The Keeper came, her broad face grim, along with Sally and two other maids whose names I didn’t know, and the seamstress with her sewing box. They were ready, I thought, to wrestle me into the party dress if I tried to resist.
The Misses got to their feet, twittering excitedly about the party. I watched as Olive gathered up the spindle and thread, taking it with her when she left.
I was certain that I’d see it again later.
Docile, I went with the servants up the stairs to the pink room. They stripped me, put me into a bath, and washed me with rose-scented soap, then pulled me to my feet and dried me with a towel that had been warmed by the hearth.
I was so tired. So, so tired. My will had frayed to a thread; there wasn’t much left of me to fight.
If Shoe could see me now, he’d be horrified. He’d fought all his life against Story, and here I was, trapped within it. I missed him so much; I wished I could ask him, Shoe, what should I do? How can I get out of this?
I missed Quirk, too, and his odd way of looking at the world.
And Griff . . .
If Story took me, I’d never see him again. I’d never kiss him again. I almost didn’t care that he was Story’s weapon. He was Griff, too, and I—
I gasped aloud. Oh no. I’d been so wrong about him. Griff had been raised with coldness and neglect and silence, and I’d left him alone. What had Quirk told me about our greatest weapons against Story?
“Here nah, Lad’ Rose,” said the Keeper, interrupting my thoughts.
“In a moment,” I murmured. I had no sword, but thanks to Shoe I had something better. Our weapons were love, and warmth, and happiness. If I could give them to Griff, we could use them to fight Story. If I could get to him, I could save him. I looked around wildly. There were three people between me and the door.
“Here nah,” said the Keeper, and taking my hand, she led me to stand near the wardrobe. My breath came fast. I had to get away, but I had to wait. Somehow I would find a chance. I stood there, my thoughts whirling, as the maids put the lace-edged petticoats on me, and the corset, and then the dress. Swiftly the seamstress stitched it up the back. While Sally did my hair, the other maids dabbed rose perfume behind my ears and put on the jewels. The bracelets weighed on my wrists, the diamond necklace was heavy around my neck.
They sat me down, and Sally crouched on the floor, pulling silk stockings onto my feet. Then she went to the wardrobe and brought out the ill-fitting satin shoes with the diamond buckles.
“No,” I protested.
Sally froze and stared unblinkingly at me; the Keeper and the other two maids and the seamstress looked dismayed.
I got to my feet. “I’ll do everything else. I’ll go to the party, and I’ll behave”—the words were bitter in my mouth—“like a lady, but I won’t wear those shoes.” I pointed with a shaking hand. “I won’t,” I repeated, feeling like a stubborn child. “I’ll wear my boots.”
The Keeper shook her head. “Nah, then, Lad’ Rose, nah then.”
“The boots,” I insisted. I swept my hands down my wide skirts, which brushed the floor. “The dress is long enough; no one will see my feet.”
They consulted in whispers, casting worried glances my way. Then the Keeper nodded.
I sat down again, and Sally put the party shoes away and put my boots on my feet and laced them up.
“Stand,” hissed Sally. “Sssee.”
I got to my feet and felt the Keeper’s hands on my shoulders, turning me to face the tall mirror that the two maids dragged closer.
With the lack of sleep and the worry, my face should have been pale, haggard, my eyes shadowed.
But the girl reflected back at me was ethereally lovely, glittering in satin and jewels, with diamond pins in her blond hair and more diamonds sparkling at her neck and wrists. It wasn’t me, really. It was the beauty.
Her every move graceful, the girl in the mirror reached down and raised her skirts just enough to see the toe of a scuffed brown boot, incongruous amid the lace and finery.
The girl smiled just a little. It was a small triumph, really. But the boots reminded her that she was not just the beauty. She had her own weapons. She was not just Story’s construct. She was more than that.
I hoped she was, anyway.
WHILE ARNY SAT on the hay bale with his jug, Griff got out his knife and went through his Watcher’s drills until he was panting with exhaustion. Then he sheathed the knife and went to lean a shoulder against the frame of the stable door. The courtyard was deserted. The pigeons had gone to roost; the sun had set; its blood-red rays lingered behind a bank of heavy clouds. The castle loomed, its stone walls black in the gathering darkness, but every window was brightly lit.
