Goldblood | updates Friday ✎

ONE

I WAKE BEFORE EVERYONE ELSE DOES.

There's a fine grey light slipping through the cobwebs that cover my windows.

It's just the way I like it. While it's not the easiest of lights to see by, it means others can't see either.

Can't see as I dye my hair black and pretend to be one of them for another day, another week, another month.

It's not hard. I am, after all, half-mortal. I don't have night vision or the ability to run inhumanly fast. I can get hurt just as easily as any other, and I need to eat to live.

But when I hear the rumors of these powers, these abilities, I can't help but wonder which of them my father had. And how many more powers are out there that we cannot even know of.

But then I need to remind myself, over and over, that though they may be immortal and powerful, they are not invincible. They too can die.

I should know.

I, of all people, should know.

I look up in the mirror, examining the roots of my hair. There is no gold to be seen. Good. It was easier when I was younger to hide it.

It was blonder then, like wheat or hay. Now it looks like fine bars of polished gold. It's too obvious, and being only a demigod, I have no ability to disguise myself with supernatural means.

I dry my hair and pour the dirty water out the window.

As I settle back into bed and pretend to be asleep, there is a knock on my door.

Someone-probably the housekeeper-walks in. She stokes the fire, collects my dirty garments, and sets a tray on my table.

I can't see it, but I've been here long enough to know the routine.

A few minutes later, she shuts the door and leaves. I wait a few minutes more before I get up.

The tray on the table has my breakfast and an envelope.

I break open the wax and find a slip of paper with the name:

Edgar Delarosa

I burn it into my memory, then toss the paper and envelope into the fire.

It's my assignment for the day.

I eat quickly and put on the clothes the housekeeper has laid out on my chair. Today, it's a long dress with a simple neckline and a cinched waist. It looks like I will be a well-off, but not wealthy, young lady today.

Perhaps I'm a governess or visiting daughter of a merchant.

Belinda will have more details.

I knock on her door—she conveniently has the room next to mine—and she opens it immediately.

She shoos me in and has me sit by the fire, where our conversation will be muffled by the sound of its crackling.

"What am I today?" I say.

Belinda smiles mischievously. "Your name is Rose and you are tutoring Edgar's daughter today in history. You're the daughter of an affluent merchant who is here for the summer and has been asked by her father to find a job. Lucky for you, young Edgar has a penchant for young ladies."

She starts handing me all I will need for today's job: two daggers, two vials of clear liquid, and a few books.

"Fitting," I say, commenting on the name. "Rose. As if roses don't have thorns."