Queen of faces, p.41
Queen of Faces, page 41
the day after my body heist, I decided to cut my hair.
Sophie had kept it long, draping down her back. I might be the leader of what little remained of Commonplace, but I was not Sophie. Still, for the time being, it made sense to keep this chassis. Assume the identity of the witch, and wield her resources. It would be difficult to convince her subordinates, to keep the charade, but we could do it.
And it couldn’t be her body. I had to make it my own.
This face was on thousands of wanted posters, so a normal salon wouldn’t cut it. Nima had obliged me. They went into town, copied skills from some hairdressers and did the job themselves.
I sat on the balcony at Sophie’s safe house, a beach cabin south of Elmidde. Seagulls cawed in the distance, and waves crashed against the sand. I leaned back, bathing in sunlight, as Left-Nima rubbed shampoo into my scalp. Right-Nima was out running errands, and Cardamom purred in my lap, retrieved from the Shenti slums. I closed my eyes, relaxing as she washed my raven hair. Lotion smoothed my cheeks, and a brush painted eyeshadow on to my lids. Nima had insisted I get a full makeover.
As she worked, I stared at the smooth stump where my left pinky had been. Where Sophie’s left pinky had been. The Palefire had burned away my soul there, not just my skin and bone. Even in this new, star-woven body, the finger had turned grey within minutes of my swap, and crumbled away soon after I’d woken. Adam Weaver’s lesson.
That stump had hurt me for a year, a permanent reminder of my weakness. But oddly enough, it felt comforting to look at now. No matter what body I swapped into, a part of me would always be there. Reminding me of what I’d survived.
When Nima finished, they guided me to the stocked closet and picked an outfit.
I put on the dress and looked in the mirror.
A teenage girl gazed back at me, star-woven and beautiful. Her black hair had been cut to a short, choppy bob. Her face looked different too. Winged eyeliner curved from her long, dark lashes. Her amber eyes were calm, and when you looked closely, you could see the faint glimmer of stars, deep within her irises. She wore dark blue eyeshadow, and her lips had a natural pink flush. A light summer dress flowed from her shoulders, a bright azure wrap with seagulls embroidered on the fabric.
The girl looked younger than Sophie, warmer. She looked comfortable, relaxed for the first time in years.
I didn’t deserve this. But I had it anyway. I could be grateful for that.
‘Back on the train,’ said Nima. ‘That third branch of your Codex. What does it do?’
I smiled. ‘Still figuring it out.’
‘And what was your moment of growth?’ Nima frowned. ‘Sparing your prick of a boss? Was that why you branched?’
I shook my head. ‘Paragon was my dream. My hope, my love, my destiny. I branched because I killed one of the professors there. And I did it to save lives.’ I’d turned against the school, just like Sophie.
‘So,’ said Left-Nima. ‘What comes next?’
I thought of home. The Agricultural Islands, Stemford and my mother. My old family. Perhaps it was time to mend those bridges. Eat my mother’s egg tarts and live a quiet life. I’d certainly earned it.
Then I thought of my new family. Korin, dragged away to the Shenti for torture. Wes, caught up in an evil regime, a war, a conspiracy led by Adam Weaver. I thought of the water, rising and rising.
And the Aeon Scroll, lying somewhere in the void that had been Sophie’s pocket world. Apparently, after I’d passed out, the entire thing had started to crumble. Nima had carried me out, with no time to loot Khaiovhe’s corpse. The portal now led to a blank white void, with nothing inside except the scroll, floating in the distant ether.
We had the key, stolen from the neck of Professor Inwood, but to get the scroll, we’d have to venture into that pale emptiness.
‘What the hell is in there?’ muttered Nima.
‘Sophie called it “the truth behind these rising tides”,’ I said. ‘Behind the real masters of the storm krakens.’ Her words echoed in my head. We’re nothing more than flies, twitching on a web. Someone plucked a thread, and the spider woke up.
A wave crashed against the beach nearby. A chill rushed into the room. Nima shivered and rubbed their baggy eyes.
‘Sleep much?’ I said.
Left-Nima shook her head. ‘Haven’t slept since Paragon.’
‘Why not?’
She laughed. ‘It’s stupid. Doesn’t matter.’
I looked at them.
