“Witch!” the storm-cloud girl cried, then she jabbed an accusing finger at Little Beau. “Witch’s demon!”
The British girl rolled her eyes at the other girl’s ramblings. She cocked her head toward Anouk. “Can you really cast whispers?”
Anouk felt skewered by five sharp sets of eyes. These were Pretty girls who had clawed their way here through that forest of death, only to face even more danger.
Anouk hesitated, then said, “Let me to talk to the Duke. I’ll make my case. He’ll accept me.”
“Will I?”
All eyes turned to the top of the stairs. A hulk of a man stood on the upper level, dressed in a full-length red cloak more suited to a knight from one of Luc’s fairy tales than the headmaster of an academy. His hair was graying at the temples, though everything else about him spoke of immense strength. He had deep-set eyes and wore wire-rimmed spectacles. Around his neck hung a gold chain that held a vial of powder. The cloak did little to disguise his massive stature; two thousand years ago he might have been a gladiator. What struck Anouk most was his unkempt shadow of a beard. It was rare to see anything less than coiffed perfection among the Royals.
“Who has come knocking in the thick of a storm,” he asked, observing Anouk, “with a mongrel on her heels and a whisper on her lips? Not a Pretty acolyte, surely. This is a place for those who seek magic, not those who already have it.”
Anouk hugged her jacket around herself as if it were battle armor. “I know a few tricks and whispers, but I need more. I need to become a witch.”
There were bags under his eyes—he looked as though he’d been up late squinting at a book by poor light—and yet now a spark lit up his gaze. He made a point of checking the time on a massive clock at the front of the hall, set into a full rack of elk antlers that had been intricately carved with depictions of forests. One of the antler tips was broken off. Anouk felt for the broken piece in her pocket, wondering if the Duke knew she possessed it.
“She made a vine grow in the snow,” the younger redhead said.
The Duke circled Anouk slowly, his cloak dragging on the floor. “You aren’t a witch, though you can do magic,” he mused. “You aren’t a Pretty, though you seem of their world.” He brushed back her hair. “No pointed ears. Not a Goblin.”
Anouk’s gaze shifted toward Little Beau, and the Duke followed her eyes and then raised an eyebrow.
“Ah. Interesting.” He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “I thought the last of your kind had been killed centuries ago. I can’t fathom how you ended up on my doorstep, beastie, but this isn’t the place for you.”
She lifted her chin. “I deserve a chance as much as anyone else.”
He stroked his unshaven chin in consideration. “So you’ve come in search of stronger magic than you possess. I wonder what you’ve been told of this place.”
Anouk told the Duke what she’d gleaned from overheard conversations in the townhouse: that for centuries it had been the place Pretty girls went to become witches. She’d assumed it involved learning spells and making potions, dangerous tests and having to prove one’s mettle. “You evaluate them and determine who is worthy,” she finished. “There’s a ceremony, the Coal Baths. All the Royals come to light the flames and bear witness.”
The older redhead snorted. “She doesn’t know anything.” She turned back to the table and bit off a hefty piece of her hunk of bread, apparently finding her supper more interesting than Anouk.
“My dear,” the Duke said to Anouk, “you’ve been misinformed. I do not decide anyone’s fate. It is the Coals and the Coals alone that determine whether to burn a girl or birth a witch. I am merely a guide on the journey. It is up to each girl to find her own path to magic—her missing crux.”
“Crux?” Anouk was tired and cold and wet, and the last thing she wanted was more riddles. She rubbed her bleary eyes. “I don’t know what that is. But whatever it takes, I’ll do it.”
He dismissed her weariness with a tsk. “I’m afraid it’s too late for that. The Coal Baths are in less than six weeks. Most of these girls have been here for the better part of a year. The last acolyte to come arrived two months ago. Now, with the Baths so close? No. I cannot.”
“I’m not leaving,” Anouk said.
“I’m turning you away for your own good. No one finds her crux so soon before the ceremony. Most never find it. Come wintertide, the Coals will burn your flesh from your soul.”
“I can . . . I can help you,” Anouk offered desperately. She considered the cobwebs underneath the long tables. “I can clean.”