All day, Griff hadn’t spoken a word to anyone. He hadn’t slept during the night, either, and his head was heavy with weariness. In his pocket, the Godmother’s thimble was a heavy, cold weight.
What was Rose doing, right now? She was in danger, he knew that much, and it was his fault. He wanted to help, but Quirk had warned him to stay away from her. Maybe it was better if he did.
From the castle came the sound of laughter and, very faintly, music.
Arny heaved himself up from the hay bale and lumbered to the doorway, where he stood, blinking. “’S tonight,” he said, and pointed with his chin at the castle.
Griff rubbed his eyes, which were heavy from his lack of sleep. He cleared his throat. “What’s tonight?”
“Th’ Rose’s birthday party.” Arny burped and scratched his belly. “Means it’s time for her Story.”
Griff straightened, suddenly wide awake. “Tonight?”
“Yep,” Arny said with a ponderous nod. “’S what I said, innit?”
He checked the knife sheathed at his back, and, without thinking, took a step toward the castle. Then he stopped. Quirk had warned him that anything he tried would be warped so that it served Story.
Arny seized his arm. “Where you off to?”
He stared at the castle’s brightly lit windows. It would be all over tonight if he didn’t do anything. “The party,” Griff answered.
“No, y’r not,” Arny grunted, and pulled him back toward the stable. “My orders is, you stay here.”
In a flash, he had the knife out and at Arny’s throat. The bigger man’s close-set eyes widened, but he didn’t let go. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Griff warned.
Arny gulped. His grip on Griff’s arm loosened.
Griff jerked himself free and headed for the castle.
“What’re you going to do?” Arny shouted after him.
Griff didn’t know. But he couldn’t do nothing. He had to help Rose.
THE PARTY BEGAN with dancing in a huge ballroom with a shiny marble floor. My mother and father sat on brocade chairs on a platform at one end of the room; between them was a chair for me. Around them stood a few blank-faced courtiers, all dressed in glittering splendor. At the other end of the room were a few birdlike musicians playing flutes and fiddles. Three blazing chandeliers hung from the high ceiling; below them swirled dancing couples. I didn’t know how to dance but it didn’t seem to matter. I was dragged around the floor by Sir Richard, who had damp hands and a wet mouth and who talked blandly over the music, and then by Sir Roland, and Sir James, trading off with the Misses, who both wore pink. All three men wore narrow blades with golden hilts at their hips.
As a dance ended, I curtsied politely to Sir James and then headed straight for the ballroom doors. I was determined get to Griff. Before I’d taken three steps, Amity and Olive had clustered around me.
“Sir Roland is so handsome, isn’t he?” whispered Olive, casting a flirtatious glance in his direction. Seeing it, he stroked his mustache and bowed. “Ooh,” Olive squealed.
“Much nicer than that stableboy, don’t you think, Lady Rose?” Amity asked coyly.
I felt a sharp longing for Griff, for the feel of his quiet strength beside me.
“Of course she thinks so,” Olive put in wi
th a titter. “I mean, a stableboy.”
Without realizing it, I had turned and taken two more steps toward the wide double doors at the end of the room. My feet, steady in my boots, knew where I was supposed to be. Not here in this cold, glittering ballroom, at any rate.
A hand on my arm stopped me. Amity. Olive took my other arm. “Ooh,” she said, and her voice sounded shrill. “It’s time for dinner.”
“And then,” added Amity, “birthday presents.”
I knew what that meant. My mouth went dry with fear. I tried pulling against their grip, but they held me firmly, turning with me to face the room. My head spun. My mother and father had risen from their chairs; we followed them through another set of doors, into a dining room.
It held a long table laden with food: piles of sugared fruit, crystal bowls filled with peeled eggs speckled with flakes of gold, silver-scaled fish wearing their heads and tails and necklaces of herbs, tiny roasted birds with gilded beaks. The forks and spoons gleamed; the plates and bowls were edged with gold.
