Chapter 52

I stood at the door, tracing its wooden grain with my fingertips. I wanted to snort with laughter at how quickly everything had spiraled, to marvel that I'd ever thought I was in control to begin with.

I waited for the king to return and admit that he'd made a mistake, but the door remained shut.

I tried the handle, hoping, however foolishly, that I had heard wrong. I couldn't have heard the click of the lock, and I'd certainly not heard King Marnaigne threaten to kill me if I could not save his ailing daughter, then leave me without my valise or a single tonic or medicine with which to treat her.

Predictably, the handle did not twist.

"Sire?" I called. There would be no more René, no more pretense of familiarity with this madman. "Your Majesty?"

There was no response, and I slammed my curved palm against the door in frustration.

"Bellatrice?" I tried, knowing she could not possibly hear me, knowing she was dancing away her last few moments of normalcy. Had Marnaigne already gone after her? Would she sense him coming? Would she be able to flee in time? Or would she be like me, unaware she was in a trap until it sprang shut?

"You can't keep me in here!" I howled, banging on the door again, over and over. I wanted to hear it shake in its frame, rattle and clatter and cause the whole castle to come running. But I could just make out the faint notes of a melody in the ballroom far below. The masquerade was still going on.

I hit the door one last time before giving up. Turning back, I restlessly scanned the chambers, searching, searching. I didn't know what I was looking for. A way to escape? Something to help Euphemia? A weapon with which to defend myself when the king returned?

There was no right answer. There was no one right thing to do.

I crossed to the princess's bed and perched on its edge, studying her. Brilliance pooled in all the recesses of her twitching face, down her cheeks and into her ears, along the dips of her clavicle.

How had she caught the Shivers? There'd not been a single case in months. I'd made sure that healers and doctors all over the capitol and surrounding areas were well stocked with black agar; that the pastes and tonics were sent to every province; that every village, however small, received instructions on how to fight it.

And it had been kept at bay. The reverents in the Rift burned sacrifices of gratitude each night, certain Félicité was finally showing a bit of favor after so many things had gone wrong.

And what I'd told Marnaigne was true: sicknesses were cyclical, often going dormant in warmer months when everyone was outside, breathing fresh air, eating newly grown greens and fruits, only to flare up again as winter set in.

But it was now spring. And no one around Euphemia had beensick.

None of that mattered. It didn't matter how she'd gotten sick. It didn't matter where or from whom. The Holy First had marked Euphemia with the deathshead. The little princess was meant to die.

If only I'd run when I'd had the chance. If only I hadn't stopped to have that one final moment with her. I could have been in a carriage halfway across the city by now. I'd have never known she'd gotten sick. I'd have never known I was meant to kill her.

Why?

Why hadn't I run?

Why was the Holy First giving me this assignment after nearly a year of seeing nothing?

My gift was gone, ripped away in a god's fit of castigation. Had I actually seen this deathshead or had it been a trick of the eyes, a moment of doubt brought on by too much stress?

Tentatively, I bent over Euphemia, bringing my hands to her face. I cupped her cheeks, heedless of the mess I was making, the Brilliance I smeared all over her and myself.

The deathshead appeared, covering her face, its skull a bleached white.

"Why?" I demanded out loud, an angry snarl, knowing the First would not answer. "Why now? Why her?"

I struck the mattress with my fist, lashing out at the bed because I could not fight a removed and aloof goddess. Euphemia made a small sound of protest and I wished I could take my outburst back, allowing her respite where I could.

I sat with her for a long while, watching her sleep, unable to offer help. I closed my eyes, listening to the husky rasp of her breathing. Had my valise been there, I would have made her a warm tea of jaggery and cumin, sprinkled with black pepper to help expel her congestion. I thought through all the ways I might try to treat her, all the remedies that would relieve her symptoms. But none of them mattered in the end. I had no supplies and one very insistent deathshead.

No matter how it would break my heart, I could not ignore it. The Holy First was giving me a second chance. She was giving me the opportunity to get back on track, to return to her and my godfather's good graces.

For Merrick's sake, I would not disappoint her again.

I sighed and opened my eyes, looking around the room for anything that would help me carry out this grim task. There would be no painless, easy slip into oblivion for Euphemia, not with my bag of potions and poisons so far from me.

My gaze fell upon the mountain of throw pillows she slumbered upon. There were dozens of them piled about. Ones covered in embroidery, ones beaded and ruffled. I picked up the largest of them, pleased to find it heavy with goose down.

Suffocation was a terrible way to die, but she was sleeping, at least, her eyes already closed. I'd hold the pillow over them and wouldn't have to see her look of betrayal. She'd never know it was I who'd done it.

Who'd killed her.

I sat back, hugging the pillow to my chest.

Could I kill her?

Snuffing out Kieron's candle had been brutally painful, but I hadn't seen him suffer. I hadn't heard his last gasps for air, I hadn't seen his limbs tremble and twitch. Truthfully, I wasn't sure what his death had even looked like.

Smothering Euphemia would not be like that. I'd see every moment of it. I'd hear everything: the rustle of the bedsheets as she flailed, the frantic pounding of her feet as she fought to gain leverage, the terrible drop into silence. Those sounds would haunt me forever, even if her ghost could not.

I dug my fingers into the heft of the pillow, wanting to tear it apart. I hated the deathshead, hated that the First was back, asking me to do this. How much harm could this small girl possibly inflict on the world? How could it bid me over and over to kill the people I was meant to be closest with?

I wiped away a useless tear.

Tears could come later.

This was not the time to wallow. This was not the time to mourn.

I needed to be as pragmatic and efficient as possible if I was going to make it through the night with my own life intact.

I set aside my future murder weapon and examined Euphemia's room. Her chamber was on the fourth floor of the palace. The windows were unlocked and able to be swung open, but the parapet outside them was dangerously narrow, barely wide enough to stand upon tiptoe.

It would have to do.

Bellatrice's rooms were on the same side of the hall as Euphemia's. If I could make my way five windows over—or was it six?—I might be able to slip into her chambers and escape from there.

If her windows were unlocked.

If I could open them from the outside.

If I didn't fall to my death trying to get there.

If, if, if.

I pushed the worries from my mind. Little good could come from dwelling on all the things that could go wrong. I just needed to get into motion.

I needed to act.

Once I was far away from the palace, from this unhinged king, from the shell of this little girl, I could allow myself to fall apart. But not until then.

With a quavering breath, I approached Euphemia's side of the bed, pillow in hand. Brilliance had begun to spill from her mouth, running past her lips and down her chin in bold rivers of dark sludge.

"I'm so sorry, Phemie," I murmured miserably, lowering the pillow. "Please, please forgive me."

Across the room, I heard a squabble of loud voices shouting in the corridor, and then the door opened.

"No! Hazel! Stop!"