Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119694 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 598(@200wpm)___ 479(@250wpm)___ 399(@300wpm)
Only when he unrolls it with a snap of his wrist, it’s not parchment at all.
It’s a mirror—a full-length mirror that shouldn’t possibly be able to fit inside a pocket.
The glass glimmers, rippling like water…and staring back at me… is a stranger.
I’m tall. Too tall. My once-brown hair now hangs in a sheet of silver-white, long enough to brush my hips. My body has been ironed flat, robbed of its softness. I have no breasts…no hips—just straight lines where my curves used to be. My stomach is as flat as a plank of wood and my waist is pulled tight by the bodice of a gown so white it nearly blinds me. The fabric clings to me like frost, but I know it isn’t real. It can’t be.
My throat tightens as I lift my hands to my head. The girl in the mirror does the same.
My fingers brush long, pointed ears, the tips poking out from my silver hair.
Oh God. It really is me.
“What… what the hell…” My words trail off. My voice sounds wrong in this body—too delicate, too thin.
The gown—this gown that would never fit on my real body, not with my wide hips and big butt and round belly—hugs me like it was sewn onto me. But it’s not me. Not my real body—not really.
Wait. My real body? What am I thinking? What kind of weird shit is this?
I stare at the skinny elf maiden in the mirror. All my life I’ve wanted this—to be thin—to be light. To slip into dresses without worrying about tearing seams or looking like a sausage in a casing. But staring at the reflection, all I feel is… hollow.
Wrong.
“I don’t like this—change me back!” My voice cracks, trembling in the air.
But Whistler only shakes his head, his tangled hair swinging.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that until we reach our destination, my queen. But never fear—it’s naught but a glamour. You’re still you under the magic.”
I tear my eyes away from the mirror, clutching my arms around myself. My skin—my real skin—still feels like me. I sneak a hand to my stomach, running trembling fingers down the rolls I know so well. I still feel the stretch marks etched like faint lightning across my hips.
So he’s telling the truth—it’s just an illusion.
Not that it makes me feel any better.
Because, while the mirror shows me an ice-princess elf in a snow-white gown…underneath, I’m still naked. Naked and cold. So freaking cold.
Whistler snaps the mirror closed and tucks it back into his coat.
“Now then. If you’re used to the glamour, it’s time we got on with it. Be silent as a mouse when we go through the doors, and we’ll slip past the Magistrate with no trouble.”
Used to it? He’s got to be kidding. But before I can argue, he throws open the heavy wooden door.
I gasp.
Beyond is the strangest place I’ve ever seen in my life.
9
Jules
The door groans open on iron hinges…and the world falls out from under me.
I stumble forward, blinking hard, my bare feet slapping against cold stone. Gone is the narrow corridor, gone the torches in their brackets. Instead…
My breath stops.
We’re standing in the middle of something impossibly vast.
It’s like stepping into Grand Central Station if Grand Central had been designed by a goth artist on drugs. There are definite Nightmare Before Christmas vibes going on in here, I think to myself.
The ceiling arcs so high above us it vanishes into shadows, ribbed with iron beams and panes of black glass that glimmer faintly, as though stars are trapped behind them. The air is a cocktail of scents—smoke…damp stone…old blood… exotic spice and something so sweet it makes my teeth ache just smelling it.
The space is circular—perfectly round—like we’ve stepped into the center of a colossal wheel. Radiating out from this hub are massive gates set into the far wall, each one so big it could swallow a bus whole. Their arches curve upward like the spokes of the wheel, and each one is strange and unique—like doorways leading into a dozen different nightmares.
I pivot slowly, arms wrapped around myself, heart thudding.
The first gate to catch my eye is made of solid gold. Literal gold. Braided bars twine together like melted rope, with diamonds studding the arch overhead, throwing glittering sparks of light into the dim central area. Above it, letters spelled out in glowing fire read:
THE GILDED WARRENS.
It looks like the lobby of an opulent Vegas hotel, only more obscene. The whole thing screams wealth, excess, and greed. Even the air drifting through the golden gates smells metallic, like a coin rubbed between your fingers.
I turn and nearly walk into Whistler, who yanks me back by the wrist with a grunt.
“Eyes open, queenie. Don’t dawdle,” he snaps.
But I can’t help looking—there’s so much crazy to see here.
The next gate makes my skin crawl. It’s tangled with vines as thick as my thighs, covered in thorns long enough to slice you to the bone. Among them bloom flowers in colors so sharp they hurt my eyes—begonias the color of rubies…lilies blue as sapphires…daffodils that are neon yellow. All the blossoms shimmer as if wet with dew. Some of the blooms turn toward me as though watching, their petals opening and closing like breathing mouths. Above, twisting green letters curl like tendrils: