She narrowed her eyes, waiting.
“It’s just … you never show your face, when they record you. Rumors are starting, you know. People think you’re hiding something. And love begins with trust, and trust can’t be formed if people think you’re hiding something.”
“Glamours don’t work through video. You know that. Everyone knows that.”
“Then don’t show them your glamour.” He gestured at her face. “Why not just be yourself? They’ll admire you for it.”
“How would you know? You’ve never seen me!”
He was momentarily taken aback, his dark eyes blinking up at her. Winter, too, stopped in the doorway, carrying yet another pair of glittering shoes.
Evret stood and cleared his throat. “You’re right, but whose fault is that?”
“Papa?” said Winter, cocking her head. “Why is Mother yelling?”
Levana rolled her eyes. This was how it had been since the day Winter started speaking. She addressed her father only. Levana was just the bystander, a mother in title only.
“No reason, darling. Why don’t you go play with your dolls?” Nudging Winter toward the playroom, Evret poured himself a drink from a small tray on the side table. “You do realize that you have been my wife now for more than three years,” he said, watching the amber liquid splash over the ice cubes. “I have not fought you. I have not left. But I’m beginning to wonder if this will ever become a real marriage, or if you plan on living this lie until one of us is dead.”
Levana’s diaphragm quivered unexpectedly, warning her that she might cry, telling her that his words hurt more than she admitted on the surface.
“You think our marriage is a lie?”
“As you just said—even I have never seen what you really look like.”
“And that’s what’s important to you? That I be beautiful, like she was.”
“Stars above, Levana.” He pressed the glass onto the table without taking a drink. “You’re the one who impersonates her. You’re the one who hides. I’ve never wanted that. What exactly are you afraid of?”
“That you would never look at me again! Trust me, Evret. You would never see me the same way.”
“You think I’m that shallow? That I care at all what you look like under your glamour?”
She turned away. “You don’t know what you’re asking.”
“I think I do. I know—there are scars, burns of some sort. I’ve heard the rumors.”
Levana grimaced.
“And I know your sister said you were ugly from the time you were a baby, and I can only imagine the kind of damage that does to a person. But … Levana…” Sighing, Evret came up behind her, settling his warm hands on her shoulders. “I had a wife once that I could talk to about anything. That I trusted implicitly. I think, if you and I are going to make this work, we need to at least try to have that too. But that will never happen if you’re always going to hide from me.”
“That will never happen,” Levana hissed, “if you constantly insist on comparing me with her.”
He turned her around to face him. “You compare yourself with her.” He cupped her face. “Let me see you. Let me judge for myself what I can or can’t handle.” He gestured to the window. “Let the people judge for themselves.”
Levana gulped, afraid to realize that she was considering it.
Was it true, that he could never know her, trust her, love her, so long as she hid behind this glamour of beauty and perfection?
“No, I can’t do it,” she whispered, pulling herself out of his grip. His face fell, and a moment later his hands did too. “Maybe you’re right about the people. No—you are right. I’ll plan a tour through the outer sectors. I’ll let them see me.”
“Your glamour, you mean.”
She grated her teeth. “Me. This is all that matters, so please, don’t ask me again.”
Shaking his head, he returned for his drink.
“Trust me,” Levana said emphatically, even as her vision blurred. “It’s better this way. I’m better this way.”
“That’s the problem,” he said, unable to look at her as he took a sip. “I don’t trust you. I don’t even know how to start.”
* * *
The idea came to her slowly. At first, it was merely a horrible, guilty fantasy. That there was no Selene. That Channary had died, alone and childless. That Levana was already the true queen.
Then one day, as she was watching Winter and Selene playing with blocks on the floor of their nursery, babbling in a language only they understood, Levana had a fantasy of Selene dying.
Putting one of those blocks in her mouth and choking on it.
Slipping in the bathtub, and her nanny being too distracted to notice.
Tripping on her own uncertain feet and tumbling down the hard palace steps.
The daydreams disgusted her at first—all over an innocent child, with big brown eyes and messy brown hair too frequently left uncombed—but she told herself they were just that, daydreams. There was no harm in imagining some innocent mistake that would lead to the baby dying, and the country mourning, and Levana being crowned the queen, now and forever.
Over time, the fantasies became more violent.
In a frustrated fit, her nanny would throw Selene off the balcony.
Or, rather than tripping over her own feet, some jealous child from the aristocracy would push her down the stairs.