With great ceremony, my father paced up to me, seized my hand, and brought me to the head of the table. As I sat, two blue-coated footmen stationed themselves behind my chair. My plate was loaded with food and set before me. I couldn’t eat. The sounds of talking and shrill laughter swirled around me. I felt heavy and hollow at the same time; desperate, but unable to move.
At last dinner was over. My parents rose from the table.
Aware of the footmen behind me, I pushed back my chair and climbed to my feet. The dress was so heavy. The diamond necklace gripped me around the neck like cold hands; the bracelets weighed on my wrists like manacles.
I blinked, dizzy, and found myself sitting on the chair between my parents on the platform. Below us, all of the courtiers were staring avidly at me. My head pounded; darkness edged my vision. It was all happening too quickly; there was nothing I could do to resist.
My father said something, but my ears couldn’t make sense of his words. I felt icy cold, too cold to shiver, colder than when Griff, Quirk, Timothy, and I had come through the Forest.
My father, his face a smiling mask, held out a gilded box.
Somehow I’d gotten to my feet again. I held the box; I felt my father’s hands on my shoulders, holding me still.
I tried to drop the box so that it would smash on the floor and I could run away, but my hands were frozen around it.
Moving as if she was pulled by strings, my mother jerked herself up from her chair, came to me, and opened the box.
Inside it, the spindle lay on a bed of ice-blue velvet.
Seeing it was almost a relief. I was so, so weary. Sleep. If I just touched the spindle, I would be able to sleep.
My hand reached into the box. The dark wood of the spindle felt smooth under my fingers. I lifted it out.
Distantly, I was aware of a commotion at the double doors at the other end of the ballroom. But it was so far away; I could barely hear it above the roaring in my ears.
Light flashed from the spindle’s sharpened tip, and pain lanced into my head.
I heard more shouting, the clash of blades.
Blinking, I looked toward the door.
Compared to all the glittering finery, Griff was like a crow with bedraggled feathers in his tattered black coat and his crest of dark hair. To fight him, Sir Roland had drawn a thin sword; Griff blocked the attack effortlessly with his knife; then he whirled and parried Sir Richard’s sword thrust. Three blue-coated footmen carrying clubs converged on him. From behind, Sir James slashed with his sword; blood from Griff’s arm spattered on the shiny floor.
There were too many of them. It was hopeless.
I rested the spindle’s sharpened tip against the end of my finger.
“Rose, no!” Griff shouted. Looking up, I saw him flinch from a blow. But he moved, as ever, with the clean efficiency of a knife through the crowd of courtiers.
With sudden clarity I knew that I could never let Story take him. Or me. We could both fight.
The spindle was Story’s weapon.
I would make it my own.
Carefully I turned the spindle until its glittering, sharp end pointed away from me. My father’s hands still held my shoulders; I pulled out of his grip and brandished the spindle. “Let me go,” I gasped. Distantly I heard the sound of fighting.
My blank-eyed mother reached for me, and I slashed, and a thin line of blood opened across the palm of her hand. She staggered away, shrieking.
And then the curse fought back. The spindle writhed in my hand like a snake, and the sharp tip was its fang. I struggled against it. But my hand opened, and the spindle fell.
A moment later, my father held me from behind, pinning my arms. Miss Olive and Miss Amity swooped onto the platform.
Griff. I tried screaming, but no sound came from my mouth. Desperate, I kicked back with my boot; my father grunted, but didn’t loosen his hold on me. “Her finger,” he ordered, and his voice held the grinding inevitability of Story.
Miss Amity seized one of my arms; Miss Olive bent to pick up the spindle.
For just a moment, we stood in a bubble of stillness and silence. I felt Story’s triumph as Olive brought the spindle closer and wrapped my hand around it. A wave of icy cold washed through me. Then she caught my other hand and brought my finger to the spindle’s glittering tip.
No, I wanted to scream. The curse roared out. I was so cold, I didn’t even feel it.
But a drop of blood blossomed at the end of my finger.
GRIFF WHIRLED AND elbowed a blue-clad footman in the face, then tensed, ready to meet the next attack, when the first of Rose’s three curses howled past him, filling the room. Everything went silent and still.
