She pulled the necklace over her head. How much time was left? Three minutes? Two?
“Just one coin,” Beau said. “So it’ll work for only one of us.”
“I know,” she breathed. “It’s for you. You’re going to stay human.”
Even in the shadows, she could see his expression harden. He reached for the coin, though she held it just out of reach. “No. Anouk, no. It’s going to be you.”
She scrambled back, fiercely guarding the coin. “Forget it, Beau. I couldn’t save the others but maybe I can save you.”
She extended her arm over the pool, the coin clutched in her hand, but he grabbed her around the waist and pulled her away from the water. Let him try to stop her. She’d throw herself into the fountain if she had to. His breath brushed her neck as they scuffled. His arm pressed into her ribs.
He was reaching, but not for the coin.
His fingers closed around one of the few roses still in bloom that hugged the edge of the fountain, and before she could grasp what he was about to do, he popped it into his mouth.
“I know only one spell,” he breathed. “But right now it’s the only one I need.”
An awful premonition struck her. “Beau, no—”
“Dorma, dorma, sonora precimo.” For the first time, his pronunciation was perfect. It was quiet. It was powerful. He’d mastered the damn sleeping spell in the one single moment when she wanted him to make a mistake.
Blackness came first, crackling like ash.
Then a feeling of falling.
His arms around her, lowering her to the ground, and the smell of roses on his breath.
Lips pressed to her cheek.
And then she heard it—a splash of a coin—followed by the most awful words in the world.
“I wish for Anouk to stay human forever.”
In the distance, bells rang out from the church they’d passed on the corner, each chime impossibly loud, impossibly heavy, as though the bells were weighed down by devils.
Bong.
Bong.
Bong.
And then more bells came from more churches on different blocks, tolls that broke the beautiful night with crashing, gnashing, deafening sounds. Twelve chimes. Even long after the bells had stopped, their vibrations traveled throughout the city, straight into the little alley at the far end of Rue des Amants.
Midnight had come at last.
Chapter 41
Time Over
When Anouk woke, the moon shone bright enough to burn her eyes.
She rolled over, woozy and foggy-headed, to find ivy crumpling beneath her hands. She heard the sounds of trickling water and felt cool night air. Crushed bits of dry leaves clung to her face. For a moment, nothing made sense. Her memory was like an unfinished jigsaw puzzle, missing more pieces than it contained. The fountain . . . a car . . .
Then the impossible happened.
The moon turned off.
She blinked in the bizarre sudden darkness, and then her eyes adjusted and she slowly came to make out two people standing in front of her: a young black couple with blue jeans and white sneakers. Americans. The man held a phone to his ear, but when he saw she was awake, he swung it back toward her and shone that bright light again that she’d mistaken for the moon.
They said something in English, but to Anouk’s ears it sounded like clunky gibberish.
“What time is it?” she rasped, pressing a hand to her dry throat.
But they shook their heads, not understanding her French, and she tapped on her wrist to indicate her question. The man turned his phone around and showed her the time backlit on the screen: 12:59 a.m.
The woman’s gaze shifted to something behind Anouk, and her face suddenly broke in a smile. She crouched down, making a sound like she was calling to an animal. Anouk pressed a hand to her head. She was at the fountain near the townhouse. The cute spitting gargoyle. She’d had a coin, she’d come here with Beau, and . . .
Beau.
She sat up, remembering everything with a rush of panic.
The American woman made that inviting noise again. A shadow came out from the corner, a shadow that changed in the phone’s light to two big brown eyes and a wagging tail and sandy-brown fur. It inched forward at the girl’s beckoning motion but stopped a few feet away, hesitant and wary.
Anouk found herself staring dumbly at the creature.
Dog.
A dog.
She collapsed backward, her palms scraping on the bricks, but she felt only numbness. The fountain kept tinkling, and the sound was all she could cling to to keep her mind from slipping away.
“Is he yours?”
Another girl, a French teenager in a waitress uniform, had joined the Americans and was peering at her strangely. The girl pointed to the dog.
