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"You will each tell a horror," the usher said. "A short thing, true or false. If the court finds your tale wanting, it will take what it is owed."

A dozen figures clustered beneath them, each draped in garments that swallowed the light—long coats, cloaks, evening gowns that smelled faintly of old libraries and wet leaves. Masks hid faces: porcelain smiles, antlers, brass visages like the sun. They all held similar cards and all, like Mara, waited with the quiet of people at the edge of a stage. horrorroyaletenokerar better

The throne's hum became a voice. "And what did the court take?" it asked. "You will each tell a horror," the usher said

Mara folded the card twice and slipped it into her pocket. The last of the theater crowd streamed past her, laughter and cigarette smoke trailing down the street. It was the sort of oddity she usually ignored—until last week, when she found a similar invitation pinned beneath her apartment door. The only difference then had been a single word scratched across the bottom: stay. Masks hid faces: porcelain smiles, antlers, brass visages

"A memory," the throne said. "A single perfect memory. Choose any you wish, and it will be unmade from your soul."

She would have said yes, but when she opened her mouth she tasted peppermint and felt the half-remembered warmth of a