A spray of blood had burst from the servant’s nose; the droplets hung in the air, arcing slowly toward the floor. The faces of the men frozen while lunging at him were feral, snarling. They weren’t asleep—it wasn’t yet that curse. They were aware, but frozen in place.
Fighting the weight of the curse, Griff straightened, gripping his knife. Drops of his own blood, from the cut on his arm, splashed onto the shiny floor. He didn’t want to think about why the curse didn’t affect him. Quirk had said it before—he wasn’t just a curse eater, he could control curses. He belonged to Story.
That gave him a little room to maneuver, didn’t it? The tiniest space. But he would use it.
He turned. Rose’s father stood like a statue; between two ladies was Rose, holding the spindle. Her eyes were open; her skirts were frozen in a whirl around her.
Stepping past the unmoving footmen and courtiers, Griff leaped onto the platform. The curse roared around him. Shadows arose in the corners of the room, advanced across the floor, and lowered from the ceiling. The air grew heavy and chill. He only had a moment to decide, and then the next curse would rise and it would be too late.
Slowly he bent to set his knife on the floor. Then he straightened and stood before Rose.
She was heartbreakingly lovely. She was not for him, he knew that. But he was hers. She would never know it, but he was. For just a moment, he let himself look at her and he could see past the beauty to her weariness and fear.
There was only one thing he could do to help her.
As a Watcher, he had lifted many curses at the command of the Lord Protector, but they had been paltry things compared to Rose’s curses, which had all the relentless power of Story behind them. Only with the Godmother’s thimble on his finger could he break the spindle curse. He knew what that meant for himself, but he would do it for her. For Rose.
His hand heavy, he reached into his coat pocket and let the thimble slip onto his finger. He drew it out. In the gathering gloom, the thimble shone. In its icy light, Griff could see Rose’s curses, all three of them surrounding her, entwined like snakes made of shadows and smoke. The first curse disentangled itself from the rest, bleeding its heavy chill into the room. The spindle curse. Ever since they had arrived at the castle it had been drawing Ros
e to the spindle so that she would prick her finger and activate the second curse, which would plunge her and everyone in the castle into a deep sleep. That second sleep curse was too strong, too dark for him to break now. But he might have enough power to push it back before it took effect, and to hold the first curse until she got away.
Stepping closer to Rose, he focused on the spindle curse. He raised his hands, which felt surprisingly steady, and set them on either side of Rose’s face, with the thimble resting at her temple. Blood from his cut dripped onto the bodice of her dress, staining the lace.
He had to trust himself. He had to hope that even with the thimble on his finger, he was acting for her, not Story. And he had to do it now, before the sleep curse had time to take hold. Bracing himself, he wrenched the spindle curse away from her. It slammed into him, and he staggered, then fell to his knees. The second curse writhed into an attack, and raising the thimble, he held it back, kept it entwined with the last curse. As he did so, his head filled with shadows; he peered through them, trying to get one last glimpse of her face.
Rose blinked, and she gazed down at him. The spindle fell from her fingers.
“I’ll hold it,” Griff gasped, as the spindle curse pounded at him. “Go. Get out of here.”
Her lips moved, saying something he couldn’t hear through the roaring of the curse in his ears.
“Go,” he shouted.
She hesitated for another moment, then gave a determined nod and, gathering her skirts, jumped from the platform, carrying the last two curses with her. Shadows pursued her as she ran across the ballroom. One last glimpse of pink at the door, and she was gone.
He held the spindle curse for as long as he could, to give her a chance to get outside the castle walls. It enwrapped him in coils of roaring darkness. Gasping for breath, he fought it with every scrap of his will, but it was relentless. The last thing he managed to do was pull the thimble from his finger and drop it; it tumbled slowly to the floor.
And then Story took him.
CHAPTER
28
I FLUNG MYSELF OUT OF THE BALLROOM AND RACED through the hallways of Castle Clair. Story had been weighing so heavily on me that, released from it, I felt light, scudding over the shiny floors like a leaf in the wind. Story pursued. I heard a hissing sound; casting a quick glance over my shoulder, I saw coils of bramble coming after me. They slithered through the hallway like serpents, their thorny tendrils groping after my fleeing feet.
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