Again, the bathwater is plain. No perfume, no oils, no delicate lavender or rose. Just steaming, faintly metallic water that clings to my skin, stripping me bare.
I didn't notice it at first. But now, as I sit in the too-hot bath, letting the scalding heat crawl under my skin, the realization slithers over me. My mother's orders have always come with a touch of elegance—a hint of luxury, even when she's sending me into dangerous places. Perfumed water. Scents to remind me I am her daughter, her creation.
But tonight, there's nothing but the plain, harsh water. Raw and bare, just as she intends for me to be.
My fingers brush the locket resting against my collarbone, the cool metal a quiet, secret comfort. She doesn't know about it. She doesn't know that Rhys is alive, that the heartbeat in this locket thrums with something stronger than her schemes.
Tonight is the last night. Tomorrow, I will bloom in the dark, my petals turned toward shadows.
In seven days, I'll enter the Undercity. Gloam first, then Crossreach, then Solisra, and then beyond. Names that once felt distant and untouchable are now my destinations, and I am to go in stripped down to nothing, with no part of myself hidden.
I step out of the bath and wrap myself in a robe, padding back to my room. But when I open the door, I find chaos waiting for me.
Christina is pacing, her midnight-blue hair cascading down her back, crowned with silvery flowers like some dark, angry queen. She looks as though she's about to burst into flames.
"This won't work!" she snaps, her voice sharp as cut glass. "This whole plan is madness. If we had any sense, we'd be running as far away from here as we could."
Iza, calm as ever, is packing my suitcase with tiny vials, tucking them into the hollowed-out pages of a thick novel. "It's only for a few days, Christina," she murmurs, her fingers moving with practiced ease. "She'll be fine."
Christina's eyes flash as she turns to me. "A few days? One hour down there could get her killed! She's the daughter of that madwoman. If anyone even suspects—"
"Exactly. If they know," I interrupt, rolling my eyes. I watch Iza carefully place another vial in the hollow of my book, as if handling precious gems. "And, really, did you have to cut up my favorite book for this? Do we need all these?"
"It's not enough," Iza says firmly, as she secures the lid of the suitcase. "You'll need to refill at the marketplace in Crossreach."
"Oh! So it's more than a few days, then?" Christina huffs, crossing her arms.
Before I can respond, a cool, silken voice cuts through the room. "How noisy,"
We all turn, and there stands my mother in the doorway, draped in a silver nightgown, her dark hair elegantly braided, tied with a ribbon that makes her look younger, softer. But her eyes are sharp as ever, sweeping over the room—lingering on Christina with mild disdain, before finally settling on me.
"Duchess," Christina mutters, though she doesn't bother to lower her head. Her gaze is defiant, bold as always. "Do you really intend to let her go through with this?"
My mother's lips curve in a faint smile as she steps inside, her eyes fixed on me. "It's her choice, isn't it?" She glances at the open suitcase with an almost amused look. "Though I must admit, I'm surprised. I wonder what changed her mind."
"Duty," I reply, keeping my voice steady.
"Duty," she repeats, as if tasting the word. Her eyes flicker to Iza, then back to me. "Iza is right, you'll need to return for refills. And often."
I nod, suppressing a sigh. She knows I'll be reporting back. Sir Gillion will ensure it. He's Xaden's shadow, always watching, always listening. And she knows I won't make it far without more supplies.
My mother says something else, but her words are a blur as she steps closer, taking the towel from my shoulders. Her fingers thread through my damp hair, squeezing out the water with a softness that makes my skin prickle. She catches my gaze in the mirror, and for a moment, I see warmth there—a strange, unsettling warmth.
"It's grown long," she murmurs, more to herself than to me. Her fingers lift the golden strands, combing through them with reverence. "Just like it used to be. The color suits you, Rosé."
Her fingers slide through my hair, gentle yet possessive, as if claiming it strand by strand. Her eyes never leave the mirror, watching our reflections with that strange glint, that unsettling gleam of pride—and something darker, something twisted and fragile.
"I've missed this color on you," she says, her voice almost a whisper. "So beautiful… so much like him." She doesn't have to say who she means. I know. And she only mentions about father when she combs my hair.
