Rennar hesitated a second too long. His hand drifted to the too-smooth place on his neck, below his ear, where he’d been nearly cut in half. Then he moved his hand down his torso, as though tracing the injury. “We’ll find another way.”
She grabbed his hand. “What other way? You said it yourself—you need me, and you need me to be more powerful than the witches. The only way for me to do that is to undergo the Coal Baths. The other beasties can’t do it; they can’t cast whispers as well as I can.”
“If the Coven takes Paris and the near realms, we’ll flee to the far realms.”
“The Coven will spread there too. It’s just a matter of time.”
He cursed in a mix of French, the Selentium Vox, and a language so ancient Anouk had never heard it before. He let go of her hand. “Fine. Kill yourself, if you’re so determined to die.”
“I’m not going to die.” She balled her hand into a fist. “Why do you even care?”
His eyes smoldered in the shadows. “I’ve known princesses. I’ve known queens. I’ve never known anyone who was meant to be a monster but who baked pies instead, who danced with Goblins, who loved a witch, who never hated a single thing in the world. Except me, perhaps.”
“I don’t hate you.”
“Well, wait until we’re married.”
He paced in front of sacks of marshmallows, dragging his right leg slightly, then turned sharply toward her. Impulsively, he took her face in his hands. Then he pressed his lips to hers. The pantry went dark—the flames in his palm had been extinguished by their touch. Surprised, she leaned back against the racks of cooling pies. Cherry. Pecan. Chocolate cream. The rich smells made her lightheaded. Rennar put his a hand on her waist and deepened the kiss. His fingers pulled gently against the fabric of her dress, inching her closer. She reached a hand up, thoughtlessly, to touch his jaw. He let out a small sigh and kissed her again. Had she gone mad? Every Royal in Europe was mere steps away. Luc was just beyond the door. Beau was in the cellar, even if he was, currently, a dog. But Rennar’s lips tasted of powdered sugar. She’d missed such little comforts. The flavor of something sweet. The touch of another person.
She pulled back abruptly. The pantry was so dark that she couldn’t see his face. “What was that for?”
He whispered another flame to light in his palm. There was an edge in his eyes again, that arrogant mask the Royals wore to hide what they truly felt. But as the flames danced in his hand, the mask slipped a little.
“In case I don’t get another chance.”
He closed his fist, extinguishing the light again. She heard uneven footsteps and then the door swung open and he disappeared back into the feast. The door shut behind him.
In the dark, Anouk sank onto a lumpy bag of flour. She gently touched her lips. They still tasted like powdered sugar.
Chapter 16
That night, Anouk tossed and turned in bed. It was likely that every acolyte in the Cottage was lying awake, wide-eyed, minds heavy with what the morning would bring. Only the Royals, in their sumptuous guest rooms on the upper floor with their bellies full of Anouk’s soufflé au fromage, would be getting any sleep. For them, the Coal Baths were little more than a game. Anouk imagined them as spectators betting on racehorses, watching some girls die and others live, distressed only by their failed wagers. To beings who had lived for centuries, what were a few more dead Pretties?
At dawn, the ten acolytes kept their heads low as they filed down the stairs to the bathhouse, where enchanted Pretty servants who had come with the Royals bathed them in herbed warm water, rubbed them with sweet almond oil, and gave them stiff, gray robes woven from Icelandic sheep’s wool to wear. Anouk tugged the coarse fabric over her head. A Pretty fastened a crimson sash around Anouk’s waist. Anouk ran her hands over the fabric, thinking once more of the Northland Maidens.
“Mada Zola wouldn’t have been caught dead in plain wool,” Petra muttered to Anouk. “I guarantee she found a way to line her robe with silk.”
They began the procession back up the stairs, their bare feet quietly scuffing on the steps. Anouk stared numbly at the back of Petra’s messy strawberry braid. Duke Karolinge was waiting for them. He threw open the nave doors to the cloistered courtyard.
