“That’s not why I did it,” said Erec. “I walked out into the woods and called for the forestborn because I needed a way to be pardoned after I killed my half brother.”
Rachelle stared at him. “What?”
“It’s a neat loophole: plain murder will get you hanged, but murder for the sake of becoming bloodbound can win you fame and fortune.”
Of course she had known that since Erec was bloodbound, he must have killed. But she had never thought that— Well, she had never thought. She had spent so much time trying not to remember what she had done, there had been no time left over to wonder about others.
“Why did you want to kill him?” she asked numbly.
“You’ve noticed, haven’t you? That the old families always have a well-placed bloodbound or two? It’s not because the forestborn care about rank, it’s because the families pick someone to walk into the woods and beg for the blessing. I should have been the bloodbound, since I wasn’t due to inherit, but I overheard my father complain that my brother would rather roam the woods than manage the estate. I knew what that meant. I knew who was expendable enough to be his sacrifice. And I decided I would kill him first.” Erec’s mouth curved in the old ironic smile, and for once she could not tell whom he was mocking. “I won’t deny it gave me satisfaction. He was legitimate, and heir to everything I lacked. At the time, that seemed very important.”
Rachelle was silent. She didn’t know what to say.
“Later it seemed less so,” Erec went on thoughtfully. “And going by my brother’s last words, I don’t think he intended to become a bloodbound after all.”
“I’m sorry,” Rachelle said.
He smiled brilliantly and touched her cheek. “Why should you be? Don’t I have everything I ever wanted?”
“I don’t know,” Rachelle said slowly. “Do you?”
“Well, I have not yet achieved you, my lady.”
They patrolled the grounds for several more hours but found no more woodspawn. Rachelle bid Erec a very firm good night, then slipped into the Château through a side door and strode silently through the halls. There was a party still going in the eastern wing, but most people had finally gone to bed, so the halls were almost empty.
Erec wouldn’t help her. That meant she had to face the lindenworm alone, with charms or with her sword. Either way seemed doomed to fail.
Every day for the last three years, she had thought she deserved to die.
She still didn’t want to. She wanted to live with every filthy, desperate scrap of her heart.
When she saw somebody sitting huddled in the shadows at the feet of a statue, her hand went at once to her sword. Then she realized that it was Amélie.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
Amélie, who had sprung to her feet as if to flee, relaxed.
“First I was waiting for you to get back,” she said. “Then I thought I’d take a walk. Then I got tired. Where have you been?”
“Hunting.” Rachelle sighed, and sat down. Amélie sat back down beside her.
“Why were you waiting for me?” Rachelle asked after a few moments.
“I worry about you,” Amélie said simply. “You’re very sad. And very far away.”
And she was only going to get farther, because if by some miracle she did not die facing the lindenworm, she would surely die fighting the Devourer, and Amélie would never know the reason. Perhaps she would never even know for sure that Rachelle was dead. And it was worth it, absolutely worth it all if Amélie stayed safe and innocent, but when Rachelle thought about the yawning, never-to-be-crossed gulf between them, all the strength went out of her.
“Amélie,” she asked, “what do you want, more than anything else in all the world?”
“I want my father back,” Amélie said promptly.
Rachelle stared at her. “Well, that’s not going to happen.”
Amélie shrugged. “You didn’t ask what I thought likely.”
“I mean . . . what do you wish for?”
“Wishes are always impossible, that’s the point,” said Amélie. “I wish my father were alive. I wish I could paint cosmetics all the time. I wish that you would stop crying.”
“I never cry,” said Rachelle.
“That’s what makes it extra impossible.” Amélie leaned a little closer. “Why are you wondering about wishes?”
Rachelle looked at her hands. “I used to know what I wanted,” she said. “A long time ago. I don’t anymore.”
Amélie’s hands twisted together. “My mother says it’s frivolous, wanting to learn cosmetics. Vain, too, even though it’s not myself I’m painting. But when I’m mixing the pigments—when I’m painting beauty onto someone’s face—I feel at peace. As if, just with a few brushstrokes, I am . . . being what God made me. I have never felt that way doing anything else.”
Her jaw was tight, her eyes fixed on the other side of the hall as if a glorious battle awaited. With a spurt of guilt, Rachelle realized that as much as she’d enjoyed Amélie’s art, she had never thought it was more than a frivolous game either.
“When you practice your cosmetics on me,” she said quietly, “I feel at peace too.”
Amélie turned to her with a smile. “I hope you think God wants something more out of you than sitting still while I paint.”
The problem was that Rachelle knew exactly what God wanted her to do. He wanted her to die. Three years ago, she should have died rather than kill, and every breath she took since had been stolen. Maybe that was why she couldn’t find any way to defeat the lindenworm: because she was supposed to die fighting.
But she couldn’t tell Amélie that.
Instead, she asked, “So painting cosmetics is what you want the most?”
“Well,” said Amélie, “I’m giving it up to help my mother make medicines. So I suppose it’s not.”
They sat in silence for a while longer. At last Amélie said quietly, “I know . . . something’s going on in this palace. If you ever want to tell me, I’ll listen.”
Rachelle looked at her. She noticed the careful way that Amélie leaned toward her, closing the distance between them but not ever touching. She noticed that Amélie was biting her lip, the way she always did when she was nervous. She noticed that this was, in fact, her only friend.