I swallow, my heart caught in my throat as she combs my hair, smoothing each strand, her touch gentle but possessive. Part of me—a foolish, hopeful part— believes this is love, that she's touching me with tenderness, that she's afraid for me.
"I'm sorry to make you do this," she murmurs as if reading my mind. The apology slips from her lips so smoothly that for a moment, I believe her.
"It's fine," I say softly. "I can handle it."
She smiles, her hands never stopping. "I know you can, my daughter. You're strong. So much like me."
The words sink in, each one laced with something both sweet and sharp. I see myself in the mirror, her hands in my hair, and I feel like a doll—a beautiful, brittle thing under her touch. Her fingers tighten, just for a moment, holding me in place.
"And as my daughter," she continues, voice soft and deceptively kind, "you'll go as yourself. No hiding. We'll wash out that dye."
My heart stumbles, and I feel Christina and Iza tense behind me. Blonde hair in the Undercity. She's sending me in marked, like a beacon in the shadows. A target. And she knows it.
Iza says, "That will attract attention."
She raises an eyebrow, her fingers still threading through my hair. "Are you afraid, Rosé?"
Iza's fists clench at her sides, her eyes flashing, but she doesn't dare speak. Christina, on the other hand, scoffs openly.
"Excuse me, Duchess, but she's not just your daughter. She's your heir. Sending her down there like that is asking for trouble," Christina says, her voice steady, defiant.
My mother's gaze slides to her, cold and unyielding. "It's not your place to question me, Christina."
"Then call it advice," Christina fires back. "Or do you only surround yourself with people who nod and agree?"
For a moment, I see a spark of fury in my mother's eyes. Her grip tightens in my hair, pulling just enough to make me flinch. "Rosé will do as I say. You'll be thorough, I trust," she says softly, almost to herself. I see Christina losing it from the corner of my eyes. "Thorough and clever. And when you're down there, you'll need a name."
"Iza's name will do," I reply, glancing at Iza in the mirror. She's watching my mother's hands in my hair, her lips pressed tight, like she's holding back words she knows she shouldn't say.
My mother's smile curves, slow and amused. "No, not Iza," she says as if indulging a child who has made a silly suggestion. "You'll go as Mel."
"Mel?" I repeat, frowning. "Why Mel?"
She meets my gaze in the mirror, and there's something sharp in her smile, something almost… gleeful. "It's a name people like. Friendly. Trustworthy. Someone who brings laughter." Her fingers continue combing, pulling with a possessive tenderness.
The name hangs between us, heavy and strange, as if she's handed me a mask that she expects me to wear without question. I want to ask why, to demand what "Mel" means to her, but I know better than to push.
It's just a nickname.
She releases me with a final, possessive pat, and turns to Iza, who's gone pale. "You'll wash her hair. And when you're finished, you'll stay here. I don't need you down there, meddling where you don't belong."
Iza's voice is a whisper. "But, Your Ladyship… it's dangerous. I could go in her place." Iza does it again.
My mother's gaze hardens, sharp as a blade. "What makes you think a lowly maid could do what my daughter is capable of?"
"You're sending her to what you saved me from,"
"No," Mother says calmly. "Remember your place, Iza. You are nothing more than a shadow at her side. And shadows are not meant to stand in the light."
Iza's face hardens, her mouth tightening. She bows her head, her voice barely a murmur. "Yes, Your Ladyship. Forgive me."
The silence that follows is thick and bitter. I want to say something—to defend her, to protect her—but the words die in my throat.
My mother turns to Christina, her expression frosty. "And you—perhaps I should find someone else to keep Rosé company. Someone who knows when to hold their tongue."
Christina smirks, unbothered. "Oh, I'm not here to keep her company, Duchess. I'm here to keep her alive. Didn't you already lose one? If you're throwing her into the fire, then I'll make sure she has a way out."
She turns to me, her voice softening, her eyes fierce. "Seven o'clock, Rosé. We'll take the train to Gloam. And whatever waits down there… we'll go to hell together."
"What?! Hey-" She spins on her heels and leaves leaving the sound of her shoes.
I look at Mother.
"Prove them wrong, Rosé," she says.