“Congratulations,” Tenpenny said. “You’re officially dead-ish.”
Chapter 31
Fifteen Minutes of Enchantment Remain
The first order of business, according to Tenpenny, was to get them clothes that weren’t made of tattered curtains and gardening wire. The blond Goblin girl with gold teeth, December, led them into a tomb that served as a communal closet: piles of dusty top hats in one corner, ties and cravats in another, and skeletons set up around the room as dress dummies, arrayed in various British-punk clothes. For Anouk, December rustled up boots and a pair of slim tuxedo trousers that looked great with The Faustine jacket; for Cricket, she found a tweed suit with the pockets stylishly ripped out.
Anouk ran her fingers along the smooth trousers, worn at the hems. A hand-me-down, maybe, or stolen from a shop years ago and mended over and over. The Goblins had so little and yet were more than willing to share. Why had she ever believed that the Haute was a beautiful world of magic and grace? Everything had a darker side, magic most of all.
“Midnight is in five minutes!” Tenpenny said, admiring their improved fashion. “Come, join the partiers. Tonight we celebrate not only our fortune but yours. Let midnight come and dare it to change you.”
Anouk felt herself caught up in a wave of giggling Goblins who herded her and Cricket to the dance area in front of the Black Death bar. Someone had stolen a giant clock from one of the Métro stations and suspended it from the ceiling on a heavy chain. Now it swung back and forth, sweeping over the crowd, a Goblin straddling the top of it and waving at them all.
The clock read four minutes to midnight.
And then the Goblins were dancing around her, and someone passed her a delicious warm drink, and she felt herself smiling.
Three minutes to midnight.
She grinned widely now, jumping up and down with Goblins on either side of her. Someone started counting down and she thought of a tradition among the Pretties, a New Year’s countdown sealed with a kiss at the end. Her eyes searched the crowd for Beau. Shouldn’t they celebrate? Midnight was coming but it wouldn’t take them. Not tonight. And one thing she’d learned was that they had to enjoy every second of life that they had.
In a place where magenta and blue and green hair was the norm, Beau’s plain sandy hair stood out. He was about twenty feet away, and he was looking for her too. She started weaving through the tight crowd.
“Five!” Someone counted down the seconds.
“Four!”
Then their eyes met. Beau grinned. It felt like the crowd had faded into the background. She felt herself moving toward him automatically, for once the Goblins parting to let her pass.
“Three!”
The enormous clock overhead swung back and forth, casting a shadow on the revelers. Someone was dancing with one of the old skeletons, blocking her way, and she stood on tiptoe not to lose sight of Beau.
“Two!”
There. A path cleared. He was just steps away.
“One. Midnight!”
The cavern erupted in cheers. She took a step toward Beau, feeling like someone in a fairy tale, like a Pretty at a New Year’s ball, but then someone else was tugging at her hand, pulling her sharply away from Beau. Viggo—it was Viggo. A second before she realized what was happening, he kissed her. His lips were softer than she’d imagined. He smelled like the sweet hot drink everyone was passing around, and his arms circled her waist as though screening them from the crowd, a private moment between the two of them.
“Viggo, eww, stop it!” She sputtered and shoved him away but then softened when she saw the look on his face. Sheer, almost sweet happiness, even if it was because of a spell. She’d never seen Viggo look sweet, not once. He was a twat and she’d sooner kiss a frog, but even frogs deserved little moments of joy. She pecked him softly on the lips.
When she pulled back, Beau was standing next to them. His face was as slack as if she’d slapped him. He turned sharply, pushed his way through the crowd. The smile fell off her face as she disentangled herself from Viggo and ran after him.
“Wait!” she said, catching his arm. “Beau, I was only being nice. You know I can’t stand Viggo. And he doesn’t love me either, it’s the spell—”
“The spell,” Beau muttered angrily. “I’m sick of that damn spell. I’m ready for it to wear off, Anouk. Ready for him to stop trying to kiss you. And having you kiss him back!”
“We need him like this.”
“You like him like this. Your puppet.”
