She narrowed her eyes. There was something Viggo wasn’t telling her. He’d always been a terrible liar. “There was no more bread left. The pantry was bare.” She turned to Luc. “What do you make of all this?”
Luc’s face was as serene as always. If she hadn’t known him so well, she would have missed the ripple of suspicion in his eyes. “Seems like too strange a coincidence for Rennar not to be behind it. I think he wanted you to have no home except his.”
Her mood turned even nastier. “Well, the joke is on him. He didn’t know that I’d fail in the Baths and be useless, townhouse or no townhouse.”
Viggo and Luc didn’t respond. Their silence might as well have been an accusation. Failure. Disappointment. What right had she had to think she could do anything grander than sweep the floors?
An awful idea took hold of her. “Beau! He’s still at the Cottage!” Before the Baths, she had left him in the stables in the Cottage basement, locked in the muddy stall with only a few ham scraps and her Faustine jacket, and that had been a week ago!
She pitched forward, tossing off the covers. “Shoes . . . I need shoes . . .”
“Calm down.” Luc pressed his palms gently against her shoulders, easing her back into bed. “Beau is okay. Petra has him. When she and I got you out of the Coal Baths, she promised to get the dog and bring him here as soon as she could.”
Anouk’s muscles relaxed slightly. Petra was a witch now. At least that was a ray of light in the darkness. If the Duke or anyone else tried to stop Petra from taking Little Beau, she’d be a force to reckon with. And then Anouk’s thoughts turned dark. She was supposed to be a witch too. She should have been able to free Little Beau herself, even turn him human again. He should have been in bed with her; they should have been whispering dreams and plans to each other and nibbling on the goodies in the fruit basket. “I’ve ruined everything.”
Viggo and Luc were silent. Rain pelted harder at the window, icy and loud, threatening to turn to snow. The city skyline was a growing smear of gray on the horizon.
“Get some rest,” Luc said at last. He nudged Viggo and motioned at the door. As soon as they’d left, a deafening silence filled the room, and Anouk wanted to call them back. The bedroom was too empty without them; the luxury gave her no comfort. Her thoughts bumped around the high ceilings and echoed back to her. She palmed the melted bell angrily. She lost track of time. She had no townhouse to return to. No magic sparking at her fingertips, not even the simplest tricks and whispers. No clue what she’d gotten wrong when she’d chosen her crux. No idea how to make it all right again.
At least she could rid herself of the bell. On an impulse, she ran to the window, preparing to hurl the bell to where she’d never have to see it again.
But she froze.
The last thing she’d expected to see, eight stories up, was a face. She nearly fell over. “Jak!”
He was crouched on the exterior sill. He tapped one long fingernail against the pane. “Let me in, lovely?”
She hesitated, then decided that things couldn’t get much worse. She twisted the brass lock and opened the window. He unfolded his nimble limbs, climbed in, and took a look around at the opulent décor. Though his eyes glittered with curiosity, he didn’t move more than a few feet from the window; he was bound to the cold.
Frigid air gusted in and she went back to the bed and tugged the blanket around her shoulders. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“We Snow Children travel where the snow goes.”
“Yes, but why did you come here, and why now? It must be snowing in hundreds of other places at this exact moment.”
“Only Paris has you.”
She gave him a hard look. She wasn’t in the mood for games. “Are you after more gin?”
He laughed. “That’s not why I’m here, though I wouldn’t say no to a dram. I saw what happened at the Coal Baths.”
Of course—it had been snowing then, just a few flakes, but enough for Jak to spy on her. Her face warmed with shame and she turned to a cabinet with glasses set out on the top. Sure enough, when she dug through it, she found a bottle of gin. She filled a tumbler and gave it to Jak.
He drained the glass and wiped a finger along the rim for the last traces and then said slyly, “Poor girl. Not a Pretty. Not a witch. Not a thing of wings and feathers either.” He popped his finger in his mouth.
She stiffened. “How did you find out about that? The owl?” She had no memories of that time when she’d been an owl, nothing but a dim awareness of feeling hungry and frightened.