Nima gave a long sigh. ‘You really want to know?’
I nodded.
Right-Nima bit the inside of his cheek. ‘Snoring,’ he said. ‘Korin’s snoring. Never realised how used to it I got. Alone in the dark, with that whole room to yourself? The silence chokes you.’
‘You miss him,’ I said.
‘That bastard.’ He shook his head. ‘We have to save him. And Wes. Who knows what’ll happen to that fool?’
‘They’re our friends,’ I said. ‘They’re Queen Sulphur.’
I exchanged a look with Nima. That was all we needed.
A warm feeling plucked in my chest, and I patted it twice, the heartbeat salute. ‘As one?’
Left-Nima tapped her chest. ‘As one.’
‘We start with Korin,’ I said. ‘Then we save Wes from this ancient conspiracy. We read the Aeon Scroll. We stop Adam Weaver.’
Nima nodded.
Kaplen’s face flashed through my mind. ‘While we’re at it,’ I said, ‘we write the next page. And we strive to be Exemplars.’
Nima laughed. ‘What does that mean?’
‘An Exemplar is your best self,’ I said, ‘the apex of your mind. So, it means whatever we want.’
A year ago, my dream had been Paragon. I’d have to find a new one. I found myself looking forward to the task.
My stomach growled. For the last few days, I’d been nibbling on stale, flavourless crackers from the kitchen cupboards, the only food in the safe house. With the train heist and everything, I’d been too busy for a proper meal. But now that I’d transferred out of my old body, my taste buds were working for the first time in years.
‘I’m famished,’ I said, putting down the book.
‘Actually,’ said Left-Nima. ‘I have something for this.’
‘I’ll eat anything,’ I said. ‘Rotten fruit, jellied eels. Just no canned lentils, please.’
Right-Nima strode into the living room, wheeling a room-service trolley with a giant covered bowl on it. He floated the cover off, revealing a steaming platter of noodles, thick ribbons bathing in a dark red sauce. I breathed deeply, inhaling the smell of lamb and cumin. It reminded me of my mother’s cooking.
Right-Nima floated a stockpot on to the coffee table. ‘And the most important piece.’ He removed the lid, and an incredible scent wafted before me. Cinnamon and allspice and cloves. A faint whiff of fresh oranges.
And pomegranates. The overwhelming smell of pomegranates.
It smelled like a home I’d never been to, rainy days by a warm fireplace and all the hopes I’d once gripped in my heart.
I gaped at the stockpot, filled with a steaming purple-red beverage. ‘Is that—’
‘Paragon’s pomegranate cider,’ crowed Nima. ‘Hot and fresh.’
‘But –’ I blinked – ‘how—’
‘I copied skills from the Paragon chefs. After that, I just had to shop.’
I ran to Nima and hugged both their bodies. ‘Thank you,’ I breathed. ‘Thank you, thank you, thank you.’
‘Bokhoresh,’ said Nima. ‘That’s for saving my life, moron.’
We broke off, and Right-Nima floated three mugs into the air. They filled themselves from the stockpot.
We each took a mug, and Cardamom curled up next to me, purring.
I sat back, feeling the warmth. Then I lifted the mug and took my first sip.
A garden of flavours blossomed in my mouth. The pomegranate, sweet and thick. A hint of orange. Spices, rich and sharp and layered.
And the warmth. The cosy heat, running down my throat.
It was incredible. Beyond everything I’d hoped for. It felt like taking a breath after choking for years. It felt like hearing music for the first time.
I took another sip. Then a gulp. Then I chugged the whole cup and got a refill. As I drank, I remembered my first talk with Headmaster Carriwitch, that night on the bridge.
See yourself as a caterpillar, he’d said. Imagine your future as a butterfly.
Most caterpillars die in the cocoon, I’d told him, chuckling. They’re not inspiring; they’re victims.
I was right. So many caterpillars do die in the cocoon. The world can be more brutal and dangerous than you imagine, as you forge your soul, write the next page.
But if you survive, you get to fly.
And doesn’t that make it all worth it?
in 2021, i was drafting an early version of Queen of Faces, and I was typing so much, so intensely, that I was stretching and pinching my nerves from shoulder to fingertip, giving me an injury in my hands called thoracic outlet syndrome. Recovery has taken years, and as of right now, I’m still not back to 100 percent. I may never reach that point.