Anouk shivered, shielding her eyes from the light, and hung back. A cold breeze siphoned off the warmth from her bath. It was a bright but gray day, threatening snow. Never a joyful place, the courtyard was usually full of frozen mud puddles, a few scrawny chickens pecking the ground, and Frederika doing pushups. Now the bed of coals was here, powder-fine and raked to perfection. Wooden planks were laid out over the mud beneath the aster tree. The other girls were already in the middle of the courtyard, lining up by height. Esme was at the head of the line, Heida next to her, then Marta, then Petra. Anouk was next to Petra, followed by Lise, Jolie, Karla, and Sam at the end. Frederika should have been in fourth place, in front of Petra—but she wasn’t with the others.
Anouk frowned.
Before she could think, a hand shot out of the shadows and pain blasted through her side. She held in a cry. The ache felt like a spear straight through her ribs.
“It isn’t personal,” Frederika whispered, leaning out of the shadows. “But I need my crux.”
Frederika dug the blade deeper into Anouk’s side. Anouk fell against the doorway, breathing hard. Frederika pulled her breakfast napkin out of her robe and pressed it to Anouk’s side, soaking up the blood, and before Anouk could even think to scream, Frederika palmed the blood-soaked napkin and went to take her place as fourth in line.
Anouk clutched at the doorway. The pain in her side was like fire.
Everyone’s attention was on the other eight acolytes lining up in front of the bonfire. No one had seen her and Frederika in the shadows, but now Petra was standing on tiptoe, looking for her. Their eyes met. Petra gave her a questioning look. Anouk sucked in a breath. She adjusted the folds of her robe to hide the wound. If Rennar or Luc saw the blood, there was no way they’d let her go through with this. Weakened and bleeding was far from ideal. But they hadn’t seen her vision the night of the firewalk. A wound didn’t matter, not as long as she had the right crux.
She tried as hard as she could to ignore the pain and took a few careful steps to her place between Petra, who was an inch taller than her, and Lise, who was a hair shorter. Her stomach churned at the thought of watching Petra writhing in the flames, but then the pain in her side flared and it took all her strength to remain standing.
“Hey, you okay?” Petra whispered.
Anouk nodded. Sweat dripped down her temples despite the chill. Her eyes flashed to Frederika, who hid the bloody cloth in the palm of her hand.
The chapel bell rang, long and foreboding, piercing the winter quiet, and the southern doors opened. The Royals filed out, pulling up their fur-lined hoods and slipping on leather gloves. They chatted among themselves; one of the women even laughed. Anouk stared at them, speechless. Rennar was in the midst of them, a mug of some hot liquid in hand, the hint of a smile on his face, all of them looking as though they were preparing to ice skate, not watch girls die.
Nothing but a game to them.
Luc, at least, wasn’t among them. Anouk glanced up at the Duke’s library, searching the windows for his shadow.
One of the members of the Crimson Court stepped in a puddle and her boot broke through the ice. Mud splashed on her hem. She let out a cry, and the brooding Lunar Court prince dashed to assist her.
“Please, my lady. Allow me.”
He touched powder to his lips and cast a whisper that turned the puddles into beautiful frozen ponds. Not to be outdone, the Court of the Woods delegates turned to the four corners of the cloisters and summoned roaring bonfires that chased away the worst of the cold. Then they all took their seats, sipping hot drinks.
Duke Karolinge swept out of the nave in his crimson cloak, Saint perched on his shoulder. The Duke looked enormous and daunting, the beast she had seen her first n
ight. He’d tucked his quiet academic persona into his pocket along with his crooked spectacles.
“Acolytes, welcome. Royals of the Courts of the Near Realms, welcome. We gather today to observe an ancient tradition. The Coal Baths were founded fifteen hundred years ago, during the Merovingian dynasty. Prior to that, our realm was accessible only to those who had been born of magic.” He tilted his head to acknowledge the Royals, and it irked Anouk that he didn’t mention the Goblins, whose lineage was just as magical as the Royals’, if not more. But Goblins weren’t invited to the Baths unless it was to clean up afterward.
