rabbits—Amélie would never lose her gentleness fast enough to become somebody who could survive in that world.
So Rachelle could not fail.
“I’m going to Château de Lune in three days,” she said.
“Lucky,” Amélie sighed.
“I’m not going there to dance at the parties,” said Rachelle. “I’m going as a bodyguard.”
“For whom?” asked Amélie. Her tongue peeked out between her lips as it always did when she was painting a particularly tricky bit of Rachelle’s face.
Rachelle shrugged, embararssed for reasons she couldn’t fathom. “Armand Vareilles,” she mumbled.
Amélie’s brush stopped moving. She stared at her a moment, then let out a wild snort of laughter.
“What?” Rachelle demanded.
Amélie rolled her eyes. “You’re to guard the living martyr himself. And you say, ‘Oh, Armand Vareilles,’ as if he were last week’s laundry.”
“I’d rather guard the laundry,” Rachelle muttered.
Amélie’s forehead creased slightly. “Why?”
He’s an arrogant fraud, Rachelle nearly said, but she didn’t know how Amélie felt about Armand Vareilles. They had never discussed him—or Bishop Guillaume, or the unrest in the city, or anything that had to do with what it meant for Rachelle to be bloodbound.
“Every time I turn around, there are people bowing at his feet,” she said finally. “It’s very inconvenient.”
With another strange lurch of embarrassment, she remembered Armand’s face as he said, I’d rather burn.
“Hm,” said Amélie, leaning forward again. Her brush made tiny, feather-light strokes over Rachelle’s face. Then she sat back and studied her, pursing her lips. “Done,” she said finally.
“Anyway,” said Rachelle, “I don’t know when I’ll see you again, so—”
“I’m coming with you,” said Amélie.
“What?” Rachelle stared at her.
“I’m coming with you.” Amélie grinned. “You don’t get to look in the mirror till you say yes.”
“I don’t care about the mirror,” said Rachelle. “But what do you think you’ll do at the Château? You aren’t a bodyguard.”
“And you are, but you know you’ll still have to dance,” said Amélie. “Or at least stand in a corner at one of those grand parties, and that means you’ll have to wear a pretty dress, and you know you’ll look ridiculous if you don’t have someone apply cosmetics and do it well, and you couldn’t hire someone good if your life depended on it, so I, because I am your loyal friend, will help you.”
She crossed her arms and nodded. Rachelle was about to tell her that no bodyguard who hoped to be effective would ever wear an elaborate court gown—but then she realized there was a nervous edge to Amélie’s grin. And she couldn’t bear to shatter it.
“All right, I probably will have to dance,” she said, and realized it was true: Erec would find it hilarious, so he would make it happen. “But you don’t have to do this.”
She wanted Amélie there with her. She was only this instant realizing how much she wanted to spend her last days with the only person who looked at her with simple, undemanding affection. But they could be the last days of the whole daylight world. If Rachelle failed, Amélie would die alone, far away from her mother and surrounded by strangers. Rachelle might watch her die.
She couldn’t let her do it.
“I want to,” Amélie said softly, her smile melting away. “It’s my only chance. To do—this”—she waved at Rachelle’s face—“and have anyone see it.” Her voice grew even softer. “My mother could spare me for a week or two, but not . . . not longer. You know.”
Rachelle knew. That was why Amélie had never practiced applying cosmetics on anyone but Rachelle: because after her husband died, Madame Guignon had taken over his business of making medicines as single-mindedly as if she meant to save all the sick people in the world, though there was no saving half of them, and Amélie had taken it upon herself to help her mother, though her mother’s quest would never be done.
Two days ago, giving Amélie this chance would have been all Rachelle wanted in the world.
“I can’t let you,” she said. “It’s too dangerous.”
Amélie tilted her head. “Why?” she asked. “What do you expect? A palace coup? Open rebellion?”
“Not if I have anything to say about it, but—”
“Famine? Plague? Lightning from heaven?” Amélie leaned forward. “Or ravening woodspawn in the street? Because I might remind you, Château de Lune is the one place that doesn’t happen.”
Rachelle’s hands slammed on the table. “I can’t tell you, it doesn’t matter, you just need to stay safe.”
Amélie sat back in her chair, eyes wide and startled. She was probably wondering why her friend was going mad. Rachelle