Chapter 22

The trip to the capitol was long and arduous.

Coming to find me, the king's men had traveled to Alletois as swiftly as possible, bringing only their stallions. They chafed when I suggested using my wagon to transport my trunks of medicines and supplies, certain it would slow the journey to a snail's pace. I told them I would not leave without my supplies, or without Cosmos, and now he rode in the back of the wagon, whining at each bump in the road.

Without a horse of my own, I had to ride with the muttonchopped captain—I'd learned his name was Marc-André—and held on to his waist for dear life as we raced toward Chatellerault, scattering any villagers foolish enough to step out in front of the cavalcade.

"I've never been to the capitol," I'd admitted to Marc-André at the start of the ride. "What should I expect?"

He let out a huff of air that I guessed was meant to be a laugh. "It's a far sight grander than this." He gestured to the farm we were passing and I dared a glance at the orchards, wondering if I might catch sight of the LeComptes out working.

But it was not Kieron's family I spotted….

Five figures stood in a clump between the rows of apple trees, their wraithlike figures marring the otherwise lovely landscape.

Mama's hair had turned into a curtain of filth hanging far longer down her back than it ever had in life. The last of Papa's face had finally fallen off, leaving only a greasy residue of gray tendons and muscle covering his skull.

My heart stopped as I noted the newest member of the gruesome brigade, the one with a flap of skin hanging loose at the back of his head. It blew back and forth in the breeze like the last leaf of autumn, too stubborn to let go of its tree.

Don't look, don't look, don't look, my thoughts raced, repeating in time with the stallion's galloping hooves.

But I couldn't help myself, and I saw the exact moment that he sensed me. A mild jolt surged through his body and he began to turn, turn, turn, slower than he ever would have while alive. One of his legs had already begun to decompose and he favored the spindly femur, leaning so heavily to the side, he teetered like an off-kiltertop.

Before I had the chance to see Kieron's face, to see the milky white eyes winking in the light like cursed marbles, Marc-André followed the curve of the lane and I lost sight of my ghosts.

"Don't you think?" the captain asked, breaking into my thoughts, and I could tell by his tone it was not the first time he'd asked.

"Of course," I replied quickly, unsure of what I was agreeing to. I needed to push the image of my tormentors from my mind and focus on what was actually happening in the present. My years in the Between had been blessedly free of my ghosts' staggering, and I'd forgotten how draining their presence was, a constant weight and worry.

I wasn't certain how far the capitol was from Alletois, but it would take them days to creep toward it. No matter what was going on with the king and this new disease, I could be ready for them when they finally arrived.

"What about the rest of the royal family?" I asked, trying to center myself back in the conversation. "The children. The queen. How are they faring?"

Marc-André shot a curious glance at me over his shoulder. "The queen?" He snorted. "Just how long did you say you were gone for,girl?"

Try as I might, I could not get the image of the back of Kieron's head from my mind. He'd been just about to face me. What would have happened when he had?

"I…" I hesitated. "It was a rather long trip." I tried to offer a smile to smooth over whatever mess I'd unwittingly walked into.

"I daresay," he said, and clicked at his horse. "The queen has been dead for nearly a year."

"She's dead?" I exclaimed, so surprised that every trace of ghosts left my mind. "How? When?"

"Bad riding accident. One of her lady's maids found her, thrown from her mount. It was"—he paused, musing—"about ten months ago, I'd guess." He nodded to himself.

"How awful."

"The little princess took it the hardest," he went on, discussing the Marnaignes' great tragedy with all the casualness of pondering the weather. "She was only six when it happened. Didn't understand what was going on, didn't know why her mother didn't come home."

"Euphemia, isn't it?" Bursts of pink confetti had rained down in every village square in the kingdom as servants unloaded casks of wine gifted from the royal cellar to celebrate the girl's birth.

He grunted his assent. "I was on guard duty within the palace then." Marc-André shook his head and a shudder raced through him. "I still remember the howls coming from her chambers. Terrible, terrible thing."

