come to be. So much had happened in such a short span of time.
Someone—probably Helga—had closed theshutters over their single long window. The fire in the hearth provided yellow light. Helga had probably built the fire, too.
Céline walked to the bed and sank down, her expression bleak.
“What…,” Amelie began, not certain how to word this. “What exactly is the plan here? What are we going to do if another girl is murdered in the next few days? How are we going to find the killer before someone calls you a fake?”
Céline looked at the floor. “Amelie, I’m tired. Could we discuss this in the morning?”
Frustrated, Amelie took in her sister’s weary face. “All right, but I can’t help if I don’t know the plan. You need to tell me what you’re thinking.”
She took off her breeches and boots, leaving on her long, faded blue shirt—which reached halfway to her knees. Then she unlaced Céline’s borrowed gown, and Céline let the dress fall to the floor, so that she wore only her comfortable cotton shift. They both crawled under the piled covers, and soon the bed felt warm.
Neither spoke for a while, and then Céline said, “Lady Edith needs a rose petal syrup for her cough. If I had access to the herb garden and the apothecary’s equipment, I could make her a vial.”
“You really want that shop, don’t you?” Amelie whispered.
“Yes, I do.”
Céline said no more.
Still troubled, unaccustomed to feeling shut outof her sister’s plans, Amelie burrowed deeper into the covers, listening to Céline’s soft breathing.
But sleep would not come to Amelie. Her body was too tired and her mind was too busy, which was never a good combination. Doubt often came to her in the night, and she couldn’t help wondering what she and Céline would do, where they would go, if they failed here.
Time crept by, and she still couldn’t sleep. She just lay there, thinking and worrying.
It must have been halfway to dawn when the sound of a loud cry down the passage made her shoot up from the covers, looking toward the door. The cry was followed by shouting and pounding.
“Céline,” she said, but her sister was already awake.
Diving from the bed, Amelie grabbed her breeches. She was pulling them on while Céline ran out door wearing nothing but her white cotton shift.
“Céline!”
Buttoning her breeches, Amelie ran, and they both came upon the sight of Jaromir unlocking the door of the room where he’d placed Sybil. He had two soldiers standing guard with him, but Amelie didn’t recognize either one. The pounding from inside continued.
As he got the door unlocked and shoved it open, Inna came rushing out, gasping for breath. “She’s dead! Dead!”
Jaromir ran past her into the room, and Amelie followed with Céline at her heels.
There, lying in the bed, was the dried husk of what had been Sybil. Her lovely brown hair was spread on the pillow, but her face was nothing more than shriveled skin adhered to bones.
“Oh, no,” Amelie whispered.
None of this made sense. Céline walked to the bed and looked down at a yellow-and-red-checked quilt.
“Inna!” she nearly shouted. “Where did this come from?”
Amelie blinked. The quilt? Why would Céline care about that?
“What is it?” Jaromir asked, his eyes moving to the quilt.
“This wasn’t here before,” Céline said. “Where did it come from?” She sounded brittle.
One of the other soldiers dragged Inna back inside, and she simply pointed at a chest across the room. “We were cold. I took it out.”
Céline closed her eyes. “It wasn’t here before,” she whispered.
Jaromir turned on Inna, his expression dark, almost threatening. “What happened? No one could have entered this room.”
Frightened, dressed only in her shift, with strands of her grayish blond hair sticking to her face, Inna raised a hand, as if in defense. “I don’t know. I was asleep and then I just…I felt somethingwas wrong, and I turned up the
Someone—probably Helga—had closed theshutters over their single long window. The fire in the hearth provided yellow light. Helga had probably built the fire, too.
Céline walked to the bed and sank down, her expression bleak.
“What…,” Amelie began, not certain how to word this. “What exactly is the plan here? What are we going to do if another girl is murdered in the next few days? How are we going to find the killer before someone calls you a fake?”
Céline looked at the floor. “Amelie, I’m tired. Could we discuss this in the morning?”
Frustrated, Amelie took in her sister’s weary face. “All right, but I can’t help if I don’t know the plan. You need to tell me what you’re thinking.”
She took off her breeches and boots, leaving on her long, faded blue shirt—which reached halfway to her knees. Then she unlaced Céline’s borrowed gown, and Céline let the dress fall to the floor, so that she wore only her comfortable cotton shift. They both crawled under the piled covers, and soon the bed felt warm.
Neither spoke for a while, and then Céline said, “Lady Edith needs a rose petal syrup for her cough. If I had access to the herb garden and the apothecary’s equipment, I could make her a vial.”
“You really want that shop, don’t you?” Amelie whispered.
“Yes, I do.”
Céline said no more.
Still troubled, unaccustomed to feeling shut outof her sister’s plans, Amelie burrowed deeper into the covers, listening to Céline’s soft breathing.
But sleep would not come to Amelie. Her body was too tired and her mind was too busy, which was never a good combination. Doubt often came to her in the night, and she couldn’t help wondering what she and Céline would do, where they would go, if they failed here.
Time crept by, and she still couldn’t sleep. She just lay there, thinking and worrying.
It must have been halfway to dawn when the sound of a loud cry down the passage made her shoot up from the covers, looking toward the door. The cry was followed by shouting and pounding.
“Céline,” she said, but her sister was already awake.
Diving from the bed, Amelie grabbed her breeches. She was pulling them on while Céline ran out door wearing nothing but her white cotton shift.
“Céline!”
Buttoning her breeches, Amelie ran, and they both came upon the sight of Jaromir unlocking the door of the room where he’d placed Sybil. He had two soldiers standing guard with him, but Amelie didn’t recognize either one. The pounding from inside continued.
As he got the door unlocked and shoved it open, Inna came rushing out, gasping for breath. “She’s dead! Dead!”
Jaromir ran past her into the room, and Amelie followed with Céline at her heels.
There, lying in the bed, was the dried husk of what had been Sybil. Her lovely brown hair was spread on the pillow, but her face was nothing more than shriveled skin adhered to bones.
“Oh, no,” Amelie whispered.
None of this made sense. Céline walked to the bed and looked down at a yellow-and-red-checked quilt.
“Inna!” she nearly shouted. “Where did this come from?”
Amelie blinked. The quilt? Why would Céline care about that?
“What is it?” Jaromir asked, his eyes moving to the quilt.
“This wasn’t here before,” Céline said. “Where did it come from?” She sounded brittle.
One of the other soldiers dragged Inna back inside, and she simply pointed at a chest across the room. “We were cold. I took it out.”
Céline closed her eyes. “It wasn’t here before,” she whispered.
Jaromir turned on Inna, his expression dark, almost threatening. “What happened? No one could have entered this room.”
Frightened, dressed only in her shift, with strands of her grayish blond hair sticking to her face, Inna raised a hand, as if in defense. “I don’t know. I was asleep and then I just…I felt somethingwas wrong, and I turned up the
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