The song of the Pearly Falls reached out to Meya as she traversed the dim, torchlit jet mine, tugging at her curiosity and hastening her steps. With every yard gained, its call swelled louder, and the uphill tunnel echoed with promises of sunlight, open air and warm baths.

At long last, a beam of light from the wall-mounted candles glanced off a brass doorknob and arced into her eyes. Meya hurtled forth, pushing her way back to the surface.

Bright white; that was the first image she registered. Meya reckoned it was simply the blaze of the meridian sun, but once the dancing spots had ebbed out the corners of her eyes, her mouth fell open at the surreal terrain spreading out before her.

The tunnel had emerged at the seams of a vast plateau laden with overlapping, snow-white terraces which stacked up like layers of oak bracket, and cascaded into a sprawling rock pool, where dozens of naked tourists were already lounging.

The smooth, mirror-like face of each and every terrace derived their color from the sky, which was a vivid blue interspersed with thick, cottony clouds. Every now and then, their limpid, seemingly lifeless surfaces rippled at the caress of the faintest breeze, or the boorish splashes of excited human feet, revealing them to be shallow travertine pools brimming with ice-clear, steaming water, silently and steadily overflowing down the steps to feed the lake below.

At the zenith of the terraces stood a statue of faceted black jet, carved into a chough volant, its head tilted towards the heavens. A tiny crystal sphere glowed acid-green from within its curved beak.

"Oh, Goodly Freda..." Meya breathed, the words brushing against her numb lips as she stepped out into the lukewarm, ankle-high water, her transfixed gaze still sweeping slowly across the plateau. All around her, fellow first-timers stood marveling in awe, forcing seasoned tourists to weave around them before stepping cautiously down the terraces to the pool below.

"We should move, Meya. We're blocking the exit." Arinel's whisper floated into her ear, imperative yet understanding. Meya nodded absently, allowing the Lady to guide her aside with a gentle hand. Once she had regained her senses somewhat, she glanced about to find her companions, now cloistered around her on a small step-pool.

"Oh, Freda! It's magnificent. And to think this isn't even the Heights!" She gushed to Gretella, who was still admiring the landscape and seemed just as breathless. The plump old woman kept a tight grip on Lady Agnes's arm. The thickened soles of her feet were probably struggling to gain purchase on the smooth, treacherous rocks.

"If only she could have allowed me to be here earlier." She lamented, nodding at her wobbly legs, "These feeble kneecaps would give out should I scale those steps. Erina wouldn't have cared, though." She added with a disapproving shake of her head, "Five months along, didn't stop her clambering up those pools like a mountain goat."

"Mother was here? With me?" Arinel squealed, squeezing her grandma's arm in excitement. For the first time ever, Meya heard the stern old woman laugh, as she patted Arinel's hand back in fond remembrance.

"Just come with us, Nurse. You'd have my hand." Frenix pranced up to Gretella's side, chest thrown out gallantly. The old nurse looked down and beamed him an affectionate smile, but shook her head.

"Young lord, you are most gracious. But it wouldn't do for age to hinder youth with their frailty. I shall go and save a spot in the pool. You go hop along to your heart's fill."

"I'll go with you, Grandmother." No sooner had Gretella's voice died than Lady Arinel declared, her hands replacing Agnes's on her grandmother's fleshy arm. The old governess shook her head, her reply weary with overuse.

"Lady, you don't have to."

"—I insist."

Without further ado, Arinel imperiously led her nurse down the treacherous stairs, one by one. By the time they had descended the fifth step, Frenix had already chanced upon a new endeavor.

"Hey, Lo!" He spun around, directing his holler at Heloise with a hand beside his mouth. Once the lady had acknowledged him, he stretched up a grin teeming with cheek and teeth.

"Race you to the top and down!"

Before his voice had even begun echoing, Frenix had already sped off, prancing and splashing his way up the terraces. Heloise spared a mere split second to growl in annoyance, then tore off in hot pursuit. Poor Amara was left dithering for a beat, before she waddled after them,

"Wait! Frenix, don't leave me!"

