I didn’t know until I found it tucked into her pillowcase more than a year later.
The thin crust of snow crunches beneath my boots, and I shiver, suddenly realizing how much loneliness can feel like cold. Like wondering if you’ll ever know what it feels like to be warm again.
I miss her.
I rush back up to my workroom and begin to put messages in everything my hands make for her. There must be a way to show her that it was real, all of it. That I will fight for her and for that relationship I unwillingly shattered, no matter how long it takes and how hard it is to put those pieces back together again. I begin to cover her dresses, her costumes, her shoes, with words. Not with messages of warning or fear, but with love.
When the salon is a little less than three weeks away, Helene and Eve decide on the final design for Eve’s costume. I start it from scratch and I lace our memories into every part of it. Memories are like a duet, with layered perspectives and harmonies knitting together, shared between two people. These are mine. I’m singing to her the parts she forgot or she never knew.
In the fabric lining the corset, I write: When you were five, you once made earrings from torn strips of penny papers and dyed them with old coffee. They hung from your ears like limp brown seaweed but you said they made you feel like a princess or a famous dancer.
On the inside of her satin laces: I have always loved your laugh that starts in a low roar and builds higher and higher until you get this dimple in your cheek. It is like a punctuation mark to the best sound in the world.
When she came to the Mill, she made me laugh for the first time in three years.
In the length of her hair ribbons, I write: I read Hans Christian Andersen stories to you when you were six. I was nervous to share them with you, this special part of me I shared only with my father, and if you’d rejected it or thought it was silly or boring, it would have spoiled something precious to me a little bit. But instead your eyes lit up and it made those stories even better and dearer because I got to share them with him and with you and it felt like making something grow again from an old seed.
Each fold of her tutu fabric holds a memory. When you were five and learning to write, you got so mad at me for making you hold your pen the right way that you threw the pen and stomped your boot hard on my foot.
When you were three, you used to say “lemomade” and “upslide down,” and it was so endearing that I didn’t correct you and I was almost a little sad when you grew up enough to start saying those words the right way.
When I start, I don’t want to stop. She can dance in front of the king draped in love. I smile whenever I touch the layers of fabric, holding memories that will lift and fall around her like snow-covered boughs in the wind. No matter what happens, she’ll have these memories. She’ll know that even during those years she spent as an orphan, there was someone who desperately loved her.
“Knock, knock.” Jakob gently cracks open my door. His dark hair is mussed, his lips soft and pink. “Liljan wants to meet,” he says, gesturing toward the attic nook. I set down my sewing needle, glimpsing the books about medicine and astronomy half tucked under the crook of his arm.
“You’ve been with Eve?” I guess. I hesitate, biting my cheek. “How is she?”
“She’s well, Marit. She picks things up quick. I just teach her whatever she wants to learn. And lately,” he says, “what she wants to learn about is the Firn.”
“The Firn?” I ask. I hear my own voice falter.
“She wants to know how it kills people. If there’s a cure. If it can ever be helped.”
“Yes. Well. Her mother died of the Firn,” I say softly.
“And yet, if she’s this interested in finding a cure . . .” he says. He turns at the landing and gives me a small smile. “My guess is that she’s thinking of someone who is still alive.”
I concentrate on his shoes, but I feel the tiniest lift in my heart as I follow him up to the attic.
Brock and Liljan are already there.
Liljan bars the door behind us before she pulls something out of her pocket. She presents it to us on a plump pillow, flashing the impish grin that Nina always calls downright terrifying.
“You’re doing that grin that Nina says makes you look like a rabid vole,” Brock informs her.
Liljan just smirks more triumphantly.
“Well? Does it pass?” she asks. Her eyes sparkle because she already knows the answer.
If I’m honest, a small part of me hoped Liljan wouldn’t be able to create a convincing double. Because if she can, it means my theory might be right—and the next part of the plan makes my stomach turn with nerves.
I breathe out and pick up the ring in my fingers. “I had to make my best guess for the size of the band,” Liljan says. “It’s just gold leaf, but it’ll work for now.”
I hold Liljan’s stone up to a candle flame and watch the light refract through the jewel. It’s an exact replica. Could the Vestergaard jewel business really be one massive, intricate network of deceit? I didn’t truly dare believe it until seeing what Liljan can do with glass and color. I pull out my father’s stone and compare the two, side by side.
“It’s a perfect match,” I say.
“So are we doing this, then?” Brock asks, chafing his hands together.
Jakob removes his spectacles, sighing heavily. “Everything about this is foolhardy,” he says.
“Just think of what Nina will do if she finds out!” Liljan says gleefully. She takes the replica-stone back.
Jakob looks at me through his dark eyelashes, as if he’s asking me an unspoken question, and I get a sudden heady rush from all the danger I’m flirting with right now. The danger of magic and the mystery of the mines and, maybe most of all, him. It feels just like all those futile times I tried to keep my heart from Eve. Don’t get too close. Don’t care too much. Don’t use magic. Don’t hope too much for the future. But I’m not listening to any of those cautions right now.