“We already have Heida and Lise to clean.” The Duke motioned to the pair of sisters and began to walk toward the door, clearly ready to throw her back into the cold.
She thought fast. The Cottage was a bleak place, the kind of place where good meals were probably in short supply. The chunks of bread the girls were eating looked rough as sandpaper. Those bowls of soup didn’t seem likely to win any culinary prizes either. “I can cook too.”
The Duke stopped. The girls at both tables sat up straighter. The girl with glasses looked with distaste at her bowl of soup.
“French cuisine, if you like,” Anouk added quickly. “Or German. I don’t mind slaughtering the animals if I have to. If you have chickens, I could make a cassoulet.”
Duke Karolinge and the girls exchanged a long look. Someone’s stomach growled. Anouk felt an inward flush of success. Nothing won over doubters like the promise of a good meal. She felt the uncanny sensation of being watched and found the storm-cloud girl, still on all fours, staring at her with pointed intensity. Anouk touched her own cheeks and forehead, wondering if she had dirt on her face. She did. But even after she wiped it off, the girl still stared.
“Can you bake . . . strudel?” the Duke inquired, raising one woolly eyebrow. Before she could answer, a dark shadow swooped through the open window and soared across the grand hall on wide-stretched wings. Anouk gasped and ducked.
What was it? A crow? An owl?
The bird circled and flew toward them, then landed gracefully on the Duke’s left shoulder. Anouk straightened, her heart still pounding. A falcon. Smaller than she’d thought at first, with a beautiful array of feathers ranging from tan to gray. It wore a bell around its neck.
“Ah, Saint. You’ve returned.”
The Duke stroked the bird’s chest with one finger and studied Anouk for a long time. He no longer seemed concerned about strudel.
“Girls die here,” he said at last. “You will most likely die here if you choose to stay and undergo the Coal Baths. Many girls think they want magic, only to falter before the Baths’ blue flames. They return to the Pretty World and to lesser ambitions.”
“I’ve never faltered.”
He grunted. “These acolytes are no strangers to sacrifice. They’ve left behind what they love most. Their families. Their futures. The comforts of the Pretty World. Are you also willing to make a sacrifice?”
She didn’t blink. “Yes.”
What hadn’t she already sacrificed? She’d lost the closest thing she had to a mother. She’d left the only home she’d ever known. The people she considered her family were now locked in cages.
He nodded in slow approval. “Then I’ll have to take it. It isn’t fair, I’m afraid, for one acolyte to have greater abilities than the others.”
“I don’t understand. Take what?”
His thick fingers twisted around his falcon’s bell, and it rang with a strangely pitched sound that struck fear in her heart. “Your magic.”
Chapter 8
A sacrifice.
Before Anouk could speak, Duke Karolinge twisted his thick wrist with a flourish and something sharp tugged in her throat. She fell to her knees. It felt as though he’d cast hooks into the space between her vocal cords and was now teasing something out, like separating magic from flesh. She clutched at her neck. A coughing fit seized her so painfully that she worried she’d tear the lining of her esophagu
s. She gagged. It suddenly felt like she’d swallowed a swarm of gnats. She thrust her fingers deep into her mouth and groaned at a sudden sharp sting. She leaned over and coughed until the stinging swarm rose up her throat and into her mouth. She spat it out. It was a chaotic ball of green lights that floated on the air like dandelion fluff straight to the Duke.
He caged his fingers around the ball of energy—her magic—and whispered it between the metal leaves of the golden bell around his falcon’s neck. “Now you may stay, if that is still your intention.”
Anouk pressed her hands to her throat. Her tongue felt raw, as though she’d vomited up salt and thorns. “Wait . . . Armur ver . . .”
She stopped abruptly. Something had changed. Ever since the first time she’d cast a spell, she’d felt a warming sparkly fizz with each word of the Selentium Vox, like sips of champagne. But now the fizzy warmth was gone. Her throat felt frigid, like it held a clutch of coals doused with ice water. There was no magic behind her words anymore.
“Wait,” she said again. “I need my magic.” The taste in her mouth was dry and ashen. Repulsed, she wiped her lips frantically on her sleeve. “Give it back. You have no idea what I went through to get that magic. It’s a part of me. You can’t just take it!” She stood but then tottered and fell; she felt like she’d just stepped from a long boat trip back onto solid land.
