Chapter 9 A splotch of ink mars my white sleeve. Sighing, I dab at it with a handkerchief. This only smears the stain more thoroughly, forcing me to shrug on my suit coat and smother it. I then loosen the tie around my throat before returning to the task at hand. A blank piece of parchment sits atop the cluttered desk, awaiting the spillage of my thoughts. I had already filled the one prior with a recent and complicated discovery. Because that is how I manage my muddled mind-hastily and with a flurry of scribbled letters. And yet, the nib of my pen hovers over this pristine page. I cannot seem to find the right words to describe her. Perhaps there aren't any. Clearing my throat, I figure it's best to start at the beginning. My pen meets the page. I met a woman named Mara. She was in my study bu I pull back suddenly, blinking at the freshly carved words now fading before my very eyes. Awed, I watch each letter shy away from the page. They disappear slowly, as though the parchment is greedily swallowing each trail of ink. Then, as if I'd never written a word, the page returns to its spotless state. Several seconds pass before I remember to take a breath. "What the hell happened?" I mutter, half expecting the magical paper to respond. Hesitantly, I try out another string of words. Mara was in my coach during the parade bombing. I don't know how or The ink vanishes. I lean back in my chair, utterly bewildered. There is some reasonable explanation for this. There has to be. I shuffle through my piles of parchment, scattering scribbled notes in every direction. On the corner of a crumpled document, I scrawl: Who is Mara? The words drift away. Hastily, I pull another page from the stack. This time, I only bother etching her name-then I watch the four letters disappear. I'm suddenly scribbling those four letters on every surface-madly, incessantly. Mara. Mara. MARA. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. It is as though she doesn't exist. As though the letters rebel against the very idea of her. I run a hand down my face. Perhaps I really am going mad like everyone so readily believed at the beginning of my reign. I stare at the first page that rejected Mara's name. Then, tentatively, I press my pen to the picky parchment once again. Kitt. Nothing. Nothing happens, and that means something. The word remains. I stare down at my name. It looks entirely unremarkable. I try a sentence next. I am in my study. When the words don't disappear, I suddenly become aware of how ridiculous this all is. I'm glaring at curls of ink, as though they are about to jump off the page. I'm just seeing things. To prove my own insanity, I lazily scrawl one final sentence. I'm going to figure out who Mara is. All evidence of my message slips away. And though I'm not entirely sure I am of sound mind, there is no denying the blank page before me. I might have called a witness into the room if my lungs hadn't tightened to the point of pain. The foreign feeling startles me, enough so to have a cough rattling in my chest. That is when the chill skitters down my spine. I have felt it before. It's a sort of tugging at my soul, a presence of something infinitely more. I look up from the page where her name refused to remain. And there Mara stands. Her auburn hair falls effortlessly atop the dark cloak blanketing her figure. As stoic as ever, she drags her piercing gaze over me. "Sharing your thoughts with paper again?" "Trying to," I say slowly, my skepticism evident. "What are you doing here?" "Seeing if you're well." "You're a thorough Healer." I hold her unwavering stare. "Hmm." There is that intrigued hum of hers. "Are you going somewhere?" When her eyes flick over me, I'm suddenly reminded that I have somewhere to be. "Oh, yes. There is a gathering while we wait to see if Paedyn completes the first of her Trials." "Trials." She says the word like it's the punch line of a joke I missed. "Elites do love displaying the power of Death." Confusion creases my brow. "The Purging Trials aren't meant to kill the contestants." "Hmm." She seems to find this interesting as well. "What about these Trials? Are they meant to rid you of your betrothed?" "Not yet. She is useful to me." I'm unable to stop the words before they come careening out of my mouth. "Wow"-I nearly laugh in shock at the despicable truth-"you must think I'm a horrible person." "No." Mara eyes me closely. "You are much more complicated than that." I clear my throat when that clenching feeling returns to my lungs. And with every cough, that eerie presence, that beckoning of my very soul, grows. I lift my gaze to the watchful woman. And something cowers within me. "Who are you?" My murmured words don't seem to surprise her. I doubt little would. "We have already met." "You were in that coach when the bomb erupted," I blurt. "I know you were." Every bit of my stifled confusion comes spilling out. "Now you're here, and I get this tightening in my chest." My skepticism is met with silence. "I can feel you." My tone grows urgent. "Like a... like a pair of eyes on me from across a room or a cool breeze on the back of my neck. So tell me who you really are, Mara." I stand slowly from my seat with palms braced against the desk. "Because you're not a Healer." "No," she agrees simply. "I'm not. You are the one who determined I was." I shake my head in frustration and feel the crown atop it begin to slip. "I don't understand-just help me understand. How are you always there when I am..." "Dying?" My mouth parts as I stare at her. If the pensive look on her face ever budged, I might have thought she was joking. "Dying? No, I'm not-" "You were six feet from Death at that parade," she cuts in evenly. "Six." My chest heaves. "Why were you there? I saw you on that bench. And then you just... vanished." She tilts her head at me, as though she pities my ignorance. "Six feet is close enough to warrant my presence. And every time you cough, the Plague is inching you closer to me." Exasperation makes me desperate. "Who the hell are you?" Her dark eyes bore into mine. "You're asking the wrong question." My blood chills; lungs tighten; soul slips. "Why can't I write about you?" I fight to keep my voice even. "Your name... It just disappears." "I cannot be contained." She says this as though it should be obvious. "Not by language or time." "What the hell are you?" I breathe. "I thought you wanted to see me." Her face is unreadable. "Why else would you take the Plague?" "For power," I say sternly. "Or to die knowing you tried everything to get it." It feels as though the room is spinning around me. "You thought I took the Plague to see you." My voice is hoarse. "That would mean..." I watch a soft smile pull at her lips for the first time. "Now a foot and a half separates you from Death." I blink at the beautiful woman before me. She stands on the other side of my desk-a foot and a half away. I attempt a weak laugh. "That's absurd." "You live in a kingdom that was magically blessed with powers from a Plague, and you don't even bother to ask why," she reminds plainly. "Death should hardly be shocking." "It's not Death I'm unfamiliar with," I stammer. "It's..." I gesture to the length of her. "It's you." Her brows lift, ever so slightly. "Surely you've seen a woman before." I pinch the bridge of my nose, just as Father used to. "Yes, I've seen a woman before. Just never one that claimed to be Death." Mara considers this for a long moment. "I retrieved your father's soul from outside the arena. He had a stab wound to his chest and throat. His soul was rather stubborn." She stares at me intently, as though her words haven't just paralyzed me. "Why..." I swallow. "Why are you telling me this?" "I don't get to have many conversations with the living. Or the mostly living," she amends. I can do little else but gawk at her. This is insanity, and yet, I indulge it. If this is truly Death, I don't wish to have her as an enemy. "You're not afraid of me," Mara observes. A knock at the door nearly makes me jump. "Your Majesty, it's time for your entrance," an Imperial calls from the hallway. My chest heaves. "In a moment!" I turn my attention back to Mara, Death, something. She offers the most subdued of smiles. No, this cannot be the same Death that strikes fear into every beating heart. "Go live," she urges softly. "While you still can." And just like her name on a page, she vanishes without a trace. In a romance-themed observation show, several participants undergo a series of interactions and conflicts filled with love, misunderstandings, and power struggles. In the end, one couple rises to over...