The Dark Thing. The Cold Place.
“As far as riddles go, it was not overly difficult to solve,” Jak said. “I told you, we Snow Children have been around since long before beasties, or Pretties, or witches. We’ve seen it all.” His black eyes glistened.
She rolled the melted bell in her hand. “Do you know what was wrong about my crux?”
“The crux is merely a symbol. The other girl, the one who lived, chose a crux that connected her to her past, to her tragedy, to other witches. Lavender ash.”
“This bell contained my own magic. How could I have found a stronger connection?”
“You weren’t looking in the right place.”
She groaned and slumped into the window seat. “Fine. Speak in riddles. But tell me this: If you’ve existed so long, have you heard of a time called the Noirceur?”
Jak froze, then lowered the glass in his hand. His eyes were still playful, but there was a hint of danger in them too. “What does a beastie know of the Noirceur?”
“Just tell me what you know,” she said, then jutted her chin toward his empty glass. “I’ll give you the whole bottle.”
He leaned in, the snow blowing in at his back. His icicle locks hung in his face. “The Noirceur. You’re wrong—it wasn’t a time. It was a force. Chaos itself. It’s very old, perhaps the oldest thing there is, from before time, from before life, even. Only a small remnant of it remains: the vitae echo. The rest of it faded away over the ages.” He gave a mirthless smile. “Or so the Haute would have you believe.”
“It never faded, did it?” Her voice was hushed. She thought of the books in the Duke’s library that Luc had brought back, the ancient references to plagues that were happening all over again.
Jak shook his head slowly. “No. It was merely contained.”
“What do mean, contained? Where?”
Jak grinned devilishly. “Do you wish to know badly enough to give me a kiss?”
She scowled. “Your kisses bring death.”
“Very well.” The corners of his blue lips curled up. “I solved the riddle of your origin, and so now it is your turn to solve a riddle of mine. The Noirceur was contained in . . .”
“Yes? In what?”
“Ah, that’s the riddle.” He blew a breath of frost to cloud the window and traced a symbol there, a circle containing two small lines and broken rays, like an incomplete sun.
“That isn’t a riddle,” she said. “It’s a picture. And a nonsense one at that.”
Jak grinned. “The riddle is simple. Its portrayal is not.” He began to fade away with the lessening snow, and she thrust her head out the window, calling for him, but he didn’t return.
“Snow Children,” she muttered under her breath.
She still held the bell in her palm, but she no longer wanted to throw it out the window. What had Jak said? You weren’t looking in the right place. She found a gold chain in a drawer, strung the empty bell on it, then fastened it around her neck. A reminder to keep looking for the right place.
She jumped when a knock came at the door.
It was Countess Quine’s green-eyed daughter, carrying a large rectangular cardboard box.
“It’s you,” Anouk said in surprise.
“My name is Mia.”
Anouk’s fingers plucked uselessly at the chain around her neck. “Mia, listen, what happened in Montélimar to your mother—”
Mia shoved the box
into her arms. It was heavier than Anouk had expected, bulky and flat, and tied with a cream-colored ribbon. “A package from Prince Rennar. With his most sincere hopes that you’re feeling better.” If the girl felt any anger over her mother’s murder, her face did not show it. She just drummed her black-clawed fingernails against her arms.
Anouk tried again. “You must hate me.”
The girl gave a sigh that conveyed annoyance. “Countess Quine wasn’t my mother. She was my twin sister.” Mia looked no older than ten, whereas Countess Quine had been in her thirties. Mia smiled flatly. “I took herbs to age more slowly. It was always a point of vicious jealousy for her. I’m not sorry she’s gone. One of these centuries, one of us would have killed the other. You just beat me to it.” She shrugged. The girl’s heart was even colder than her late sister’s.
With a tip of her small chin, Mia left, and Anouk, feeling even more lightheaded, tossed the package onto the bed. Her mind whipped in dizzying circles. How could she regain her magic? What was her crux? And what of the Noirceur? It seemed like blankness over the world, not unlike what she called the Dark Thing.