“And yet I did.” The Duke calmly turned to the table of girls. “Esme, thaw out our new acolyte, bandage her frostbite, and then give her a bed—the corner room upstairs with the other new girl.”
Esme, the British girl who’d first addressed her, hitched up her muslin dress and climbed over the bench, muttering a curse as she fought with the stiff fabric as though she were more used to tulle skirts and silk blouses.
“And Lise,” the Duke said to the smaller redhead, “take the dog below and lock him in the cellar.”
“No!” Anouk shoved herself to her feet. Her cry echoed throughout the great hall. The sound crashed back on her, ringing in her ears. If only she had her magic, she’d cast a whisper to stop this. “No,” she repeated fiercely. Her hands were balled at her sides, but she forced herself to take a deep breath. “I can do without magic,” she said, though the thought pained her. “I can try, if I have no other choice. But I can’t do without that dog.”
Her voice broke. She forced her chin high and gave him an icy stare.
No one would say that his face softened, exactly. Like all the Royals, he’d been alive for centuries, had seen kingdoms rise and fall, had seen greater tragedies than a girl separated from her dog. But he took off his glasses, rubbed them on his shirt, put them back on, and considered her afresh.
“The Cottage,” he said, “is no place for loose creatures. The forest that surrounds us is ancient and filled with capricious spirits. There are things beyond that door that wouldn’t hesitate to make a meal of your dog, should he wander down the wrong hall. We lost three goats last week. The only thing we found were their livers.”
Anouk thought of Jak and his sharp teeth. Would he eat a live goat? A dog?
At her uncertain silence, the Duke signaled again to Lise, who untied the rope belt knotted around her waist and started toward Little Beau. Anouk panicked. Was Beau’s freedom worth begging for? She had sworn that she’d never trust any Royal. Not Rennar, not the Parisian Court counts and countesses, and not a self-exiled duke either.
“Wait.”
Anouk’s head whipped around. Esme had spoken. She was starting to untie her own rope belt. “If the dog doesn’t get salve on those paws, he’ll lose them to frostbite just like she’ll lose her fingers. I’ll take them both to the infirmary and then she and I will put the dog in the cellar.”
Anouk felt a rush of gratitude. If Beau had to be locked away, at least it wouldn’t be by a stranger, and she’d have a few more minutes with him.
The Duke shrugged. “As you wish.”
Esme finished untying her rope belt and started to fasten it around Little Beau’s neck, but Anouk shook her head. “He doesn’t need a leash. He’ll follow me.”
“Even to a locked stall?”
Anouk flinched, thinking of Cricket and Hunter Black and Luc locked up in Rennar’s cages. “He’ll follow me anywhere.”
Esme shrugged and motioned for Anouk to follow her down a corridor that led off the back of the great hall. The other girls were silent, but Anouk felt energy brimming just under the surface—she knew as soon as she left the room, they’d talk about her and Little Beau. The storm-cloud girl, who had moved from all fours to sitting cross-legged on the floor, twirled the remnants of the vine between her fingers.
Anouk shivered. She was so distracted that she didn’t see the three other girls who had popped up from the lower staircase until she practically ran into one of them. The girl giggled. The three of them wore matching dresses and the same expressions of curiosity. The one Anouk had nearly trampled looked about twelve years old and had long blond hair pulled back into a braid. The other two were older; one had a shaggy bob, the other a mop of brown curls and red cheeks. Their aprons were streaked with potato peels.
“Hey! Scamper back to the kitchen, you three. You can meet the new girl tomorrow,” Esme said.
But their eyes were on Little Beau, not Anouk, and the three of them were already making silly little noises to entice him over so they could scratch his head. Esme shooed them away and then opened a door to a glass-enclosed breezeway. The cloistered arches were encased in glass, which kept out the wind, though Anouk still had to hug herself for warmth. Beyond the glass, the storm howled.
“Forgive them,” Esme said. “It’s been a long time since any of us have seen a dog. The goats don’t make good pets, and we aren’t allowed to touch the Duke’s falcons—especially Saint, the one back there.”