“Beau, that isn’t true! Listen, we don’t have time for stupid arguments about Viggo—”
But he strode away and was lost among the revelers before she could finish. She caught a glimpse of blond hair and saw December sliding behind him through the crowd. Jealousy flared in her. Fine. Let the Goblin girl try to comfort him where she couldn’t.
Twin Goblin boys in blue bowler hats pulled her into a swirling dance, but she managed to extricate herself from their arms and slip to the refuge of the blessedly cool, empty tombs. She sank down on a fallen gravestone, hugging her knees. Why couldn’t Beau focus on what really mattered? Tenpenny’s concoction, vile though it was, had worked. Midnight had come and they were all still human.
But were they all?
Luc’s disappearance nagged at her like a briar just beneath the skin. Wherever he was, he hadn’t drunk Tenpenny’s elixir. Had midnight been the end for him? It was a terrible thought, that he was truly lost to her now. What possible hope of finding him did she have when she wasn’t even certain what kind of animal to look for? A mouse? An owl? Even if their paths crossed, he wouldn’t know her, and she wouldn’t know him. Maybe she hadn’t understood the first thing about being human if she’d failed her best friend so gravely.
“Oh no, did the poison work too well? Are you actually dead?”
Tenpenny sat down next to her and mocked feeling her forehead. “Still some breath in you. Why aren’t you celebrating? Is that chauffeur giving you trouble?”
She paused and shook her head. “Even if we can find someone to recast our spell, I’m afraid that a spell alone can’t make us human. Truly human. Only actions make a person human, not magic.”
“Yes,” Tenpenny mused. “Well, and the fact that you don’t have a tail.”
She rolled her eyes.
“My darling girl, look at you. Pale as a slug. Drab as pudding. Tonight is not the night to feel depressed at the state of your reality. Here. You need some color.”
He produced a sleek tube of lipstick and drew on her left cheek, then her right. He sketched a shape, filled it in, licked his finger, and wiped off a smudge.
“Eh. Not perfect, but what ever is?”
He handed her a mirror. He’d drawn ruby-red hearts on both of her cheeks, though messily. It gave her the look of a performer, and between that and the tuxedo trousers, she blended in a little more with the Goblins.
“There, now. Fashion is art and we are the canvas. Do you feel like a piece of art, my dear?”
“I feel more like that slug you were talking about.”
He tsked. “Have you ever heard the story of the Goblin and his shadow? No? Many years ago, a Goblin angered a minor duke by baking his pet peacock into a pie, mistaking it for a chicken. The duke cursed him. Every day, the Goblin started to notice his shadow hung around more, even in the light. It started to grow darker in places, especially around the eyes and nose. His eyes and his nose. When he looked into the mirror, he found that he was fading. His own shadow was trading places with him, stealing his life. He had to live the rest of his days in pure darkness, where there were no shadows, before his swallowed him whole. What I’m saying is, don’t let anything—not shadows, not sorrow, not peacocks—steal your brightest days.”
She sighed. “It isn’t that easy. There’s one of us missing. The fifth beastie, Luc. He was like an older brother to me. He was there when I was first made, and he always protected me even when I didn’t know I needed protecting.
And now the rest of us have been granted an extra day, but not Luc. We don’t know where he is. When midnight came, he must have turned back.”
Tenpenny gazed at her with a puzzled expression.
“In a way it’s like he’s dead,” she continued. “If he saw me, he wouldn’t know me. Everything between us would be gone.”
Tenpenny still looked at her strangely, and she patted her hair self-consciously. “What? Do I have something on my face?” She brushed at the ever-present dust.
“Not that, dear girl. It’s the other beastie. The gardener.”
“What about him?” An idea struck her and she whipped her head around, searching the Goblin crowd. “Is he here?”
If she’d had a heartbeat, it would have raced.
“Of course he is. You brought him.”
“What?”
“That oubliette you had with you, the one that Beau hid from the Marble Ladies. There are two sections, you know. The nonmagical one that is currently holding your pelts. But there are all sorts of interesting things hidden away in the magical part.”