The Dark Thing . . .
The Noirceur . . .
Was it possible they were different terms for the same void?
Her bare toes—all eight of them—curled anxiously against the rug. She sat on the corner of the bed, twisting a strand of hair around one finger. Her eyes fell on the package. She tugged off the ribbon distractedly, threw aside the lid, and dug through what must have been a hundred layers of tissue paper.
“Oh!” She covered her mouth with one palm, but a small gasp escaped anyway. “Merde.”
Chapter 19
A wedding dress.
Tucked amid the layers of tissue paper was a garment made of textured silk as fine as frost on a windowpanes; it was the same silver-gray color as the suit Rennar wore when he was feeling princely. Anouk pulled it out and held it up to the light. Hundreds of crystals were embedded in the bodice in a snowflake pattern. The train was just long enough to graze the floor. Soft white feathers spilled out from the bustle in the back. To a casual observer, the feathered detail would look like a soft adornment. Only those who knew her past—like Rennar—would recognize the subtle pattern as wings and understand its significance. Two glass shoes were also tucked in the box, clear as crystal and molded to fit perfectly around her missing toes.
Angry and a little embarrassed, she crammed the dress back into the box, fighting the sea of tissue paper. She paused before tossing in the shoes; they were lovely—but no. Into the box they went. She slammed the lid shut, picked up the box, and threw open the bedroom door.
Mia was still in the hallway, pretending to admire a portrait, a snicker on her face as Anouk strode by. Anouk’s cheeks burned. Did everyone in Castle Ides know what was in the box? She stomped down the maze of hallways, muttering under her breath. She turned a corner and stopped at a dead end. A grandfather clock ticked tauntingly before her, reminding her that every hour on the hour, the floor plan changed.
She tried a different hallway. Cricket had been the one to memorize each of the changing blueprints, not her. Two Pretty maids were sweeping the hallways but she didn’t bother to ask them for directions. Their eyes were glazed over with enchantment; they’d be no help. At last she turned a corner and found the beautiful doors of the spell library. Directly across the hall from them was the unassuming wooden door that led to Rennar’s room. It was slightly ajar.
Struggling under the unwieldy shape of the box, she threw her shoulder against the door and burst in, a string of expletives poised on her tongue, but the room was empty. She shifted the awkward-shaped box. The sound of running water came from another interior room. She walked toward it. “Rennar? Where are you? You must have lost your mind if—oh!”
She was in a master bathroom. Rennar was standing in front of an ornate mirror, naked from the waist up, a razor blade in one hand. Shaving cream that smelled of vanilla, citrus, and pine coated half his chin. Anouk dropped the box. The crystal shoes tumbled onto the bathroom rug.
In the mirror, Rennar’s reflection raised an eyebrow, the razor hovering over his neck. “I take it you received my gift?”
The only men she’d ever seen shirtless were Beau, when he washed the car in summer, and Hunter Black, when Luc was stitching up his wounds. Never a prince. Though Rennar’s body looked a twenty-year-old’s, a map of scars interlaced with faded ink spoke of centuries of life. His chest and stomach were lean and hard from the physical demands of spell work.
She managed to close her mouth. She picked up the shoes and stuck them back in the box with the dress that was spilling out of it, then shoved the whole mess at him. “What is this?”
“It’s a wedding dress.”
“I know it’s a wedding dress! Of course it’s a wedding dress! You’ve lost your mind if you think we’re still getting married.”
He wiped his blade on a towel, then returned to shaving. “Oh?”
“Of course! Our deal is off. There won’t be a wedding. There won’t be a coronation. And . . . and . . .” She cocked her head as he continued to painstakingly shave his neck. “Why don’t you just whisper your chin smooth?”
He gave a wry half smile, sliding the blade over the last streak of shaving cream and then rinsing it in the sink. “I like the feel of real things, things that take work. Tricks and whispers don’t make me feel alive anymore.” He dried the blade and ran the towel over his neck. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said, “I should get dressed.”
