Michelle Zink - Circle of Fire

Telling this story in its entirety has been five years and innumerable amazing people in the making. Its impossible to thank everyone, but its only right to keep trying.

First to my agent, Steven Malk. Your initial belief in this story made everything possible. More important, your continued faith in me and the many stories I still have to tell is a gift of immeasurable value. Thank you for being on my side when I was right, telling it to me straight when I was wrong, and putting your faith and considerable skill behind my every endeavor.

Thank you to my brilliant editor, Nancy Conescu, for being the one person who loves this story as much as I do. Your incredible talent has given me a wealth of knoweldge that continues to make me a better writer. It is your firm and compassionate voice I hear in my head as I tell stories at the keyboard. I can never thank you enough for sharing this journey with me.

Thank you to Alison Impey for never giving up on my coverand for giving me numerous amazing ones.

Thank you to Kate Sullivan, Megan Tingley, Andrew Smith, Melanie Chang, Lisa Sabater, Jessica Bromberg, Lauren Hodge, and everyone at Little, Brown Books for Young Readers for working so hard to bring Prophecy to the world in such an elegant way.

Thank you to Lisa Mantchev, Jenny Draeger, Tonya Hurley, and Georgia McBride, dear friends who have supported me through late nights and angsty interludes. Thank you also to the passionate readers and writers who frequent my website and keep me company online, especially Devyn Burton, Catherine Haines, Adele Walsh, Kaiden Blake, and Sophie and Katie of the Mundie Moms.

A special thank-you to Dan Russo for ensuring that my Latin was correct; to Jenny and her mum, Janet, for helping me navigate the landscape of rural England; and to Gail Yates and Laura McCarthy for giving me the lowdown on historical Ireland.

Thank you to Morgan and Anthony, lifelong members of the Zink posse. And to Layla, the perfect writing partner.

There are never enough words to thank my mother, Claudia Baker, for her support and persistence in the difficult task of understanding and accepting me. When I think of the things for which I am most grateful in this life, you are right at the top.

Last, to the loves and lights of my life, Kenneth, Rebekah, Andrew, and Caroline. Everything is for and because of you.

And to you, dear readers, who make everything possible through the continued reading of my stories. I do not take your faith in me for granted.

The gowns are heavy in my arms as I leave my chamber. There are no windows to gather light, and I make my way carefully down the richly papered hallway by the light of the sconces flickering along the wall. Milthorpe Manor has been in my family for generations, but it is still not as familiar as Birchwood, the home in New York where I was born and raised.

Even still, this house does not harbor the ghosts of the past. Here, I do not have to remember my younger brother, Henry, as he was before his death. I do not have to wonder if I will hear my twin sister, Alice, whispering from the Dark Room as she conjures frightful, forbidden things. If I will see her, prowling the halls, at any hour of the day or night.

Not in the flesh, in any case.

It is Aunt Virginias idea that I should seek advice from Sonia and Luisa regarding which gown to wear to tonights Masquerade. I know my aunt is trying to help, but it is a testament to the changed nature of my friendship with both girls that I now must brace myself to be in their presence. Or, more accurately, in the presence of Sonia. Although she and Luisa returned from Altus weeks ago, the tension felt in the early days of their return has not abated. In fact, it seems to grow with each passing day. I have tried to forgive Sonia her betrayal in the wood leading to Altus. Am still trying to forgive it. But every time I look into the chill blue of her eyes, I remember.

I remember waking, Sonias kind face above me, her warm hands pressing the hated medallion to the soft skin at the underside of my wrist. I remember her voice, familiar from many months of shared confidences, feverishly whispering the words of the Souls who would use me as their Gate to bring forth Samael.

I remember it all and feel my heart harden just a little more.

The Societys Masquerade is one of the years most celebrated events. Sonia, Luisa, and I have been anticipating the event since they returned from Altus, but while they quickly settled on costumes, I have remained indecisive.

My mask, chosen and created long ago, was not difficult. I knew immediately what it would look like, though I have never attended a Masquerade and make no claim of creativity in matters of fashion. Nevertheless, it came to me as easily and clearly as if I had seen it in a store window. I commissioned it shortly thereafter by describing it to the seamstress and watching her sketch it on a thin piece of parchment until it looked just as I imagined it.

But while I set upon the idea for a mask quite easily, my indecisiveness forced me to give up the possibility of having a gown made. Instead, I chose two from those already hanging in my wardrobe. As Aunt Virginia suggested, I will ask Sonia and Luisa for assistance in deciding, but while it was once a ritual of friendship I would have relished, now I only dread it. Now I will have to look into Sonias eyes.

And I will have to lie and lie and lie.

Arriving at the door of Luisas room, I lift my hand to knock but hesitate when I hear the raised voices coming from within. I place one of them as Sonias and hear my name spoken in frustration. Leaning in, I do not even pretend that Im not going to listen.

There is nothing more I can do. I have apologized over and over. I have submitted without complaint to the rites of the Sisters on Altus. Lia will not forgive me, whatever I do. And Im beginning to believe that she never will, Sonia says.

The rustle of fabric is followed by the thud of wardrobe doors before I hear Luisa respond. Nonsense. Perhaps you might try to spend time alone with her. Have you asked her to ride with you at Whitney Grove?

More than once, but she always has an excuse. We havent been since before you arrived from New York. Before Altus. Before everything.

I cannot tell if Sonia is angry or only sad, and I feel a moments guilt as I think of the many times she has asked me to Whitney Grove. I have denied her even as I have gone alone to practice with my bow.

You simply must give her time, thats all. Luisa is matter-of-fact. She bears the weight of the medallion nowin addition to the burden of decoding the final page of the prophecy.

I look down at my wrist, peeking out from the yards of silk and lace. The strip of black velvet taunts me from beneath the sleeve of my gown. It is Sonias fault that I must bear the medallion alone. Her fault that I must worry it will make its way to the mark of the Jorgumand, the snake eating its own tail with a C in its center, on my other wrist.

No matter how many excuses Luisa makes for Sonia, these things will always be true.

My inability to forgive brings with it a powerful blend of resentment and despair.

Well, Im getting tired of pandering to her better nature. We are partners in the prophecy. All of us. She is not the only one who feels its burden. The indignation in Sonias voice stokes the fire of my anger. As if she has any right to feel indignant. As if forgiving her should be that easy.

Luisa sighs so loudly that I hear it from the hall. Lets try to enjoy the Masquerade, shall we? Helene will arrive in two days. This is our last night to be friends as we once were.