As the little lady stumbled and staggered off, Fione dropped nimbly down the cascading steps, following Arinel and Gretella's lead.

"I'll be lineswoman!" She whipped back to yell at the death-race participants, throwing in a taunt for good measure, "By the way, my gold's on Frenix!"

"By Freda, they're going to crack their skulls on those ledges."

Lady Agnes tutted, lips pursed in woe and disapproval. Meya glanced around on instinct, and realized with a jolt that it was now just the two of them, together. Two women involved with the same man. And it was clear who was the inferior choice.

Even obscured under the floaty white chemise, Agnes's tall, slender figure exuded an inherent grace of the sort Meya had come to associate with Marin. Especially now that Meya knew who she actually was. Where it was not burnt, the skin of her bare arms was even and unblemished, and her tapered fingers were capped with round, clear, unchipped nails.

Meya felt her bowels churn with insecurity. Tearing her gaze away, she tossed out a dismissive suggestion.

"Well, go and stop them, then."

Agnes turned to face her, her lips etching an even, neutral line as she waited in silence. Then, the notion hit Meya with a jolt, and her hand unknowingly shot up to coil a stray lock of her hair in sheepishness.

"Oh, right. That was foolish of me."

Agnes tilted her head back and forth as a soft chuckle trickled through her lips. Desperate to ventilate the dead air, Meya flourished her hand towards the chough statue, which looked as if it were frozen in the act of flying right at the sun.

"Shall we?"

Agnes's dainty smile widened, and she gave a little nod. Holding an arm aloft for balance, she lifted the lacy hem of her underdress with her free hand,

"I must warn you, though; I'm slow." She raised her leg, dangling her foot above the overflowing surface of the higher terrace, "You could go on ahead if you'd like."

Meya stood rooted, her eyes helplessly captivated by the Lady's mesmerizing movement. Agnes's calf tightened into a flawless curve as she poised her arched foot, slicing through the water with the tip of her big toe and landing firm with barely a ripple. She repeated the ritual with her remaining foot, then slid forth in minuscule increments on the smooth lime bed. There didn't seem to be any malady plaguing her legs and feet, except for a couple of fainting, spotty purple bruises on her shin.

"What's wrong? Twisted ankle? Shoe blisters?" Meya probed. Having shaken herself awake, she started off in pursuit, wobbling a little as she strove to replicate Agnes's slow, graceful gait.

Agnes shook her head.

"No, I just fall easily." She glanced up and shone Meya a smile of embarrassment, as the latter fell into step with her, then looked back down at her feet, "I'm not sure if I'm imagining it, but ever since I lost the sight in my left eye, I kept tripping down stairs and chafing against pillars and the like. It was as if my vision has gone askew."

Meya couldn't help whipping around and staring once more, this time at Agnes's masked face. Behind the grille, her lips were pursed in concentration as she braved another climb.

Despite herself, Meya felt her heart soften in sympathy, and she held out her arm, prompting the Lady Graye to freeze and stare back, perplexed. Meya shrugged the awkwardness off her shoulder and hitched half of her grimace up to what she hoped was a grin.

"You could hold on to me, if you'd like—If you don't mind the reek of peasantry."

Meya blurted out before she could grab her tongue. She could smell the stuffy odor of dead air descending upon them once more as Agnes simply stared. Yet, at long last, to Meya's relief and horror, Agnes gently accepted her proffered arm.

"Oh, Meya, Meya." She mused, a chuckle of weary amusement woven into her sigh. The smooth, cool skin of her palm slid up Meya's arm and found purchase in the nook of her elbow, as she ascended another step, "You've lain with Coris so many times, I doubt even his hounds would be able to tell your scents apart by this point."

Meya's whole face colored a deep crimson at that amicable retort, and for the second time since setting foot in this quaint town, she appreciated the cover the glass mask provided. Circling her fingers around Agnes's arm, she fixed her gaze at their feet and supported the frail Lady's weight up the terraces.

