ignore, but he looked at Rachelle. “And, you, what are you doing here?”
Rachelle straightened her spine. She reminded herself that she had nothing to lose. She was already sentenced to death.
“I was patrolling, sire,” she said. “I thought I heard something.”
He looked her up and down. “I thank you for your devotion,” he said. “But my dear friend”—he settled a hand on la Fontaine’s shoulder—“is all I need. You may go.”
Humiliated, she fled.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
F or the next week, Rachelle kept looking.
There was a fountain in the east gardens that had a mosaic of the sun in its basin. She sat by it for an hour while the moon shone high overhead. She trailed her fingers through the water and closed her eyes and tried , but she could not find any hidden charm in it.
There was a moon-shaped clock set into the ceiling in a room whose carpet was covered in little sunbursts. The King held audiences there, and at night it was locked, the windows barred; Rachelle tried to find where the keys were kept, gave up, and broke in one night. There was nothing inside, and the next day she had to help Erec hunt for the nonexistent thief.
It was maddening. Hunting woodspawn was simple: she heard where they had been glimpsed, then sat on a roof in the neighborhood until she saw them, or felt the swelling power of the Forest. Then she chased and then she killed.
But this door wasn’t something that could be hunted or chased; it had to be searched out and found, and she had nothing to guide her but a cryptic riddle that every day seemed more useless. And yet she couldn’t stop trying, so night after night she roamed the Château. By the time she crawled into her bed, she was nearly ready to weep from frustration as well as exhaustion.
The days were just as bad. Hour after wasted hour standing next to Armand in party after audience after court function. It was deadly boring. At first she ignored what the people around her were saying, but then she realized that while anything was better than the return of Endless Night, she didn’t want to save Gévaudan from the Devourer only to have it be ruled by the Bishop. So she watched the people who approached Armand. They bowed to him, and kissed his sliver hands, and begged to have his blessing. But if there was any plotting being done amid the glittering chatter, she couldn’t hear it.
Armand hardly said a word to her. He smiled and nodded and babbled an ocean of pleasantries to the rest of the court. But when they were alone, he stared at the wall and said nothing.
Amélie was always trying to persuade Rachelle to let her start applying cosmetics. “You said I could practice on you,” she said. “We had a bargain.”
“I know,” said Rachelle. “You will. Just not yet.”
She knew that if she sat down and let Amélie start painting on her face, she would relax. The awful, drumming pressure inside her chest would cease. And she couldn’t bear that. She couldn’t bear to let that agonized tension go when all that stood between her and defeating the Devourer was a single door and she couldn’t find it.
Rachelle started to wonder if Armand had been lying when he told her the story about Prince Hugo.
Then one night, after hours wandering the Château, she sat staring into the darkness and rubbing at the phantom string tied to her finger.
Once she had wound yarn around her fingers every day, and it hadn’t been a curse.
The memory clutched her suddenly, like hands around her throat: Aunt Léonie sitting beside her, gently untangling the snarl she had made when she tried a new pattern.
It had been a charm for revealing hidden things. The pattern itself was very simple,but once woven, it had to be awakened with careful concentration, or the power contained in it would go terribly wrong. Rachelle had given herself headaches trying, but she
Rachelle straightened her spine. She reminded herself that she had nothing to lose. She was already sentenced to death.
“I was patrolling, sire,” she said. “I thought I heard something.”
He looked her up and down. “I thank you for your devotion,” he said. “But my dear friend”—he settled a hand on la Fontaine’s shoulder—“is all I need. You may go.”
Humiliated, she fled.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
..................................................................
F or the next week, Rachelle kept looking.
There was a fountain in the east gardens that had a mosaic of the sun in its basin. She sat by it for an hour while the moon shone high overhead. She trailed her fingers through the water and closed her eyes and tried , but she could not find any hidden charm in it.
There was a moon-shaped clock set into the ceiling in a room whose carpet was covered in little sunbursts. The King held audiences there, and at night it was locked, the windows barred; Rachelle tried to find where the keys were kept, gave up, and broke in one night. There was nothing inside, and the next day she had to help Erec hunt for the nonexistent thief.
It was maddening. Hunting woodspawn was simple: she heard where they had been glimpsed, then sat on a roof in the neighborhood until she saw them, or felt the swelling power of the Forest. Then she chased and then she killed.
But this door wasn’t something that could be hunted or chased; it had to be searched out and found, and she had nothing to guide her but a cryptic riddle that every day seemed more useless. And yet she couldn’t stop trying, so night after night she roamed the Château. By the time she crawled into her bed, she was nearly ready to weep from frustration as well as exhaustion.
The days were just as bad. Hour after wasted hour standing next to Armand in party after audience after court function. It was deadly boring. At first she ignored what the people around her were saying, but then she realized that while anything was better than the return of Endless Night, she didn’t want to save Gévaudan from the Devourer only to have it be ruled by the Bishop. So she watched the people who approached Armand. They bowed to him, and kissed his sliver hands, and begged to have his blessing. But if there was any plotting being done amid the glittering chatter, she couldn’t hear it.
Armand hardly said a word to her. He smiled and nodded and babbled an ocean of pleasantries to the rest of the court. But when they were alone, he stared at the wall and said nothing.
Amélie was always trying to persuade Rachelle to let her start applying cosmetics. “You said I could practice on you,” she said. “We had a bargain.”
“I know,” said Rachelle. “You will. Just not yet.”
She knew that if she sat down and let Amélie start painting on her face, she would relax. The awful, drumming pressure inside her chest would cease. And she couldn’t bear that. She couldn’t bear to let that agonized tension go when all that stood between her and defeating the Devourer was a single door and she couldn’t find it.
Rachelle started to wonder if Armand had been lying when he told her the story about Prince Hugo.
Then one night, after hours wandering the Château, she sat staring into the darkness and rubbing at the phantom string tied to her finger.
Once she had wound yarn around her fingers every day, and it hadn’t been a curse.
The memory clutched her suddenly, like hands around her throat: Aunt Léonie sitting beside her, gently untangling the snarl she had made when she tried a new pattern.
It had been a charm for revealing hidden things. The pattern itself was very simple,but once woven, it had to be awakened with careful concentration, or the power contained in it would go terribly wrong. Rachelle had given herself headaches trying, but she
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