I move my hand in the shadows to graze his, and the touch shoots giddy sparks across my skin.
“You’re up, little birds,” Liljan says, rolling the stone between her fingers so it flares in the light. “Let’s see just how deep this deception lies.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
I should know we aren’t off to an auspicious start when Malthe, Philip’s valet, appears at the breakfast table in the morning.
I swallow and meet Liljan’s eyes over a dish of Dorit’s øllebrød, porridge made with scraps of rye bread soaked in sugar and beer.
“Back so soon, Malthe?” Liljan asks sweetly, twirling her spoon in the dense porridge.
“Had to bring some things for the salon at the master’s request,” he says.
I play with the false gem tucked in the scratchy fabric of my pocket folds. We already knew there would be more policemen in the area than usual, because they’ve been patrolling the roads nearby ever since Ivy was killed. But then, barely an hour later, the front door opens. Liljan’s face mirrors my own when the captain of the king’s guard is announced. Eight armed men trickle in after him and branch off through the house, inspecting the entrances and exits, the dining room, kitchen, and ballroom, in advance of the king’s visit.
Dorit hums while she chops baked hazelnuts for the Mazarin cake, but sweat trickles down her back. She keeps glancing at the small, empty glass jar that, up until this morning, held an herb Brock grew that is similar to a poppy. The salt and spices in today’s lunch—a stew—will mask the herb’s taste and smell. It should make Philip sleep deeply for several hours.
“Smells good,” one of the guards notes to Dorit. She swallows hard and adds another handful of crushed pepper to the simmering stew.
I follow Brock to the ballroom, where we pretend to devise a way for heavy velvet curtains to work with the pulley system he’s constructing. Declan is building an elaborate stage for Eve. The wood responds to his touch, the designs etching beneath his fingertips into whittled legs and swirled imp
ressions plated with gold leaf. Around the stage, Brock morphs the ballroom into a living garden. Each day it spills over a little more with fruit trees, with vines and walls of buds. Between the branches of an orange blossom tree, I watch as Eve’s feet suddenly go out from beneath her, tangling together like hooks catching, and she goes down hard on her hip. She kicks at the floor in frustration, her freckles darkening on her flushed cheeks.
“Again,” Helene says, and Eve pulls herself up and gets back in position, even though I’m sure the fall will leave a bruise.
Philip leans on a cane, his arm in a sling and his shirt tight against the bandaging around his middle, observing with an unreadable expression. We’ve timed his schedule. He tires after he takes his turn around the house and sleeps heavily after lunch, so a slightly deeper or longer rest won’t attract notice. I see the ring, gleaming dark red and heavy on his finger.
“What’s he doing?” Brock whispers to me, hoisting the curtains along the rods.
Malthe appears with a leather case stained coffee brown—the same one he was carrying when we saw him that day in Copenhagen. He says something to Philip under his breath, and then the two of them turn together and climb the stairs.
“Today’s no good. The house is crawling with guards,” I whisper to Brock, my fingers playing with the heavy curtain folds.
“Jakob only made one batch of sedative. And we really can’t afford to lose another day,” Brock whispers. He tugs on the cords to test the curtains and they successfully pull open along the rings. By the time Malthe returns, he’s alone—and the case is gone.
Stones. It has to be . . . Philip is going to make some sort of presentation to the king and it involves the jewels. I pin the curtains back to hold their place and think again about the entries in the records of jeweled gifts meant for all of the royal family. What is the point of outfitting the royal family with worthless glass?
I want to see what’s in that leather case.
My nerves are wound so tight that I barely touch my lunch. Dorit nods at me when she hands Philip’s tray to Brock, who brings it through the main house to Jakob. Peder is patrolling the hall.
Our countdown begins now.
Dorit moves into position. “Shall we discuss the settings and timing for the final proposed menu?” she asks, and unfurls a paper across the entire length of the table to distract Nina. Liljan, Brock, and I make our way to Philip’s room through the back channels of the house. My stomach feels as if it’s been replaced with coiled, rusted springs, and they tighten when I glimpse Eve farther down the hallway. She catches sight of the three of us and pauses. Then she turns her head and moves on, as if she’s seen nothing.
Liljan stations herself at the front hallway and Brock hangs back to guard the servants’ staircase.
I knock quietly on Philip’s door, five times, just like I would with Eve, and Jakob opens it without a sound.
I step inside and my heart beats a hair faster. The room smells like soap, flowers, and laudanum. Philip is sleeping, his breathing heavy and slow, and I feel the first twinge of guilt.
Is this wrong?
But I risked my life for him, to save his. A little laudanum and a harmless switch should be fair game.
“There’s a problem,” Jakob whispers.
“Please tell me you’re joking,” I say as my eyes adjust to the darkened room.
“He didn’t finish it,” Jakob says, nodding to a half-eaten plate of stew. “I tried to get him to, but he said he wasn’t hungry. I gave him a little extra laudanum to help but I didn’t dare give him any more. I couldn’t risk it. But our timing is all off now—I can’t know for certain how much is in his system or how long he’ll stay under.”