Anouk’s boots echoed eerily in the hallway. “Is he very cruel?”
Esme gave her a surprised look. “The Duke?”
Anouk thrust her hand deep into her pants pocket and clasped Rennar’s mirror. “I’ve known more than my fair share of Royals,” Anouk explained darkly. “They’re as cruel as they are beautiful.”
Countess Quine. Lord and Lady Metham. Any of them would have betrayed Anouk at the drop of a hat. And that was just the Parisian Court. She’d heard rumors of the other Courts: The Crimson Court, with its three ruling sisters. The Court of the Wood, run by the imposing Baron Winter. The Court of Isles, the Barren Court . . . She’d meet some of them soon enough, she imagined. Representatives from each Court would, according to tradition, journey to the Cottage at wintertide to witness the Coal Baths. She’d have more than Rennar to deal with.
“I wouldn’t call the Duke beautiful.” Esme snorted before adding offhandedly, “I wouldn’t call him cruel either.” They reached a door at the end of the cloistered hallway, and Esme paused, her hand on the iron knob. “He’s reserved. Cold, even. He doesn’t get close to any of us. Can you blame him? He advises girls for the better part of a year, gets to know their dreams, and then watches almost all of them die. Every year for hundreds of years, he’s done this. Considering that, I’d say he’s agreeable enough.”
Anouk stared at Esme in disbelief. Had he twisted their minds to think he was a simple academic? That he had their best interests at heart? That he wouldn’t sell their souls for a good bottle of Pinot Noir? Or maybe even a bad one?
“By the way,” Esme said, “that’s a great jacket. It’s a shame you’ll have to take it off. If you haven’t noticed, we all wear the same thing. This awful frock. The Duke says uniforms help us focus.”
Anouk continued to stare at her. “It’s just . . . you can’t possibly trust him.” She touched her throat. “You saw how he took my magic. And before that, he was going to throw me back out into the storm.”
Esme stroked her chin. “I see how that might look cruel, but I promise, turning you away would have been a kindness.” Her face grew very serious. “Do you know what my first thought was when you cam
e crashing through the window? Just another body for the fires. There are nine of us—ten, now that you’re here. We were ten before. There are always ten, every year, without any planning or anything; that’s just part of the Coals’ magic. But one girl left over the summer. She was frightened by the spirits in the woods. The Snow Children—I’m guessing you came across one of them? Most girls do, for better or worse. We were hoping she’d count as one of the ten and that another girl wouldn’t come to take her place. But here you are.”
Anouk hesitated. “That girl with the black hair . . .”
“Frederika.” Esme let out a puff of air as if to say that Anouk didn’t know the half of it. “Frederika’s wild. I don’t mean she’s a handful, I mean actually wild. She grew up in the Black Forest in a valley not far from here, raised by pagan Pretties. She’s mostly harmless, but the rest of us keep out of her way.” She eyed Anouk. “Hey, are you okay?”
Anouk noticed she was reeling slightly. She straightened and touched her cold lips. “I didn’t realize how warm my magic kept me, like a little fire always kindled in my chest. Without it, I feel so bare. Hungry. Cold.”
“Well, get used to it. I’ve been cold and hungry for nine months. The sisters back there, the redheads? Heida and Lise, from Munich. They’re the only ones who have been here longer than me. Marta—she’s the pretty one with glasses—arrived a week after me. The trio who popped up from the kitchen were Karla, Sam, and Jolie. They’re all from Ireland. Then there’s Lala, who arrived about two months ago. She’ll be your roommate. She keeps to herself, but she’s cool. Each of us learned about the Haute in our own way.”
“What was yours?”
“I made friends with a Goblin. I thought she was just a chick with weird clothes at the time. My father was a diamond trader. We met Skye while he and I were looking for a new supplier. She told me everything: Witches. Goblins. This place. Said if I was ever in trouble to come here and not to kiss any boys in the woods. I thought she was crazy.” Esme pressed her lips together tightly. “But two days later, we found Skye in our car. Throat slit. Soon after that, whoever killed her killed my parents too. I barely got away.”
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