“Is he yours?” she repeated.
Anouk grabbed for the dog, some instinct making her pull it close and wrap her arms around it fiercely.
“Yes,” she said. “He’s mine.”
Her voice was wild enough that the American couple exchanged a look and then stepped back. The man’s phone rang and they used the excuse to walk away at a fast clip. But the French girl knelt down and pressed something cool into Anouk’s hand.
“For luck,” the girl said. “I was going to throw it in myself, but it looks like you need it more than me.”
The girl left, and Anouk stared at the glistening franc in her palm. Still clutching the dog by the scruff of its neck, terrified of letting go, she crawled to the fountain as fast as she could and threw in the coin. It bounced off the gargoyle and plinked into the water.
“For Beau to be human again,” she whispered in a rush. “For Beau to be Beau.”
She squeezed her eyes closed.
She wished harder than she had ever wished in her life. She wished to see his smile again, to run her fingers through his hair. But the fur beneath her hand didn’t change to skin. The breath on her face still smelled of dog. She squeezed her eyes shut harder, wishing and wishing and wishing, but when she at last opened her eyes, the dog was still a dog.
The Pretty girl’s coin wasn’t magic. It was just an old coin. Besides, it was past midnight. Even if it had been enchanted, it wouldn’t have been strong enough to combat the unstoppable force of time.
She sank back onto the bricks, pressed her face into her hands.
If only I hadn’t taught him that spell. A wet nose nudged her cheek.
She pulled the dog close and buried her face in its fur, tasting the saltiness of her own tears. She cried because crying was all that was left. But tears could last only so long, even ones as powerful as these.
Finally she sank back on her heels, wiped her sleeve over her face, and did all she could think to do.
“Come on,” she said to the dog. “Let’s go home.”
* * *
It wasn’t until she had climbed the steps of the townhouse and put her hand on the knob that a thought struck Anouk. She stopped moving.
Cricket was the cat.
Luc was the mouse.
Hunter Black was the wolf.
Beau was the dog.
That left only one pelt. The one that wasn’t fur like the others but had long wings and downy feathers over a snow-white body.
The first time they’d seen the pelts, she’d told herself she wasn’t curious to know which was hers. That it didn’t matter. Cat or mouse or whatever, they were all just animals. She hadn’t let herself try to guess the truth in her gestures or reflection in the mirror. But now she knew.
I was an owl.
The truth didn’t hurt like she’d thought it would. There was no hot sting of shame. Rather, she felt the opposite. Warmth spread through her freshly beating heart, filling the place where the dark, cold thing had always been. Maybe it hadn’t been dark at all. Maybe she just hadn’t ever bothered to pull back the curtains and consider it in the right light.
Something rose in her, a sensation beneath her breastbone, like flying.
Maybe that was why she was so drawn to the jacket with the gargoyle embroidery—because of the wings and the talons. She had recognized a piece of herself in it even before she knew what she was. Its threads had reminded her of the life she’d once led. She wasn’t an owl now, not anymore. But was she really a human?
Maybe not entirely. Maybe she didn’t have to be. She could be something both pretty and ugly. Light and dark.
Human and not.
She pushed open the townhouse door.
The dog nudged its way in beside her, wagging its tail as its nails clickety-clacked on the marble floors. She took her time—after all, time had ceased to be her enemy—and listened to the thunk of her shoes on Mada Vittora’s marble floors.
Only it wasn’t Mada Vittora’s house now. It belonged to—
“Viggo.” She gasped.
She tore up the stairs.
Fears struck her like the tolling of a clock—that she’d push open the bedroom door to find his eyes closed, his face pale, his body cold. That she’d taken too much blood, and for what? Her plan hadn’t even worked.
The dog padded up the stairs behind her, excited by her hurry without understanding why.
She rested a hand on the bedroom door, hesitating. Afraid Viggo was dead. Afraid he wasn’t, because then she’d have to explain to him what had happened to the others, especially Hunter Black.
“Viggo?”