All this for a book.
But I kept writing, learned to use voice-typing software. I refused to give up on this book, because this story was burning a hole in my skull.
I conceived of this novel in 2017, when transgender rights appeared to be blooming in America and abroad. I envisioned this book as a part of that growth, a story about identity that could resonate in a universal way.
Instead, I am writing these words in 2025, amid an historic backlash to LGBTQ+ rights. You may be reading this in a place where transitioning is illegal for many, instead of merely expensive, like it is in Caimor. I hope the arc of history bends in a different direction, and that this section of the author’s note will quickly become irrelevant. For now, the tide of horrors seems endless, and unyielding. But so are we.
On one level, Ana transforms her body in this novel. On another, she transforms her mind. She learns how to navigate the brutality and joy of a life beyond what she thought possible. She buries her old heroes, and takes charge of her morality in an unraveling world. Metamorphosis, education, self-discovery. Regardless of your background or identity, I hope you could see some part of your own humanity in her journey.
And if you’re trans, and reading this, you’ve already endured more than I or anyone could ever imagine. You’re a thousand faces in one. You’re a symphony. Don’t let them snuff out that fire in your skull. And never stop writing the next page.
Thank you very much for reading.
—Petra
i first conceived of this story as a college sophomore, ten thousand years ago in the prehistoric era of 2017. At the time, it seemed more like a pipe dream than anything real, and all rational odds pointed against it ever seeing the light of day. The only reason anyone is reading these words right now after paying more than twenty dollars (or pounds. Hello, UK readers!) for a hardback is because of other people who were either generous or insane enough to support this book as it slowly grew from mad imagining into finished manuscript. My gratitude is difficult to express in words, but I am an author, so I will try.
To Mom and Dad, your support was bottomless, endless, and without condition, even when I was voice-typing this manuscript for over a year with nerve-damaged hands and no job. You lift me up in everything I do, and you held with me through the darkest chapters of my life.
To Po-Po, my grandmother, who fought through hell so her kids and grandkids could have all the opportunities in the world. I aspire to your brilliance and discipline every day. Thank you for making all this possible.
To Alex and Kate, my besties, my beta readers, my craft junkies, you kept my mind sane and my plots sharp through all the ups and downs. It’s a privilege to know you. Pizza chicken, indeedi-do! To Steve, for beta reading this manuscript and giving your genius-as-usual feedback.
To my genius, spectacular agents, Pete Knapp and Stuti Telidevara, y’all are the best damn reps in the business. You took a chance on a random cold query in your inbox, then polished those pages to a mirror sheen and got a deal that changed my life in more ways than I can count. Without you two I would not have a career.
To the brilliant team at Park, Fine & Brower. Danielle Barthel. The imitable Kat Toolan, Abigail Koons, Ben Kaslow-Zieve, and Angela Lee on the rights team. Andrea Mai, Emily Sweet, Haley Garrison, Stephanie Hauer in Strategy and Services, and Debbie Deuble Hill at IAG. And to my UK rep team, Claire Wilson and Safae El-Ouahabi at RCW.
To Brian Geffen, my editor, my creative partner, my shining beacon on the hill. From the moment we spoke, I knew I wanted to work with you on this book, and I am eternally thankful that I get to do that. Your enthusiasm, your grasp of this story, your editorial acumen have been nothing short of extraordinary. Thank you for helping me forge this book into something I’m proud to share.
To Carina Licon, for your sharp eyes and clever insights. To Ann Marie Wong, for believing in this book and shepherding it to publication. To Aurora Parlagreco, for designing the most beautiful interior I could have asked for. To Mia Moran, Jie Yang, Emily Stone, Jackie Dever, Jessica White, Molly Ellis, Jean Feiwel, Jen Besser, and Bess Braswell, and the whole team at Macmillan.
To Micaela Alcaino, who illustrated a more breathtaking and transcendent cover than I could have imagined. And to Nicolette Caven, for drawing such spectacular maps.
To Nick Lake, for reading this book, loving it, and for championing it to HarperCollins in the UK, and for your sharp editorial notes. I’m so grateful you saw the spark in this manuscript, and that we get to work together.