He slid past her into the bedroom, bending stiffly because of his stone leg as he rummaged through drawers for a fresh shirt. Anouk, speechless, gritted her teeth and stomped after him, still holding the box. “Rennar, answer me.”
“What do you want me to say? Why on earth should our deal be off?”
Her cheeks burned. In a quiet voice she said, “You know why.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea.” He put on a crisp white shirt and began buttoning it up, hiding the scars and the ink.
Anouk felt tears pushing at her eyes. He looked at her in alarm. “Anouk, what’s the matter?”
He knew. Of course he knew, and it was cruel of him to pretend not to. He’d been in the courtyard. He’d seen how she’d fallen into the coals. He had heard her beg him for help.
And she hated that he’d answered.
She turned away sharply, hugging the box to her chest as though it were a shield. “I chose the wrong crux. You were there. If you hadn’t summoned the storm to put out the flames, I would have died. I’d be nothing now, not even ash.”
And that was it, wasn’t it? Now it was said. That nasty toad that kept creeping and crawling around in her chest was now croaking away for all the world to hear.
“I failed.” Her voice was urgent. She needed him to agree and stop pretending everything was okay. “It’s over, Rennar, why can’t you admit that? You and Mada Zola and Cricket and Luc were wrong. You might have created beasties to be powerful, but you must have messed up, because I’m useless now. I lost my magic. It’s gone forever, burned in the flames! I can’t turn my friends back. I can’t help the Goblins. I can’t stop the Coven of Oxford. And apparently I have no idea who I am.”
She was hugging the box to her chest so hard that it dug painfully into her ribs. She frowned grimly. Pain was what she deserved.
Rennar finished buttoning his shirt very calmly, infuriatingly calmly, as though she’d confessed to stealing a sip of his gin, not destroying the future of the near realms and maybe even the entire world.
“Say something, Rennar. The truth. It’s over.”
He came to her, smelling of citrus and vanilla and pine, and she was half afraid he would brush away her tears and half afraid he wouldn’t. But he only stroked a long white feather poking out of the box.
“The truth? You’re going to look beautiful in this dress.”
He started fastening a cravat around his neck and she stared at
him, open-mouthed, so angry that her tears dried up. He looked at himself in the mirror, combed his fingers through his hair, then went out into the hall, moving fast for a man with a leg of stone, leaving the door open behind him. She stared, and then, clutching the box, followed him. “Rennar! Wait!”
He didn’t slow as he adjusted his cufflinks. She had to jog to catch up with him, the box jostling in her arms. “There’s no point anymore, don’t you see? Why do you even want me? I’m not a witch and I can’t do magic at all now, not even spells to mend a button!”
“Believe it or not, not everyone marries out of a cold-blooded pursuit of power. Some people actually marry for love.”
She gave him a hard look. “We shared one kiss. And besides, Beau is my—”
“Pet?”
“Friend. I love him and he loves me. You want me only because I can move mountains for you, or at least you thought I could, before I disappointed everyone.” He abruptly turned into another hall. “Slow down! Where are you going, anyway?”
He didn’t slow down.
“Why the dress? Why go through with a marriage and coronation if it’s pointless? And don’t say anything about love.”
“Fine.” He sighed as if she’d ruined his game, but then flashed a sidelong look at her. “Though, for the record, you didn’t seem to mind that kiss. But yes, there is another reason to go through with the marriage. The Code of Courts.”
“Is this tied to the old laws you told me about? The Nochte . . . ah . . .”
“The Nochte Pax.” A clock on the wall chimed, and he instinctively spun and went back the way they came—he knew the changing floor plans by heart—and went down another hall. “The Code of Courts was established twelve hundred years ago, when the Royal families of the near realms warred with one another.” He spoke mechanically, as though reciting ancient history. “A peace alliance was formed, and it included a pledge to come to one another’s defense if any of the other Courts were attacked. And the Court of Isles is under attack now. The problem is, with the Coven’s spell keeping us out of London, I can’t prove it.”
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