She entered the bedroom with her heart in her throat. His eyes were closed, just like in her nightmares. His face was pale. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a cry.
Not him too.
She didn’t want to be alone. Didn’t want the townhouse to herself, all the food in the kitchen, the empty rooms and empty halls. She’d put on an apron again and scrub every last crumb from the floor if it would bring her friends back.
She sank onto the bed. “Oh, Viggo. Oh no.”
With a jerk, he sucked in a breath and let out a rasping snore.
She reached for him so fast that she accidentally slapped him. His eyes shot open as he swatted away her hand. “What? Who?”
“Viggo!”
She collapsed on him. She didn’t mind the slouchy knit hat that scratched her skin or how he smelled like stale brandy. She squeezed him hard.
“Can’t . . . breathe . . .”
“Oh.”
She sat up, biting her lip, unable to hide her grin. “I thought you were dead!”
“I almost was. You nearly strangled me.”
The dog jumped on the bed, all nuzzling wet nose and big brown eyes. Viggo blinked a few times. “What,” he said, “is that? And where is everyone?”
Anouk felt the blood drain from her face. She looked away.
Slowly, in halting words, she told him what had happened. The siege of the château, the wooden soldiers, Tenpenny turned to stone, Cricket and Luc changed back into animals. And, of course, Hunter Black too.
To her surprise, when she told him the worst of it, he pulled her into a hug.
“They’re still alive,” he whispered fiercely in her ear. “Cricket and Luc, and maybe even Hunter Black. Which means we can turn them back somehow. It isn’t over, not while the two of us are still breathing.”
She didn’t know what to say. Viggo hadn’t shown much backbone in his pampered life, but these three days had changed him, just as they had changed her.
“How?” she asked.
He brushed at her lipstick-heart-stained cheek. “You’ll find a way. You have so far. And I’ll be there to cause convenient distractions when you need them most.”
She smiled, but it faded quickly. “There’s something else. I told the rest of the Goblins they could come here to tend to their wounded. They’re on their way now. Don’t be surprised if the house starts to sound like the inside of a discotheque and you find pet rats crawling around.”
She scrubbed a hand over her face and realized she was still covered in blood, sweat, ash, Tenpenny’s makeup, and even a few errant pieces of glitter. It really did stick to everything.
“I need a shower.”
“Use the Mada’s bathtub. This townhouse is yours now as much as it’s mine. Move your things from your room to the master bedroom, if you like. You’ve earned a proper en suite.”
The dog jumped off the bed when she stood and followed her into the hall. She found herself looking at the house with new eyes. Those cobwebs that had sprung up in the corners? Let them stay. The paw prints on the hardwood floor? Not her problem. The Goblins would make a mess of everything anyway, and let them. It was time things loosened up around the townhouse.
Once in her room, she freed her messy hair from its ponytail and ran her fingers through the tangles. Kicked off her boots one at a time. Peeled off her dirty tuxedo trousers and tossed them onto the floor. Shrugged off her Faustine jacket, brushing a finger over the place where its metallic threads had deflected magic.
And then she carried the jacket downstairs to the Mada’s bedroom.
The plush rug tickled her bare feet, and she wiggled her eight toes in the luxurious fibers. The dog plodded straight for the grand master bathroom.
She followed it in, sat on the edge of the tub, and turned on the hot water. Steam rose, easing her muscles. She peeled off the rest of her clothes and then sank into the tub, sucking in a breath at the almost-painful pleasure of the hot bath. Glass bottles of bath salts lined the edge of the tub.
Gardenia. Rosewater. Lavender.
She kicked over the lavender bottle, letting it clatter to the floor. She never wanted to smell lavender again as long as she lived. She chose another, and the scent of gardenia filled the room as she leaned back in the tub, sinking deep until the water tickled her chin.
The dog lay down next to the bathtub, resting its head on its paws.
She closed her eyes and sank even lower, holding her breath, letting the water cover her head. She felt her hair fan out around her like a mermaid’s. Like a selka’s. What was she going to do now? She didn’t even know if Hunter Black was alive. Cricket and Luc were imprisoned by Rennar. He’d take them back to Castle Ides and lock them in those awful cages. He had to know that she’d come for them. They were literally bait.