To Megan Reid, for keeping this whole train on the rails, and to the rest of the Harper Fire team: Cally Poplak, Val Brathwaite, Kate Clarke, Charlotte Winstone, Aisling O’Mahony, Mary O’Riordan, Deborah Wilton, Nicole Linhardt-Rich, and Rosie Catcheside.
To Chloe Gong, Marie Lu and Yoon Ha Lee for reading this book and loving it, for your incredible blurbs and for your words of support.
To the numerous other authors who’ve offered support, advice, and more in a new, scary industry: Aya Maguire, Alyssa Villaire, Myah Hollis, Tashie Bhuiyan, and Ayana Gray.
To the people who taught me writing, who drilled the fundamentals of story structure five inches deep into my skull: William Electric Black, Cheri Magid, Cusi Cram, James Felder, Dario Diofebi, Darin Strauss, Stan Washburn, and Julie Anderson. Every time I sit down to write, I hear your lessons in the back of my head.
To Janet Reid, the Query Shark. You workshopped my query, helped me get my agent, and I never even met you face-to-face. Now I never will, but your imprint remains. Thank you.
To the physical therapists (and therapists) who helped with my thoracic outlet syndrome, enabling me to type these words with my fingers instead of my voice, Christy Manos, John Dravillas and the team at PTworks, and Paulina Soble. And to the developers of DragonDictate, the voice-typing software that enabled me to keep writing, even when my injury was at its worst.
To my original Patreon subscribers, especially to Pelle Ingvast, RNGoddest, HelpfulAntagonist, Brooke, and Ben. A lifetime ago, you paid me ten dollars a month or more, and I promised you’d be in the acknowledgments of a future version of this book. So here we are, six years later. You guys believed in this book long before it was anything resembling legitimate. And thank you to aDragon, who ran the fan Discord and greeted everyone.
To Wesleigh <3
And finally, to you, the reader. If you’ve read this far in the acknowledgments, you must be having a really slow afternoon, or you’re on vacation and the Wi-Fi went out. Either way, I’m grateful. If you bought this book, someone gave it to you, or you got it from a library or NetGalley or a giveaway, you have helped to support my career as an author and the future of this series. And if you pirated this book, I won’t tell if you don’t. I’m contractually forbidden from saying this, but if you acquired this book illegally, you probably had a good reason for doing so. My publishers won’t read this far into the acknowledgments anyway. Besides, what are they going to do, take away my keybo
Read on for an exclusive deleted scene . . .
Clementine
What a terrible day. Clementine wiped her sweaty hands on her trousers, running the fabric through her fingers. Nausea bubbled in her stomach, as the sub rocked back and forth in the storm.
She’d been sitting in this chair for hours, squeezed in a cramped metal hallway filled with pipes and sailors. A door sat next to her, leading to the office of her new boss.
Khaiovhe. Just the name made Clementine shudder. This was her first meeting with the Commonplace chief. If it went well, Clementine would get a pay bump. If not, she would emerge as the charred gunk they scraped off the insides of ovens. The perks of a famous boss.
Something clanged on the sub’s exterior, a low, deep sound coming from below. It was moving, from the back to the front of the metal hull. Something was swimming underneath them. Something massive. Clementine wiped the sweat from her brow. The sub had dived two thousand feet below sea level, far deeper than she’d ever been. Over the last few decades, only a handful of subs had attempted to go deeper than eight. None of them had returned.
A bell rang next to Clementine, and the door swung itself open. An unspoken message. She’s ready to see me.
Clementine stepped in and blinked, frozen in place. The office was empty, barren, save for a glowing green hole cut in the back wall. A warped, circular portal. Its border writhed, a caged bolt of lightning.
Slowly, carefully, Clementine inched through the gateway. As she stepped across the threshold, she felt a presence pass over her mind, a pair of invisible eyes scanning her from head to toe.
Then a snowflake fell on her nose, and she flinched.
Clementine wasn’t in the sub any more. She’d stepped into a hole and emerged in another world.
A frozen lake stretched before her, covered with thick fog, encircled by snow-capped mountains. A three-storey building of some sort rose from an island in the middle, surrounded by a barbed-wire fence. Ghastly pale lamps hung from tiny windows, and evening sunlight shone from behind the peaks, emitting a dim blue glow.