I nodded. "Are any of them sick now?"

He shrugged. "Could be, for all I know. The king's valet holds on to every scrap of information tighter than a miser clings to his purse. I was only told to get you. So here we are."

"Here we are," I echoed, and sat back, mulling over everything he'd said.

Our ride continued. Farmland turned to villages, villages to towns.

I was surprised by how poor the roads were—muddy and torn ragged on edges stretched too wide, as if a marching parade had come through, flattening everything in its path. Marc-André studied the damage with dismay but didn't comment, and I wondered if he was somehow embarrassed that the king's highway had been allowed to fall into such a state.

Towns grew closer and closer together until eventually we were in the capitol itself and our path became paved with bricks. I'd never seen so many people milling about, nor buildings towering so high. There were more shops and storefronts than I'd ever have guessed possible or necessary, rows and rows of them, selling not fruits or vegetables or clothing but things. Tiny, sparkling things whose purposes I couldn't determine as we raced past the glittering windows.

Everything here glittered, and my head ached at the sheer amount of detail I was suddenly aware of: the scent of unfamiliar spices and smoked meats, the babble of languages I did not speak, dresses made up in shades I'd never imagined, cut in fashions that seemed over-the-top and ridiculous in their extremity, and a tang coating my tongue with the acrid sourness of too many bodies in too small a space.

Why anyone would regard this swath of overcrowded land as the epitome of civilization was beyond me.

Even the royal family seemed to want to be away from it. Though Chatellerault was the monarch's seat, the palace itself was not in the city proper. The grounds were set apart, hugging the northern border like a snug comma. A snug comma separated by a vast wall and a moat.

Black swans swam in lazy circles as we rode across the drawbridge spanning its dark waters. The horses' hooves clattered loudly over the lowered wooden planks, setting my nerves ajangle. The wall was at least three yards thick, and heavily guarded. Several dozen men jumped to attention, saluting the captain as we came through.

Only once we were past the gates did I realize how late in the day it had gotten. Twilight had fallen heavily, darkening the sky to the shade of bruised lilacs. There were too many clouds to see the stars, and I could feel the charge of an approaching storm.

The palace rose before us, wide and hulking. The main building was four stories high with wings spreading out on either side, like a bat unfurling to take flight. Built of dark gray stone with steeply pitched black gabled rooftops, the palace nearly blended into the evening mist. Tall oil lamps dotted the perimeter, creating halos of light as amber as gold bars.

We did not enter the palace from the front. Marc-André nudged the horse down a side road, taking us past stables and other outbuildings. I caught sight of fantastically landscaped gardens and a soaring greenhouse. My head spun at the opulence and luxury. Even in the moody gloom, everything shimmered. There was nothing left undecorated, dripping with detail and ostentatious adornments. Statues of black marble were scattered across the grounds, like toys left behind by giant children. Intricate clusters of gilded roses spiraled down the post of each streetlamp we passed. Even the gravel we trotted upon seemed to be made of glittering quartz chips.

The air hung heavy, and I felt as if everything I saw was secretly sneering, proud and puffed with its own self-worth. It dredged up memories from my childhood: of the royal family's visit to Rouxbouillet; of the press of people in the streets aching to be near them—to be near such wealth; of the prince as he threw a handful of coins at me.

I wondered if Leopold remembered the little freckled girl he'd insulted, or if I'd made even the barest of impressions upon him atall.

We came to a stop at an entry along the back of one of the wings. A tall portico jutted out like a set of bared teeth. Though this entrance was clearly meant for servants and tradesmen, it was no less grand than any other door we'd passed.

Two footmen hurried down the black marble steps. They were dressed in matching suits of onyx with gold tassels, and they nodded curtly to Marc-André before one helped me from the horse. The other guards dismounted and began unloading my collection of bags and trunks. I'd packed three trunks near to bursting with my medicines and one bag with personal items, clothing and my toilette. I couldn't begin to guess how long the king's treatment would take, and I hadn't wanted to be caught without something I mightneed.