She stared at him as though he were speaking some foreign language. “You unlocked the oubliette? How?”
“A little dirty magic did the job. I took a peek while you were in the loo to see if you’d brought anything good.”
“And Luc. You mean to say that Luc is . . . that he’s . . .”
“He’s in the oubliette.” He gave her a quizzical look. “Dear girl, don’t tell me you didn’t know that he’s been with you the entire time. Oh my. What a delicious tragedy.”
Chapter 32
Twenty-Four Hours of (New) Enchantment Remain
She jumped up fast enough to send the bones skittering across the floor. A cloud of dust rose in their place. “Where’s the oubliette now?”
Tenpenny scratched his chin. “Last I saw, December was guarding it.”
She ran back into the thick of the party, searching the crowd for the Goblin girl with the blond braids. She spied Cricket dancing on top of the Black Death with a Goblin boy in an indigo kilt and pushed toward them.
“Cricket!” she shouted. “Where’s Beau?”
“He disappeared with December. That way, back toward the old Métro tunnels. Is everything okay?”
“Get the others and meet me in the Skull Crypt.”
Cricket gave her a curious look but kissed her Goblin boy sweetly on the cheek and climbed down from the top of the Métro car, using the window frames as a ladder. The lights and music were pounding harder than ever. Anouk pushed through dancing bodies to the tunnel that led back to the Métro line. A few Goblins loitered beneath the archway, smoking something spicy and sweet, but there was no sign of Beau. She ran over the damp, dirty stone ground, calling his name.
Low flickers of flame lit up loitering groups of Goblins, some laughing or speaking in low voices, others in romantic embraces of two—or three—people.
“Have you seen December?” she called to a group catching spiders in the dark with a butterfly net, and they pointed farther into the darkness. It was cold here so far from the bonfire. She hugged her arms around her jacket, running her fingers anxiously over the embroidery. Then, in the dim light of an old curved Métro lantern, she saw the back of Beau’s sandy head.
“There you are—”
He wasn’t alone. He turned and she saw blond braids. December, her lips painted an electric pink, a matching glow to her cheeks. Beau’s own lips were the same electric shade.
“Oh.”
Not the most eloquent response, but it was all she could think to say. Heat flushed up her neck. They’d been kissing here in the dark tunnel. Beau and December. Was this about that business with Viggo? Some kind of revenge?
Beau’s face went a shade paler. He made a quick effort to wipe the lipstick from his mouth. “Anouk. Um . . . listen. Oh, merde, I’m an ass.”
Yes, he most certainly was, and she was about to tell him as much but then her eyes fell on the oubliette resting at December’s feet. That was more important than any kiss. She grabbed the bag and shook off the dust, unable to keep her anger from escaping. “It’s Luc,” she spat.
Beau’s face flickered with uncertainty. “Luc?”
“He’s trapped in the oubliette.” She hugged the bag to her chest and started running down the tunnel, past the kissing couples and the spider-chasers, hearing Beau and December’s footfalls echoing behind her.
“Anouk, wait!”
The cold enveloped her like a shadow, but she barely felt it. Luc was here. He’d fix all of this. She’d soon see him again, those warm brown eyes, that easy grin that said their problems were only hiccups and scrapes. This? he would say. The Royals after us and time running out? This is nothing.
She ran into the Skull Crypt, where Tenpenny and Cricket were waiting. She clutched the bag close. Beau and December ran up behind her.
“Anouk,” Beau whispered insistently.
She waved him away without glancing at him and turned to Cricket. “Where are Viggo and Hunter Black?”
“I couldn’t find them.” Cricket raised an eyebrow at the smeared pink lipstick on Beau’s mouth. “I see where you’ve been, Beau.”
Beau swore mildly under his breath and scrubbed at his face with his shirttails, glancing anxiously at Anouk.
Tenpenny snatched up the oubliette. “I’ll take that.” He laid it on the sarcophagus with a flourish and rolled up his sleeves for dramatic effect. “Now. There is fine skill involved in breaking into a witch’s oubliette. Each one is locked with a particular spell that can be opened only by the witch who whispered it. Of course, we Goblins are excellent at lock-picking.”
