sitting Niya on the chair; he thought of going to Elyssa, taking Barty’s place, then decided not to, for she was in no danger. Thorne had gone to join the witch, who stood on the far side of the room. Elyssa, too, had moved toward her mother, but she had halted some twenty feet away. Now she watched the proceedings, her face a study in anxiety . . . but the anxiety was false. Christian knew it. Something else was in her eyes, crouched there like a child waiting behind a door, and in a single stunned moment, Christian identified it.
Glee.
The Queen had fallen now, her fall cushioned by the dozen guards who lowered her to the ground. Barty knelt and bent over her, pulling on thick leather gloves. Christian felt his respect for the old man increase. Barty had not rushed forward; he kept a cool head. The Queen’s breathing was becoming labored now, devolving into great gasps that Christian could hear even across the ballroom. The crowd of guests had disappeared, and the double doors stood open, giving onto the wide, empty corridor like a gaping mouth.
“Contact poison,” Barty muttered. “Neurotoxic; listen to her breath.”
“Brenna can help her,” Arlen Thorne announced. He had ventured closer, bringing the witch with him.
“Keep the albino back,” Givens told him, drawing his sword. Barty was now examining the Queen’s hands, her fingernails. With one gloved finger, he gently pulled up the Queen’s eyelid.
“The Queen is dying,” Thorne said. “Contact poisons may have timed delays, but they work quickly once activated. You cannot save her, but Brenna can.”
“No,” Givens said firmly. “Barty, can you mix an antidote?”
Barty shook his head. “I know this poison, milked from a Dry Lands cobra. The Cadarese call it the Burning Brand. But I would need my greenhouse, and more time than we have.”
“What do we do?” Givens demanded. The Queen’s harsh breathing had begun to slow. One of her hands crept to her chest now, clutching the blue jewel that lay there, as a drowning man might cling to a rope.
“You have no time,” Thorne announced. “Allow Brenna to try.”
“No!” Christian shouted.
The rest turned to him, surprised. Christian had surprised himself. He had no doubt that the witch could do it, but he also had not forgotten what he knew of Arlen Thorne, who did nothing without reason, and certainly nothing for free.
“Hold your tongue, boy,” Givens replied coldly. “Remember your place.”
Christian did, though the disdain in the older guard’s tone made resentment swell inside him.
I could help you, he thought angrily. I could tell you all so much. . . .
He turned to check on Niya but found her gone, vanished from the chair behind him. The rise and fall of the Queen’s chest was now almost imperceptible. She had begun to wheeze as well, an accordion sound so painful that it made Christian wince.
“There’s no time,” the Princess finally announced, moving forward. “We have to let Brenna try.”
“Highness!” Givens snapped. “The witch is dangerous! She—”
“My mother is dying,” Elyssa told him. “Will you stand over her and allow it?”
But the debate was pointless, for Arla’s entire Guard had now drawn swords and planted themselves between Brenna and the Queen. Thorne himself, Christian noticed, had retreated all the way to the far wall, where he watched with the idle amusement of a man at a theatrical.
“Approach the Queen, witch, and I will cut you down,” Givens told Brenna . . . but only a moment later, he began to scream. Then they were all howling, all ten of the guards who had circled the Queen . . . shrieking as they clawed at their own faces, their own eyes. Carroll leapt forward, meaning to run to them, but Christian grabbed him by the arm.
“You can’t help them!” he shouted in Carroll’s ear.
“Let me go!” Carroll cried, struggling against Christian’s iron grip.
“You can’t help them!” Christian repeated, shaking him. “They touched the dress! You can only die yourself!”
Carroll heard him this time; he stopped struggling and merely stood there, as though paralyzed. Still, he was the bravest of Elyssa’s Guard, for the rest had already backed away from the Queen, from the screaming men who fell to their knees and tore at their own flesh. The sight of that, all of them rending themselves at once, was so bad that even Christian, who had seen a thousand deaths in the ring, could not watch. He kept his eyes fixed on the Queen, and so only he saw