Would his offer still stand?
If she climbed out of this bath, dressed in Mada Vittora’s finest black suit, took a car across town, and rode the elevator up to the penthouse of Castle Ides, would he still agree to the trade he had promised—that if she was his bride, he’d turn her friends back into humans?
It was an intriguing offer. It was also her only offer.
And yet she could imagine, like the winding tunnels of the catacombs, where that path would lead. He’d uphold his promise and turn them human—but at a heavy cost. His little monsters. And she would share his table, have a throne by his side, a place in his bed. Bound to him eternally. Princess of a kingdom she loathed.
Underwater, she blew out her breath in a flurry of bubbles, eyes squeezed shut.
The smell of gardenia permeated the water, smoothing over her skin, weaving into her hair. It made her think of Luc and his herbs. There was a lot of life-essence up there in the attic, all of it perfectly cataloged. Even more than in Mada Zola’s storeroom. Even more than she’d seen in Castle Ides.
She sat up abruptly, water streaming down her face.
The dog gave her a curious look.
The Faustine jacket lay by the edge of the tub, and she grabbed it and rubbed the fabric between her fingers.
Every witch had two things: a moniker and an oubliette.
She reached into the jacket pockets where she’d stored so many treasures. The coin. The knife. The clock. With the right spell, could these pockets fill the role of an oubliette?
She knew a little of how witches became witches. They started as Pretty girls, as humans, just like her—more or less. There were training academies deep in the Bavarian forests where the girls learned through trials how to call forth and command magic. The girls who sur
vived the initiation ceased to be Pretties and became witches. Capable of performing any spell, even the most complex one she knew of: the beastie spell.
Her fingers curled around the edges of the tub.
She wouldn’t stay in the townhouse and drink champagne and sleep in a big bed, not as long as her friends were in cages.
But maybe she wouldn’t go to Castle Ides, either.
Maybe—though it was such a dangerous idea, she only dared to whisper it to herself—she would go to a castle in the woods, a place of snow and smoke, a house of girls who all wanted the same thing she wanted and who would kill to get it, and maybe she’d kill too if she had to, and she’d return and find her friends and she’d turn them human again with her own voice.
She leaned over the edge of the tub, looked down at the dog. “Little Beau,” she said, toes splashing in the bathwater. “Can I tell you a secret?”
But the words hung unspoken on her lips. She didn’t dare even tell the dog. Witches were the enemy. How could she consider becoming the enemy? Cricket—if Cricket were still herself—would kill her for even thinking it.
She sank into the water one more time, submerged in gardenia and bath salts. Once an owl. A maid. A servant. A little dust mop. But maybe she could be more.
She had the jacket, an oubliette.
Now she just needed a moniker.
Mada Vittora had been the Diamond Witch.
Mada Zola, the Lavender Witch.
But she was something with talons and wings and magic, something both beautiful and ugly, something gifted and cursed.
“Anouk,” she whispered in silent bubbles beneath the perfumed water, a whisper just for her, full of great danger and even greater hope. “The Gargoyle Witch.”
Acknowledgments
This book began like many of my others did—with me pestering Carrie Ryan and Megan Miranda to tell me what book I should write next. Of all my ideas, this was the one they leaped on, and for that I am grateful. I never knew I’d have so much fun writing about a maid who might (or might not) have started life with a tail.
As always, big thanks to Josh Adams at Adams Literary for finding the perfect home for Anouk’s story. To Cat Onder, Gabriella Abbate, Sarah Landis, Helen Seachrist, Cara Llewellyn, Samantha Bertschmann, Veronica Wasserman, Tara Shanahan, Tara Sonin, and everyone at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, thank you for your passion, your enthusiasm, and your grace during the sometimes-unpredictable publishing journey. I knew I adored your team when you served champagne and French pastries at the office meet-and-greet. Merci!
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