Eighty-Six
The castle was as dark as a tomb. Beau stumbled through the entry hall by memory.
“Arabella!” he shouted.
But he got no answer.
He turned in a frantic circle, and as he did, he spied a glow. It was coming from underneath the doors to the great hall. He pushed them open.
A gut-wrenching sight greeted him.
Arabella lay on the floor. Valmont sat by her, cradling her head in his lap. Her eyes were closed; her chest was rising and falling rapidly. Framing her in a semicircle were many of her servants. The ladies of her court stood behind them.
“Why are you all standing around?” Beau shouted at the servants. “Get her off the floor! Get her to her chambers!”
Valmont, his own breathing shallow, raised his head. “She will not be moved. She wishes to die here … with us, with her parents.”
“No!” Beau cried. He knelt down by Arabella and took her from Valmont, pulling her into his arms. “It’s me, Bells. It’s Beau. Wake up … come on now, wake up.”
“You’re too late, I’m afraid,” Espidra said, a smile cutting across her face like a scythe. “The curse ends at midnight.”
Beau looked up at the towering golden clock. Midnight was only half an hour away. Time was winding down. Already, the servants had begun to fade. They looked as if they had aged a hundred years in a few hours. They were stooped. Their hair had grayed and their eyes had clouded. Some, like Percival and Phillipe, held hands, taking comfort from each other until the end. Others sat alone at the edges of the room, making their final peace.
Even Hope and Faith had dimmed. They stood in the far doorway, watching, their small faces wan, the light within them flickering.
Beau racked his brain, trying to figure out how to break the curse. There had to be a way; he just wasn’t seeing it. He tried to remember the words of the clockmaker’s poem. It said that Arabella had to love, and be loved in return. Well, she didn’t love him; if she did, the third little sister would’ve shown up. If she did, the curse would’ve been broken. But he loved her, and maybe his love would be enough. Maybe if he told her again, it would save her.
“I—I love you, Bells. You’re my best friend. The only real friend I’ve ever had.”
Arabella’s eyes, unseeing, fluttered open. “Beau?”
Beau brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Yes, it’s me. Can you hear me? I love you, Arabella. Please don’t die … pleasepleaseplease don’t die.”
“I love you, too, Beau,” Arabella rasped, trying for a smile.
Beau laughed out loud. He kissed her hand again. She did love him. They’d made a mistake, somehow. They’d done things out of order, maybe. It didn’t matter. Because now things would be set right.
He turned to the clockmaker, grimly triumphant, eager to see him off. “Get out. Go. You’re done here,” he said.
But the clockmaker didn’t move. He simply stood by his clock, his pale hands crossed on top of his walking stick, a half smile on his thin lips.
The first stirrings of a new fear twisted in Beau’s guts. He looked around, expecting the castle to crumble to the ground. Or angels to appear. Or Espidra and her court to burst into flames. He listened for the rumble of ancient stone walls giving way, for the sound of celestial trumpets and the whoosh of hellfire, but all he heard was the ticking of the clock.
“Why is nothing happening?” he asked, turning to Valmont. “I told her I loved her. She said she loved me.” He touched Arabella’s hand; it was cold. Panic jabbered like a madman inside his head. “Maybe we said it wrong. Maybe we should have said it out loud. Right before we crossed the bridge. Or in the middle of the bridge or—”
Beau’s heart dropped. The bridge.
“Valmont, what were the lines from the clockmaker’s spell?” he asked. “The ones about the bridge?”
The old servant raised his head. His cheeks were wet with tears. “Cross the bridge, unwind the years … Escape this prison of your fears …” he replied. “The mistress was supposed to cross the bridge, but she couldn’t. And now she never will. Because there is no bridge.”
“But maybe we were wrong about the bridge,” Beau said, grasping at straws. “Maybe she’s not supposed to cross a real bridge. Maybe it’s just a symbol—”
Valmont laughed bitterly, cutting him off. “We were wrong about everything.”
But Beau refused to give up. He mustered a heartening smile and said, “Sit up, Bells, come on now. We’re going to break this damn curse, we will, we’ll figure it out, and when we do, you don’t want to look like you’re drunk, all sprawled out on the floor, do you? Come on … sit up!”
He tugged on her hands, but she was a deadweight. He slipped one of his arms behind her back and tried to raise her limp body, but she cried out in pain.
At the sound of her cry, Beau’s forced resoluteness cracked; his smile fractured. “Somebody do something. Bring smelling salts! Bring her a glass of bloody brandy! You’re bloody servants, aren’t you?” he shouted.
Percival knelt down next to Beau. He bent over and gently pressed his ear to Arabella’s chest. When he straightened again, his face was gray with sorrow. “I can barely hear a heartbeat.”
“No,” Beau said, his voice breaking, and his heart with it.
“The clockmaker’s poem was a trick … a lie,” said Valmont. “The curse can’t be broken.”
“Yes, it can,” said a voice.
It came from the doorway to the kitchen.
Beau looked up. Fording her way through the crowd was a small, determined woman. In one hand she held a rolling pin, thrust out before her like a sword. The other was resting protectively on the shoulder of a small boy.
“Be gone, baker, and take that filthy child with you,” Espidra said. “There’s nothing you can do.”
Camille tightened her grip on the child. “Keep walking, Rem. It’s time. Go to her,” she said.
“Did you not hear me? Go back—” Espidra’s words dropped away. The contempt on her face transformed into naked shock. “No,” she whispered. “It can’t be.” She whirled around. “What are you waiting for, all of you?” she shouted at her court. “Seize them!”
Camille raised her weapon over her head, ready to protect Rémy.
Rega took a menacing step forward. The rest of the ladies followed her. “It’s over for you, child,” Rega growled. “One woman alone can’t protect you.”
But Camille wasn’t alone.
Florian, Henri, Gustave and Lucile, Josephine, Claudette, Josette, Phillipe and Percival, Valmont … all the servants, marshaling what strength they had left, crowded around Camille and Rémy, pushing the courtiers back, clearing the way.
Surrounded by her friends, Camille continued on, shepherding her charge ahead of her. When they reached Arabella, she pulled Rémy’s dirty cap off. Long, pale blond hair spilled out from under it.
The child stepped forward. She was small, like her sisters. Thin. Fragile. Grimy with ash and grease.
And shining like the dawn.