Free The Universal Mirror by Gwen Perkins

morning.  His room was already full of light despite the curtains that cloaked the windows.  It was a harsh, cold day, even for winter, and the sun was, he thought, no better.  Opening his eyelids only reminded him of how much his head still throbbed.
    “Go away, Cosimo—” he cried out.  “I’m not hungry.”  His words didn’t cease the knocking.  It continued two raps after he’d spoken, then stopped.
    Scowling, he stumbled out of bed.  His feet hit the floor, followed by a wince.  “Oh, alright then.  Come in and lay my clothes out at least.”  He expected the door to open but it did not.  “You’ve got the blasted keys—”  It swung wide then, a square-shouldered figure stepping inside and closing it behind her.
    “You’re right.  I’d forgotten that I had them,” said Catharine.
    “I… didn’t know it was you,” he apologized, scratching the back of his neck as he peered over at her, ruddy hair pointing in three different directions.  His breath hitched in his throat as it always did when she came to him, mouth dry and unable to manage another sentence.  He permitted himself a moment to look at her, focusing first on the pale curve of her neck, then the cascade of chestnut hair left loose to ripple down her back.  She cleared her throat and he forced his gaze away, knowing that Catharine hated it when he looked at her.
    She didn’t comment.
    “I didn’t plan to be gone last night—” he began.
    “It’s not my business where you spend your nights,” Catharine said swiftly.  The sharp, short sound of her sentences shocked him.  He couldn’t help the grin that found his mouth, threatened though it was by her own answering look.
    Quentin gave up.  “What is it then, Cat?”  She hated that too—her shoulders clenched at the simple endearment, making a tall woman taller still.
    “We’re expected at the Gallows today, to see the Judgment.  There’s a Heretic who’s been sentenced, remember?”  She looked ill underneath her scars, red weals masking most of her fear but not all of it.  “I don’t know what he’s done but you did tell everyone at my father’s last ball that we were going.”
    “I did,” he remembered glumly.  “I’d had a lot of wine by then.”
    “It’s not that part they remember,” Catharine’s face went sour, her mouth puckering.  “Just the promise.”
    “Of course,” Quentin sighed.  “Let me get dressed.”  He limped towards the wardrobe, opening it and staring at the racks of clothing inside.  She followed him, her skirts trailing the floor as she moved.  Catharine’s fingers plaited her hair as she walked, weaving it into a braid that made it easier to see her face, and he smiled as he looked over at her, thinking to himself that no other woman in Cercia flaunted her scars.
    “I hate it when you smile at me like that.”
    “Like what?”  he asked, pulling out one of the doublets that he hated most.  He never wore things that he liked to a Judgment—the memory of watching a magician punished always seemed to cling to the fabric itself.
    “Like you’re so incredibly pleased with yourself.  You haven’t done anything—” Her eye turned critical and she amended, “That I know of.”  Her brow arched as he turned, holding up the yellow fabric against his cheek.  “That’s a horrible color.”
    “It’s a horrible occasion.”  He leaned over slowly, stripping off his nightshirt and letting it fall onto the floor.  Catharine had turned away while he began undressing but she hadn’t left, something unusual for her.  In all of their months together, he’d never seen her fully undressed in full light.  It had seemed she was determined to award him the same courtesy, whether or not he desired it.
    Quent stood there, clutching his nightshirt to his chest, as he waited to see if she’d turn.  His gaze fell on her dress, concentrating on the simplicity of its design as a way of focusing his mind.  She felt