My eyes fall on the ring. Philip’s still hands lie on top of the blanket.
“Let’s move quickly, then,” I say with a deep inhale. But when I approach Philip’s bedside, I swear under my breath.
“Get Liljan,” I say immediately to Jakob. I hold up the decoy to be sure. “The stones don’t match each other.”
I know it isn’t just my memory failing me—the stone on Philip’s finger has changed color. I examine it while Jakob summons his sister. It’s a deeper red now, darkened to almost black. Like crusted blood instead of fresh.
Is it a different ring altogether? Or is it . . . darkening?
“Could it be losing its color because it’s been dyed with magic?” I whisper when Liljan appears next to me.
“Perhaps if it was from a long time ago, magic could start to fade?” Liljan murmurs uncertainly. “I don’t know. None of my colors have ever faded before.” She touches the false stone and the color settles into a deeper, richer red. She hands it back to me.
And I hesitate.
She watches my face. “Do you want me to do it?” she finally asks.
Yes, I think.
“I can do it,” I say. I feel Jakob’s eyes on me as I gently take Philip’s hand in mine and work the ring from his finger. He stirs, shifting with a soft groan when I push the replacement onto his finger, and then settles again.
“Go,” I say to Jakob, and slip the real ring into his waiting hand. He gives me one long, silent look, his throat bobbing, and then he’s gone to examine the stone under the microscope in his attic nook.
“Buy me three more minutes?” I plead with Liljan. She nods, without question, and returns to the hallway.
I take one more glance at Philip to make sure he’s still asleep, and then I begin to creep around the room. I have to find that case. I’ve been on my hands and knees for no longer than a minute when Brock appears. He lifts his finger to his lips in silent warning. Slips behind the open door to hide himself.
I hear Peder’s voice. I freeze and move behind the bed.
Liljan’s voice is full of forced cheerfulness in the hallway. I can practically see her bounding to block Peder in his path. “I was thinking,” she chirps. “Perhaps we should discuss the entrance to the servants’ wing with the king’s guards—I have an idea I’d like to show you.”
There’s a pause when all I can hear is the thudding of my own heartbeat.
Then their footsteps begin to fade in the opposite direction and I let out a breath.
“What are you doing?” Brock whispers urgently. “Time’s up. We’ll find a way to get that stone back onto his finger later.”
“That case we saw,” I insist. “I have to find it first.”
Brock hesitates, deliberating. “Hurry up,” he relents. “I’ll keep watch.”
I search the room, my fingers sifting through the drawers and closets, and my doubts rise to plague me anew. What if the ring on Philip’s finger is a mere glass fake? What, then? Will it end the Vestergaards? Is my loyalty to the truth, to Eve, to my father and those dead miners? To magical people I don’t know who might be losing their lives? Are strangers’ lives worth my relationship with the only person I love?
I open the closet and see two cases there, next to Philip’s polished boots. I kneel, breathing hard.
“Hurry,” Brock says from the doorway. “I barred the door to the servant staircase. No one is coming in that way. But Liljan can only hold Peder off for so long.”
“Help me get this open.”
I grab the coffee-colored case I saw in Malthe’s hands this morning. We play with the lock and jiggle it with one of my sewing pins until we get the case to fall open.
But it’s empty. Whatever Malthe brought for Philip is already gone.
I swear under my breath.
“Now the other one,” I insist. I can already tell it has something inside it by the weight when I pull it out.
“Hurry,” Brock says again. This lock is harder to open, and another precious minute ticks by before the latch finally clicks. I raise the top.
Inside is a tangled handful of rings, all jumbled together.
But these don’t look like the other jewels.
They are all black. Smooth.
I hold one up to the light. It looks dama
ged. Charred or something, as if someone wanted to destroy it.
“We should go,” Brock whispers, looking toward the door.
“Do you think he would miss it if we took just one?” I ask anxiously.
Brock swallows. He can see the hesitation, the fear, in me. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to take the ring. To risk everything, to find out the truth.
He closes the case with a click. “I’ll take the fall. If it comes to it.”
Before I can speak, he snatches the blackened ring from my fingers and thrusts it in his pocket.
I freeze when I hear the softest sound of sheets rustling.
“What are you doing in here?”
Philip is sitting up in bed. His voice is eerily quiet and cold as steel.
And he is looking right at us.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Brock stands slowly and kicks the case back into the closet.
Crimson color is swirling up his neck, but his jaw clenches and he remains standing still. I know what we’re both thinking. People have died to make sure this secret stays buried. We might lose more than our jobs if Philip realizes what we are doing.
And then Philip yells for the guard.
Peder appears in half a moment with a panicked-looking Liljan on his heels.
“Get Helene,” Philip orders. “The rest of you, stay put.”
“Can I help you, sir?” Peder asks.
“I think these two were attempting to steal from me.”
Peder returns quickly with Helene, and Eve on her heels. They crowd into the room. I can hardly look at Eve. My cheeks feel like flames.
“I’ll ask you one last time,” Philip says. He makes a show of pulling free from his blankets. He takes his cane and stands menacingly. “What are you doing in here?”
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