She would've gripped that arm more firmly, if it weren't for the feel of that smooth, supple flesh in her grasp, without a sinew of muscle or a bulge of a vein. It reminded Meya of the milk cream Morel would skim off the top of the tin pail, whisk feverishly until they rose into thick swirls, then dole into their bread batter.

She was so delicate, so soft and sweet and ladylike. And the more Meya tried not to, she remembered how Coris had cried for Agnes, every time he lamented he had caused her death. He was with Meya now, yes. But the reason he had used to placate her was simply that Agnes was gone. Yet, now that she was no longer so, what would keep him from returning to her?

Shudders coursed through Meya at the mere thought. All it would take was for Agnes to slip on her half-mask, and she would easily best Meya in any criteria. It didn't matter whether Agnes reciprocated his feelings; all that mattered was he had cherished them for her, even now.

The lingering water in the pools was becoming warmer and shallower as they neared the summit, and pure as freshly melted ice, yet Meya felt as if every step led her forth into colder, deeper, putrid puddles, though it ought to be her thoughts that were spiraling down a quagmire of doubt and fear. It was such that she barely heard Lady Agnes's voice breaking the silence,

"Thank you, Meya."

It took Meya a second to register her name, another to comprehend the preceding words, and another to turn and frown at Agnes in bewilderment.

"For my humble arm, my lady?"

Agnes kept her eyes on her footing, but her lips unfurled into a mischievous smirk.

"No. For not taking the chance to fling me down the steps to death by defenestration."

"And why in the name of goodly Freda would I do that, your grace?" Meya retorted, unsure whether she was offended that Agnes would expect such of her, or vexed at why the idea had not once passed her mind.

Agnes sighed again, this time a puff of annoyance.

"Don't bother with the charade. We both know the waters we're in." She shot back, sharp and brusque.

"Yes. Hot mineral-rich water. Allegedly a cure for fish feet." Meya grumbled in evident support of continued bothering with charades.

"I've never desired Coris, if that is what's troubling you." Agnes shot straight to the matter.

"But you can't do a thing about him desiring you, can you?"

Meya snapped, then gasped, horrified by what she had let loose in a moment of weakness. She jerked to a halt, feet immersed in stinging hot water; Lady Agnes by her side, a soothing yet intimidating presence. Even shrouded under her mask, Meya could feel the phantom of her intense gaze on her reddening profile. She dipped her head, weighed by shame and turmoil.

She couldn't comprehend the chaos reigning within her. An hour ago, she was in a mellow mood. She was worried by the prospect of Coris and Agnes reunited, of course, but she was still nowhere near this jealous, despairing, paranoid mess. Mum would probably dismiss it as her monthlies exacerbating her daily foul temperament, but the thing hadn't even arrived!

After a brief bout of silence, Agnes's hand shifted on her arm. For a beat, Meya thought she would let go and move away, but she simply loosened her grip into a comforting cradle, her thumb caressing Meya's suntanned skin, as one would to comfort a nervous lamb.

"Coris was younger, a much different person back then." Agnes's whisper was just as soft as her touch, and Meya couldn't help but unwind the tension in her arm, even as her heart remained tautly clenched,

"I believe he knows better now. And he's more devoted to you than he ever was to me."

Those words were pleasing to the ear, but they flowed through without the weight of proof. Meya shook her head as a sardonic smile twisted her lips.

"Because I saved his life in Crosset. And I'm a dragon." She challenged, even as her heart recoiled at the statement it knew deep down was not true, "His code requires him to repay me, and his curiosity compels him to study my kind, is all."

Agnes didn't respond. Her face was turned towards Meya, yet it was impossible to discern her expression, thanks to the impenetrable Jaise mask. Meya turned away and resumed scaling the terraces, leading Agnes along with splashing stomps as heavy as her heart.

"I'm grateful for everything he's done for me, but Latakia would never accept me as his lady." She spited, her smile distorted by the bitter aftertaste the unyielding truth left upon her lips, "No matter how far I've grown out of my roots, a clump of weed grass would never yield a rose."