"I can help with those," I offered, but they waved my assistance aside.

"Follow us please, miss," one of the footmen said.

I offered a miserable smile of thanks to Marc-André but he'd already turned, issuing orders to a stable boy who'd hurried over to help with the horses.

"Cosmos, come," I called, and my pup jumped from the wagon, stretching with obvious pleasure as he sniffed at his new surroundings. I nearly smiled as I watched the footmen give him a wide berth. At least now I wasn't the only one filled with apprehension.

I hurried up the stone steps, then paused on the threshold, studying the golden coat of arms inlaid in the stone. The Marnaigne bull stared up at me with glowering eyes, and the weight of what I was about to do—meet the king, treat the king, save the king—descended over me like a stifling blanket.

I didn't want to be here, not truly.

I wanted to be back in my little cottage, readjusting to my life in Alletois.

If I was honest with myself, I wanted to be back in the Between, sitting beside the fireplace with Merrick and a book, whiling away the too-many years I knew I had.

But I wasn't.

I was here.

So here I'd be.

With Cosmos at my side, I took my first step into the palace.

"Good gods!" a voice exclaimed. "What is that thing ?"

I glanced to Cosmos, who nearly blended into the black marble of the floor, making him look like a massive shadowy hellhound in a sea of darkness.

Just past the entry stood a man, tall and gaunt. His dark wool suit was impeccably tailored, accentuating his height. Everything from the shine of his shoes to the waxed ends of his silver mustache exuded a militant fastidiousness. He peered down at Cosmos, a delicate sneer marring the thin end of his nose.

"This is Cosmos," I offered. He let out a yip that might have been mistaken for a growl, and the tall man flinched.

"You brought your…dog." He said the word belatedly, as if unsure it was the accurate term. I didn't think the question needed answering and so remained silent. "Animals are not allowed in the palace," he continued. "I suppose he can bed down in the stables. Benj!" he called, raising his voice and summoning the young lad who'd been busy attending the stallions outside. "Take this…dog…with you as you leave, please."

The stable boy, all dark curls and dimples, nodded, then snuck a glance at me, smiling. "What's his name, miss?"

"Cosmos. He's very well trained. I shouldn't think him any trouble at all. In fact, I think he'd—"

"Be that as it may," the older man said, cutting me off, "there is much to be done. Any…distractions…could prove to have deadly consequences."

I sighed, then bent down to scratch at Cosmos's ears. "You go with Benj now and be a good boy. I'll come find you when I can." I kissed the top of his silky head, then straightened and watched the pair slip off into the night.

Slowly, I turned and offered the gaunt man a thin smile.

He cleared his throat. "Now then, I take you are Mademoiselle Trépas?"

"You can call me Hazel," I said, holding out my hand.

Pale eyes, neither blue nor gray, swept over my offer, and I could see him remembering how I'd just scratched Cosmos. I lowered my hand.

"I am Aloysius Clément, the king's valet. If you need anything during your stay with us, you must ask me and me alone. We needn't concern the whole of the palace with the king's…dilemma." Aloysius's gaze flitted away from me to the pair of footmen paused beside us. "What are you still standing here for? Take those things to Mademoiselle Trépas's room at once!"

The pair startled into motion, bringing in my trunks. Just before the door shut, I caught sight of five figures approaching the portico, and my mouth went dry.

They stumbled out of the darkness on legs too bony to support their weight, their grave clothes rustling like the husks of desiccated insect shells.

My ghosts.

I had no idea how they were already at the palace, how they'd managed to follow me so fast, but didn't have the time to wonder.

"Salt," I said, turning to the valet, sputtering out my nonsensical demand too loudly. "I will need to have the grounds of the palace salted before I can begin. Every doorway, every window. Any entrance will need to have a line of salt."

Aloysius raised a solitary eyebrow. "Salt?" he repeated.

I nodded. "The king is ill," I began, piecing together the first explanation that came to mind. "The salt will help to keep out bad spirits."