“There have always been the odd Pretties who discovered our existence, whether through honest trade with us or through accidental means. For millennia the Pretties were seen as simple folk, sheep in need of a shepherd. But the Merovingians believed they could be something more, that through hard work and sacrifice, some could even join our ranks. Many Pretties died in attempts to gain our magic. But with the help of the ancient creatures who call these woodlands home, a few bold women discovered the power of the Coal Baths. This abbey has, for centuries, been the seat of these ancient coals. You ten acolytes, like those first women, have risked much for a chance to enter our world. Your bravery is acknowledged by the Royals here today who have come to bear witness.” He made a sweeping gesture to the Royals, who didn’t bother to stop chatting with one another, indifferent to the dramatic presentation. The only exception was Rennar, who tented his fingers and watched with a hooded expression. Quine’s daughter leaned toward him and spoke a few words. He shook his head quickly.
“If it were in my authority,” the Duke continued, speaking to the girls, “I would grant each of you the powers for which you have labored so hard. But it is not up to me. The flames determine which girls have discovered their connection to magic. You have each selected a crux. I pray you have chosen wisely.” He turned to the Royals, and, as if sensing the end of a speech they must have heard hundreds of times before, they stopped talking. “Royals, do you witness?”
“We witness,” they replied.
“And acolytes, do you burn?”
“We burn,” they said in unison.
“It is time for the Lighting of the Fires.”
The cloisters grew very quiet. Even the wind stilled. The Royals straightened in their thrones, and all touched some powder from the vials around their necks to their lips, staining them vibrant hues of green and orange and blue. In unison they began whispering in voices that formed an eerie harmony, like a church hymn spoken in the Selentium Vox. There was strain in their faces. Despite the many times they’d performed this ceremony, it never became any easier. This wasn’t any simple fire-casting trick. Gradually the raked coals began to smoke. Sparks caught, shooting out from the beds. A red glow began deep in the coals. The fire burned hotter and hotter, throwing off waves of heat that made sweat break out on Anouk’s face even though she was twenty paces away.
The voices of the Royals rose. The Minaret Court stood, arms extended, then the Lunar Court, and then the Court of the Woods. Soon all of them were standing, chanting in a clash of loud whispers, and Anouk wanted to slam her hands over her ears. With a flash like lightning, the powder-like coals crystalized to glass. The red glow gave one final throb and then burst into a blue so bright, Anouk had to look away.
The Royals stopped chanting. Once more the courtyard was silent except for the crackling flames. One by one the Royals retook their seats and reached for a drink of something strong.
The wound in Anouk’s side throbbed. She pressed a hand to it, feeling suddenly uncertain. She turned quickly to Petra and grabbed her hand.
“If only one of us makes it,” she whispered fiercely, “promise that the one who survives helps the other beasties and the Goblins.”
There’d been a time when she’d considered Petra her enemy. But after those long nights in their dormitory bedroom dreaming of magic, she’d come to see herself in the witch’s girl, and vice versa. Two girls who wanted everything, and would do anything to get their hearts’ desires.
Something passed over Petra’s face. Anouk almost expected her to ask what was wrong, but instead, she said quietly, “I promise.”
The sky was darkening overhead, threatening snow. The smell of tea and wood smoke was heavy in the air. Duke Karolinge laid a hemlock bough over the glass coals, and the brilliant blue flames dulled into a blue so thin and faint it was nearly invisible, but Anouk knew that the most dangerous things weren’t always the brightest.
The bitter aroma of hemlock filled the courtyard.
“Esme,” Duke Karolinge announced. “You’re first.”
If Esme was afraid of the flames, she did not show it. With bare feet she stepped onto the soft boughs of hemlock, and then, clutching a pearl between her palms, lifted her chin high and walked straight into the flames. Her face contorted but she didn’t cry out. She clasped the pearl harder and took another step. The other girls watched from the line, riveted. The Royals observed with decidedly less interest. Esme took another step, wincing. The rippling flames distorted her figure so that Anouk couldn’t make out the expression on her face. The flames ate away at her gray robe. But her body wasn’t burning; there were no eyelashes caught on fire, no sizzling skin. And yet Esme clenched her jaw as though she were being ripped apart. Her mouth suddenly fell open as though she was screaming, but if she was, the flames ate the sound. The courtyard was deathly silent. She managed another step, though shaky, and then another. Five steps in all. Not even halfway.