Anouk glanced at Beau out of the corner of her eye. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, and she couldn’t read the look on his face; anxiousness, certainly, and almost a bit of dread, but she couldn’t be sure how much of it was because she’d caught him with December or how much of it was due to the potion they’d drunk. They were mostly dead, after all.
“Watch this.” Tenpenny shook out a few wriggling worms from a jar, slurped them down, and polished them off with a mug of beer. After a belch, he waggled his fingers over the oubliette.
“Changa, changa, a forma verum et abria.” The burlap fabric started to glisten as it transformed from rough fibers to silk. Anouk caught glimpses of the other bags it had been—ostrich leather, the Hermès gold buckles—but it continued to morph until it settled on a well-worn leather sack with primitive stitching.
“The oubliette in its true, original form,” Tenpenny said in a stage whisper, and then he flicked off a piece of worm he’d spat out. “Ugly, isn’t it? Fashion has improved dramatically in the past four hundred years.”
“Just open it!” Cricket cried.
Tenpenny upended the leather sack. All manner of things tumbled out onto the floor: Glass jars packed full with herbs. Old books with titles in a language Anouk had never seen. Oddly shaped wood carvings. And a parrot who squawked and flew away. December chased after it.
“Hey, that’s mine!” Cricket cried, grabbing a well-worn book. “The book about the girl on the magic train! I thought Mada Vittora burned it.” She hugged the book to her chest, grumbling curses about lying witches.
Tenpenny shook the sack once more, and it grew and expanded, and then something enormous tumbled out of it, something with arms and legs that somersaulted over the dusty floor and landed against the tomb with a painful-sounding crack.
“Luc!”
He looked awful. Grime coated his scalp and shoulders. The white gardener’s uniform he usually wore was stained with dirt and long-dried blood. His brown-black skin was more sallow than she’d ever seen it. He didn’t sit up.
Anouk shoved past Tenpenny and knelt by Luc’s side, touching his shoulder.
“Are you all right?”
His eyelids fluttered and he muttered something unintelligible, but he didn’t wake. She shook him. This was wrong. He was supposed to grin at her and
wink and say everything would be all right.
“He’s been in there a long time,” Tenpenny explained. “Cramped space, you know. Not much to eat. I’m surprised he didn’t gobble down that parrot.”
“Shouldn’t he have turned back into an animal?” Cricket asked. “Midnight came and he didn’t drink the potion.”
“Ah, but time doesn’t exist the same way in the oubliette as it does here. He’s been in a state of suspended timelessness.”
Anouk glanced at Beau. He was chewing hard on his lip. Sweat had broken out on his temples. He didn’t say anything. Was this still about the kiss?
“Beau, you don’t look very surprised,” Anouk said. Come to think of it, he’d been fiercely protective of the oubliette ever since they’d fled the townhouse. She narrowed her eyes, but then Luc suddenly coughed back to life and she turned to him and touched his face.
“You’re okay!” she cried.
“Anouk?” Luc’s voice was rusty. He licked some moisture into his dry lips. “Where . . .” His eyes were dazed. “You’re out of the townhouse. How . . .” He started coughing again. Anouk helped him stand. He was so thin, a boy made of sticks. He had spent almost two weeks trapped in whatever strange world lay within the oubliette’s walls.
“I’m so sorry we didn’t get you out earlier. We didn’t know where you were.”
Luc blinked a few times, pressing a hand to his forehead. Despite his weakened state, he had an air of solidity about him. Even on his deathbed, he’d still manage to find the strength to jump up and box the ears of anyone who insulted her.
His hands were smooth and firm and the color of night tulips as he traced a finger over her cheeks painted with red hearts. “I’m supposed to look out for you, remember? Not the other way around.” He tried to grin, but it came out as a grimace.
She hugged him hard, feeling tears welling at the trace of thyme on his clothes. She had her North Star again. She let go and then it was Cricket’s turn to embrace him. Cricket whispered something in his ear that made him smile. He kissed her cheek. “Always, gumdrop. Always.”
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