Silence remained the answer, yet Agnes's soft hand remained clasped around her arm. Its cool touch somehow sent tears bubbling up in Meya's eyes, and she thrust her head back to tip them down her gullet.

"Yet, I can't help but adore him so, still. How arrogant. How besotted." The words clogged in her throat trickled out in a laughing croak. She dared not turn and face Agnes. She wasn't ready to see the condescending smirk of pity that was bound to be glazing upon those lips. It was all she could do to look straight ahead and keep walking. She forced her trembling smile to stay up as she sighed,

"I'll just give him my all while it lasts. That'd be the best I could do."

A faint wind brushed past, fluttering the hems of their white chemises, blowing with it the mingled laughter and squeals and chatter of dozens of carefree souls unfettered by heartache. For a few breaths, Agnes remained quiet, then her long-repressed voice disturbed the excruciating air.

"I'd expected you'd do more. It's not like you to surrender." She hoisted herself up another step, her true feelings unfathomable from her light, level tone. Meya succumbed to a swift glance, then lingered; somehow, Agnes's smile was melancholic, "You and Coris would make for an ideal match."

Meya blew out a snort of derision, startling the courteous Lady.

"I was watching you two, back there when you were talking." She retorted, then her voice softened as she muttered wistfully, "You've known each other for so long, and you're so alike. You're both intelligent, both well-educated. Both noble, both heirs to your manor. Both human..."

Meya shrugged, chuckling bitterly as she cocked her head about. Agnes shook her head with a weary sigh.

"That's not all of it, Meya." She contradicted, "We're also alike in all the worst ways."

Meya felt a tug, stopped short a beat too late, and nearly keeled face-first into the edge of the next pool. Agnes had not followed her up. She whipped around in annoyance, and found the Lady rooted in her spot in the middle of the pool. For a moment Agnes faced her squarely, then she averted her gaze to the distance, reminiscing.

"All the years we've known each other, we've never fought nor cried. It was all fun and laughter. We put on our best masquerades." She shook her head slowly, immersed in memories she was not proud of,

"We talked on and on of the King's reforms, of Latakia's future, of becoming fair and able rulers to our people. But we both stood by and left our siblings to suffer alone when we could have helped them. And we never talked about that."

There was a slight pause as Agnes remained staring off across the plateau. Finally, she let out a sigh and turned to Meya, a wan smile on her lips.

"We would've been a peaceful, strategic match. Not an honest, loving one. We would've carried on that shallow dance throughout our lives, and known no better. But what you have with him is different."

Meya blinked, unsettled by that sudden change of direction towards herself. Patches of heat blossomed on her cheeks as Agnes's smile unfurled into one of admiration. Her caressing fingers coaxed warmth back into Meya's numb arm as she whispered in wonder and intrigue,

"You were with him barely a day—One he could only vaguely remember, no less. Yet, he came home shaken to the core. You showed him he could be better. What you did challenged everything he'd believed in."

Agnes took a step towards her, taking her other arm in her grasp. Meya's gaze was fixed upon her lips, hardly daring to believe the reassuring words she was hearing.

"That day in front of the Keep, I saw him for the first time in six years, and I sensed something different about him—I'm not talking about his shape nor his mannerisms; he's still got that smile and that glint in his eyes—but there was something in the air around him. I felt he's become more trustworthy, more compassionate. And you're also changing yourself. You're less bitter, more confident, more content..."

Agnes's hand left her arm and traveled upwards. There was the barest pause of hesitance, before she nudged a finger into the gap behind Meya's mask, then dabbed at the unshed beads of tears clinging to her eyelashes. Paradoxically, the touch prompted more to well up, and Meya's fingers soon joined Agnes's in making way for them.

"With your circumstances, I know it seems hopeless. And I reckon I know how hard it is to keep faith." Amidst it all, that gentle, cracking voice persisted. And Meya recalled that the Lady herself was suffering from her own uncertain love. For a man she had appreciated only too late, and with whom she might never have the chance to reconcile.

"But, regardless of how this ends, know that it hasn't been for naught."