went sour.

He looked at her with mute, pleading eyes, trying to send some kind of message, but she couldn’t read it. She only knew the smile on Ondrakja’s face spelled pain for them both if they didn’t step exactly right.

“Here she is now. Tell me, Renyi—what happened?” Ondrakja held up a long-nailed hand when Sedge tried to speak. “No, I’ve heard from you. I want to hear it from her.”

Djek. Ren’s mind raced. What had Sedge said? The truth? No. A lie—but which one? They hadn’t had a chance to match their stories before they split. One of the older Fingers must have dragged him to Ondrakja; otherwise he would have waited for her.

She couldn’t delay to think about it. That was as good as announcing her dishonesty.

Ren drew a deep breath and started talking. Making up the words an instant before they left her mouth, remembering the times she and Sedge had done this before, so she’d give something like the story he’d be most likely to tell.

But it wasn’t enough. His wide eyes and flattened lips signaled every misstep. Ren tried to correct course, but Sedge’s wince told her she’d only burrowed further from his lie.

“What an interesting tale. Thank you, Renyi, for being so… honest. As for you, Sedge?” Ondrakja rose, drawing a reed cane from the tall Isarnah vase she kept near the door—one of the many spoils brought by her Fingers over the years. “You know how I feel about liars. Against the wall.”

Ren’s ragged fingernails cut into her palms, but she kept her eyes open, because Ondrakja might turn around to make sure she was watching. The swish of the cane sounded like the rush of water, the floods rising in the Depths, and Sedge’s muffled grunts echoed off stone.

Tears stung Ren’s eyes, though she refused to let them fall. Always wrong. Never good enough. Always praising the Face and propitiating the Mask. She tried—she did better than the others—but she would never live up to Ondrakja. Not in skill, not in cleverness, not in beauty.

She wasn’t even smart enough to realize that was the point. That Ondrakja kept