It was true enough.

The valet only blinked.

"It will need to be done immediately. Now, please, if you would." I tried to straighten my spine, drawing up to my full height, but still felt small and silly before him.

"Bad spirits." He licked his lips. "I must admit, when the oracle foretold that His Majesty's healer would be found in Alletois, I didn't realize just how provincial that would make you. Do you have any comprehension of how many doors and windows the palace commands?"

"I understand the magnitude of what I'm asking," I said, even though I didn't, not truly. "But I assure you, Monsieur Clément, my methods work."

After a painful pause, the moment stretched out like taffy pulled too long, he barked an order for the salt, and a trio of footmen I'd not even known were near us sprang into action, their footsteps echoing down the corridors.

"Thank you," I said in as dignified a manner as I could muster. "Now…this will be my first time dealing with the Shivers," I admitted. "Any details you can share, however big or small, would be most helpful."

Aloysius pressed his lips together before responding. "I am not a doctor, and I believe His Majesty would prefer an on-site examination of his personage. Better that you should see it with your own eyes than for me to describe it and accidentally speak out of turn."

I paused. I knew the words he'd spoken—they were said with a delicate simplicity that suggested he thought I might not understand anything bigger—but they were such a jumble of empty phrases and fillers, it was as though the valet was speaking another language entirely.

"Now, if you will follow me, I'll show you to your chamber. You may wish to freshen up before seeing His Majesty." His tone implied more a directive than a suggestion.

Aloysius turned on his heel and strode down the hall without checking to see if I followed. I lost sight of him after he took a swift turn to the left. He was surprisingly spry for his age, and I had to bolt after him to keep from getting lost.

We took another turn, going deeper into the palace. It seemed an endless maze of identical walls and closed doors. After six more turns, I wondered if he was purposely taking me down the same hall to confuse my sense of direction. But Aloysius hardly seemed the type for games or wasted effort. Just how many miles of corridors snaked through the palace?

I almost regretted making such a scene about the salt. Even if the ghosts made their way inside, it would be nearly impossible to find me.

At one junction, I stopped to stare at a set of closed double doors. At least ten feet tall, their lacquered white surface gleamed with flourishes of gold trim. Twin bulls served as door handles, with jewel-encrusted rings hanging from their nostrils.

"Do keep up," Aloysius prompted before heading up a set of stairs.

My footsteps fell too loudly on the treads, and it sounded as though there were a dozen of me racing behind the valet. We passed the first landing, then the second, and I tried to take deep breaths without sounding as though I was gasping for air.

When Aloysius opened a door on the fourth-floor landing and another long white hallway greeted us, I tried not to show my dismay. How on earth would I ever find my way around such a place?

"Your room," he said, outside one of a dozen identical doors.

I turned the hammered brass knob, pushing the door open. The room was stark and unassuming. An oil lamp burned on a side table, illuminating a narrow bed and one chair. An armoire far too grand and large to have been originally intended for the servants' wing took up the bulk of one side of the room. The window was covered by curtains of a serviceable twill.

My belongings lined one wall, the footmen already long gone.

"The washroom is three doors down," Aloysius prompted. "I'll return in half an hour's time. Will that suit you?"

The whirlwind of the afternoon had finally caught up with me, and I wanted nothing more than to face-plant on the uncomfortable-looking bed and go to sleep. But there was work to do. "Half an hour," I agreed.

The valet turned to leave.

"Monsieur Clément, wait!" He paused, his back still toward me. "I don't want to walk into this completely unaware. What can you tell me of the Shivers? Is it like pneumonia?"

"Do you think we would have summoned you over a simple cold?" His voice was not unkind, but his answer did flare my irritation.

"The sweats?" He offered no response, and I paused, biting my lip before daring to say the worst. "The plague?"

Aloysius faced me. His pale eyes flickered over me with a curious pity. "No. It's not like the plague."

A sigh of relief whistled through my teeth.

"I'm afraid it's far, far worse."