“People who are dead don’t just get to . . . to choose to come back to life. Or why didn’t you?” Her voice shook with fury. “Why didn’t you?”
Aunt Léonie just smiled fondly. “Do you think I’m here to answer that? I’m here to remind you that you have only ever had one choice: the path of needles, or the path of pins.”
Rachelle looked again at the strings bound to her hands. She knew, already, what she would do. What she must do.
“I miss you,” she said quietly. “I miss you so much.”
Aunt Léonie smiled and ruffled her hair. “It’s not that long to wait, you know.”
Rachelle stood. Durendal lay beside her on the ground; she picked it up with one hand. In the other, she clutched the threads, tiny and delicate and everlasting.
“I love you,” she said to Aunt Léonie, and then she followed the threads away into the darkness.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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And then she woke. Her body felt strange, at once heavy and empty. Her hand was still curled around Durendal, which had become a needle again; it didn’t hurt much, but she could tell it was half-buried in her hand and would have to be dug out.
She was lying on somebody’s lap, a heavy metal hand resting on her shoulder. It was Armand, she realized, and she heard his voice, dull and lifeless: “Leave me alone.”
Justine replied, “You won’t feel that way when she starts to rot.”
Rachelle’s breath hissed in.
Instantly Armand went tense. “Rachelle?” he said, his voice soft and raw.
She opened her eyes and saw glory. The whole world was veined with silver threads, twisting and twirling and dancing. Then she blinked, and it was gone. She was in the clearing where they had fought the Devourer. The morning sunlight had just begun to pick its way between the trees, Armand was looking down at her in desperate relief, and that was enough glory to last her a lifetime.
“Thank God,” he breathed, and he started to lean down as if to kiss her.
Then he stopped, looking terribly unsure.
“Rachelle!” Amélie screamed the next moment, and pulled her up out of Armand’s lap.
Amélie was not a bloodbound anymore. Rachelle knew because she pushed her back and checked before embracing her. And then Rachelle realized why she felt so strange: the power of the Forest was entirely gone from her, no longer strengthening her limbs, whispering in her ears, filling the world around her with half-seen depths. She was human once more, and it made her body feel like a heavy, foreign thing.
But it also meant that Amélie could hold her without fear. She hugged her even tighter.
“I still can’t scold you,” Amélie whispered, “but you are never allowed to do that again.”
“What happened?” asked Rachelle
“You lied,” said Armand, but he didn’t sound angry. He didn’t sound anything, just quiet and blank.
“I didn’t lie,” said Rachelle. “I just didn’t tell you everything.”
He smiled faintly. He wasn’t exactly looking at her, and that was wrong, all wrong—
“We slaughtered a lot of forestborn,” said Justine. “D’Anjou disappeared into thin air, which I suspect you can tell us more about. Then the rest of them fell down dead, and we were back in the Chateau grounds. All the bloodbound fell dead or were no longer bloodbound.”
“And you were dead,” said Amélie. Her arms were still around Rachelle. “The wound had healed, but you were still dead.”
“So was the King,” said Justine. “Permanently. Since most of the nobility were in hysterics, the Bishop took control. He’s sent men to find the room where d’Anjou hid Raoul Courtavel.”
“We’ll have a just king by next week,” said Amélie. “But what happened to you?”
Rachelle looked at her hand, saw the bloody mess of the half-impaled needle, and winced. “Durendal,” she sighed. “And my aunt.”
As soon as Amélie saw the wound, she clucked, seized Rachelle’s hand, and started carefully drawing out the needle.
“I’m going to go tell the Bishop you’re alive,” said Justine. She smiled, briefly, and left.
Armand stood. He was still not exactly looking at any of them. “I need to go back,” he said.
Rachelle gripped Amélie’s shoulder and used it to push herself to her feet. “Then I’m coming with you,” she said.
The three of them walked back to the Chateau together. The gardens were a mess: the ground churned up and stained with blood. Not all the bodies were cleared away yet.
The Chateau was in chaos. Most of the surviving guests from the party had gathered in the Hall of Mirrors. Some were being treated for their wounds. Some were drinking coffee brought by harried-looking servants. And some were simply huddled into themselves, staring into empty air.