She lost her footing and crumpled. Her robe was all but burned off her, exposing her soot-covered thighs and back. Jolie gasped. Anouk pressed a hand to her mouth. Esme was on all fours in the coals. The fire licked around her. She tried to stand but couldn’t. Her mouth was open in silent screams.
And then, with another blinding flash of light, she was gone.
Anouk stared in shock at the empty glass coals. There was nothing left of Esme, not even a pile of ash. Lise let out a wail, but she was quickly silenced by Heida. The Royals turned away, disappointed and bored, and Anouk caught one of them saying something about a bet.
Duke Karolinge stoically turned to the line of girls. “Heida. You are next.”
Heida—like the rest of them—looked utterly shaken. But she’d been at the Cottage the longest. And she was nothing if not determined. She clutched a lock of Lise’s hair between both palms and stepped barefoot on the hemlock boughs. She glanced back at Lise, gave her a curt nod, then stepped into the fire.
Anouk clenched her jaw against the ache in her side. She felt dizzy from the pain. Her vision was starting to blur. Across the flames, Rennar was watching her with an odd expression on his face, as though he sensed the hidden wound in her side.
Heida made it three steps into the fire before crumpling. Her mouth opened in silent screams. The flames ate away her robes and then tore apart her body in one awful flash, and fast as a blink, another girl vanished from existence.
Chapter 17
Esme. Heida. Marta.
All of them were gone after taking only a few steps into the flames. When Duke Karolinge called the fourth girl, Frederika, Anouk couldn’t watch. She didn’t relish watching anyone die, even someone as deranged as Frederika. She kept her eyes fixed on a clod of mud and thrust her hand in her robe pocket. When she’d changed clothes, she’d slipped Rennar’s mirror into it. It felt solid against her shaking fingers, the mother-of-pearl back soothing. The frozen grass crunched under Frederika’s feet as she approached the coals. All the girls tensed. Anouk kept her gaze low. Was Frederika clutching Anouk’s blood between her hands? Was she sorry for what she had done? Was Frederika screaming silently, like Marta had? Had she tripped and fallen, like Esme?
At Anouk’s side, Lise gasped. Anouk squeezed the mirror harder. When she looked up, the fires were empty. Another girl gone. She sucked in a breath, feeling like the air had been pulled out of her.
Beastie blood was nobody’s crux after all.
“Petra,” the Duke said calmly. “You are next to burn.”
Petra twisted toward Anouk with wide eyes full of sudden panic. The jar of lavender ash in her palm trembled wildly. In a rush she said, “I’m ash in the wind, Anouk, I know it.”
“Then don’t go,” Anouk whispered urgently. “You can forfeit. Wait until next year. Mada Zola wouldn’t have wanted you to take such a risk.”
At the mention of Mada Zola’s name, the look in Petra’s eyes cleared. She tilted up her chin. “Yes, she would have. She always hoped I’d join the Haute. The things she showed me, Anouk . . . the magic. I can’t live a quiet Pretty life.” She ran a shaking hand through her strawberry hair. “All Pretties die, right? Whether it’s today or fifty years from now, what does it matter when immortality is at stake?”
“Petra, don’t—”
But Petra had already started walking. She pressed the lavender ash between her palms and stepped barefoot onto the hemlock boughs. Before she could stop herself, Anouk reached out to snatch her back to safety, but it was too late.
Petra stepped into the blue flames.
“Ouch!” Petra said. She cursed. “This hurts like hell! No one said it hurt this—” Anything else she said was swallowed by the flames.
Anouk pressed her hand to her mouth. Through the flickering blue wall of fire, she could see Petra’s mouth contorting.
One pace. Two. Three.
Anouk tore her eyes away. She couldn’t watch. Her gaze fell on the abbey tower, and, for a second, she thought she saw a shadow in the Duke’s library. Had Luc broken in? Had he found anything?
She looked back at the pyre—she couldn’t help it. She had to know. Petra was five paces in, then six. Anouk felt hope rising in her chest—but then again, if Petra survived, it meant Anouk’s chances were infinitesimal. And yet she couldn’t help but silently cheer her friend on.
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