I glanced over my shoulder and saw that Louie had Cécile firmly by the shoulders. She looked so young standing there in a childish nightgown, her hair loose and mussed, eyes wide. Whatever was in the chest, I was quite sure I didn’t want her to see it.
I stopped a pace away. There was an iron lock holding the lid in place, and I wrenched it off with a squeal of metal. I did not want to look inside. Did not want to see. Because it was not a matter of what I would find. It was a matter of whom.
Drawing in a deep breath and ignoring the icy tightness in my gut, I reached forward, and with one hand, flipped back the lid.
FORTY-SEVEN
CÉCILE
The ground trembled and shook, the shutters rattling against the house. The fresh snow around Tristan melted into a muddy soup, spreading out in a circle away from him. The air was as warm as the height of summer, and water gushed off the house and barn in torrents.
“God in heaven,” my father whispered, letting go of me with one hand to steady himself.
Tristan fell to his knees next to the chest, holding someone against him. A woman dressed in grey, her long dark hair spilling over his arm. She wore a dark cloak I recognized because she’d been wearing it the last time I saw her.
“Let me go.” I choked the words out.
“Cécile, no.” My father’s fingers clamped tighter around my arm.
“Let me go!” The words ripped from my throat, loud and full of power. Not caring that I’d just compelled my own father, I sprinted down the steps toward Tristan. The mud oozed hot and slippery between my bare toes, splattering up onto the white of my nightgown. But what did any of that matter?
“Élise…” Reaching out with one hand, I brushed back her hair, bile rising in my throat at the sight of her blank and unseeing eyes. “How?”
“Because she is dead.” Tristan’s voice was thick with a fury that rendered it almost unrecognizable. “And the curse cares naught for corpses.”
I let my hand drop to my side, my eyes taking in the chest, the damage done to it telling me all I needed to know about what had been done to her. To my friend, who was so terrified of confined spaces that she could not even bear the mines.
The ground stopped shaking, and a wind blew down from the mountains, wiping the heat of magic away. My skin prickled and I shivered, but not because of the chill of winter. Tristan had turned, and his face was full of vicious fury. I took a step backwards. He looked nothing like my husband. Nothing at all like the boy I’d fallen in love with. And most certainly nothing human. This was a creature I’d unleashed on the world with the power to tear it asunder, and his wrath was a terrifying thing.
“I’m going to burn him alive for this,” he said, and my eyes flicked past him to the inner lid of the chest. To the single name carved by the bloody nails of a terrified and dying girl.
Angoulême.
Our minds were connected. I knew what it was like when we were in perfect unison in love. Passion. Sorrow. But in that moment, I let his fury wash over me like water, soaking into every corner of my soul until it was no longer his anger, but mine. And it wanted vengeance.
FORTY-EIGHT
CÉCILE
We rode hard back to Trianon, our plan developing as we shouted back and forth to each other over the sound of pounding hooves and gusting wind. Collecting my mother and hiding her away until the night was over and Anushka had lost the chance to perform her spell wasn’t an option. For one, the King’s compulsion beat in my head like a drum, marching me toward my goal; and two, it might be the only chance we had to catch Anushka. The masque was a trap for us, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be turned on her. Her death was long past due.
Trotting our lathered horses through the frosty streets, we stopped in front of the townhouse, and I dismounted, handing my reins to Tristan.
“Stay with her¸” he said for hundredth time. “Don’t let her out of your sight. Anushka won’t make her move until the sun has set, and I’ll be inside the castle by then.” He hesitated before adding. “If something happens before, you know how to get my