Ninety
Arabella swallowed hard. She closed her eyes, marshaling her courage, then opened them again and stepped forward into the court of her emotions.
The ladies swirled around her like sharks. Iglut drew the first blood.
“Look at them, your poor servants, and those tormented figures in the clock … all suffering. For decades, Arabella. Because of you.”
“I-I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Arabella said, her voice small and tenuous.
“Sorry? You think anyone here cares that you’re sorry? Do you think sorry fixes what you’ve done?”
“I—I didn’t mean to do it … The prince was hurting Florian … He was hurting my horse …”
Hesma cut in, her words a greasy mumbling litany that made Arabella’s heart fold in on itself.
“You’re a girl with a very high opinion of herself, aren’t you? Too good for the prince, too smart to keep quiet. You have your own ideas. You think you can build things. You think you can Change. The. World. You know what I think? I think you’re pathetic. Have you heard what people say about you? Do you know how absurd you look, with your compass and ruler? Who do you think you are?” She burst into mocking laughter.
Their words felt like acid poured down Arabella’s backbone, dissolving it. They were right. Of course they were. Who was she? Who was she to open her mouth? To speak up for herself? For others?
Lady Rafe, cringing, flinching, glancing around herself constantly, was next.
“Even if you break the curse, then what? One hundred years have passed. How do you pick up the pieces? The servants will never forgive you. The people in the clock are going to be so angry at you. And what will your mother say when she finds out the boy standing over there robs people for a living? He’ll be out on his backside in a heartbeat. And then what? What, Arabella, what?”
Rafe’s last words were delivered in a high, hysterical shriek. It set the others off. They crowded in at Arabella, demanding that she hear them. Arabella covered her ears with her hands, trying to block the voices out, trying to hang on to the last scraps of courage inside her.
And then another sound rose—the sinister ratchet of clock weights rising up their chains.
“The clock’s waking up! It’s nearly midnight! You’re almost out of time!” Lady Elge squealed, clapping her hands.
“No!” Arabella cried. She pushed at her ladies, frantically trying to break free of them, but there were too many; they engulfed her.
“What are you going to do, Arabella? Banish us again?” Iglut taunted.
Inside the clock, wheels turned, gears clicked. The two sets of doors on either side of the arched track opened. From within the crush of her emotions, Arabella heard them. Soon the nightly pageant would begin. Soon the chimes would sound. Her eyes fell on the clockmaker. He was standing by his masterpiece. She heard his voice in her head. If you wish to break the curse, stop fighting them …
So Arabella did. She stopped pushing, stopped struggling, and stood very still. Then she reached out and took Iglut’s hand, and Hesma’s, and gripped them tightly. “I am not banishing you. I will never banish you again. I need you. All of you. Lady Iglut, when I’ve done something wrong, you make me see it. And Lady Hesma, you spur me to make amends.”
Iglut stopped shouting. Her small eyes opened wide in wonder. She squeezed Arabella’s hand, then gave her a tremulous smile. “Th-thank you, mistress,” she whispered. “Thank you.” Hesma kissed Arabella’s cheek, and then both ladies faded away like morning mist in the sun’s rays.
Arabella turned to Lady Rafe next. “Thank you, good lady, for always protecting me. For turning me away from the unruly horse, the crumbling cliff, the too-thin ice. For keeping me from cracking my skull more times than I care to remember.” She touched her hand to the back of Rafe’s cheek and Rafe, too, faded.
Sadindi, LaJoyuse, Romeser … one after another, Arabella faced her difficult emotions, thanking them, embracing them, bringing them back into her heart.
She had just watched Lady Orrsow fade when something came hurling through the air and exploded at her feet. Arabella flinched at the broken vase. She knew who’d thrown it.
Lady Rega stood there, seething. Livid sores had erupted on her skin. She’d gnawed the heel of one hand bloody.
The golden clock’s works ticked and spun, hammered and whirred, readying themselves. The long hand clicked ahead. It was now one minute to midnight.
Arabella dug her fingernails into her palms and took a small step forward. Rega saw her do it and roared like a bull, warning her off. She picked up a candlestick and brandished it, but Arabella kept walking, slowly, deliberately, until she reached the terrifying courtier. She faltered for a second, then swept Rega into an embrace, hanging on to her tightly as she struggled to break free.
“I’ve done you the greatest wrong, Lady Rega,” Arabella whispered. “I should have listened to you. Instead, I turned my back on you. Closed my heart to you. I should have packed my books, pawned my jewels, and left this place for Rome, Paris, London … someplace where I could study and draw and build. Forgive me, Rega. Please, please, forgive me.”
Rega tried to roar again, but the sound collapsed into a sob. She stopped struggling and touched her forehead to Arabella’s, then she, too, faded. And then they were all gone, all but one.
The minute hand clicked home. Midnight. The clock’s bell began to toll. The golden doors opened. The clock’s court began its grotesque pageant. The figures, once so vibrant, were slowly disintegrating. Their clothing was fading. Jewels that had sparkled on fingers and at throats now looked like dull chunks of glass. Their porcelain faces were cracking; the painted smiles had contorted into agonized grimaces.
Arabella was almost out of time.
One, two …
She turned in a desperate circle, searching for her, for the proud head, the black hair, the ash-gray gown. “Where are you?” she whispered.
Three, four …
Finally, she spotted her; she was standing at the far side of the clock, staring up at its dial, hands clasped behind her back.
“Have you a hug for me as well?” Espidra asked as Arabella approached her.
Arabella stopped a few feet away from her. “I will not embrace you, Lady Espidra. I will guard against you the rest of my life and hope to never look upon your face again.”
“But I will embrace you again, Arabella,” Espidra said, walking toward her. “I will be there when those despicable children desert you.”
Arabella shook her head. “I deserted them. And then I learned how hard it is to find hope in this world. To keep faith. To give love. I’ll never let go of them again.”
The clock bell tolled on, carrying them ever closer to midnight.
“Easier said than done. You cannot love another if you do not first love yourself,” said Espidra. “Do you?”
She was close to Arabella now, close enough to touch her. She reached for her, but Hope stepped in front of her, blocking her. “We’re going to work on that,” she said.
Faith was with her. “Door’s that way, Lady E,” she said, hooking her thumb at an archway. “Don’t let it hit you.”
Espidra’s eyes flashed dangerously, but she inclined her head. “Good luck, Arabella,” she said.
“Goodbye, Lady Espidra.”
The last chime sounded, hanging in the air. Espidra’s eyes dulled to a milky white. Grooves appeared in her skin, like those in a burnt log. Her body kept its form for a second, perhaps two, then collapsed to the floor in a pile of ash.
“Look!” Camille cried.
Arabella followed her gaze. What she saw made her catch her breath. The clockwork figures—cracking and crumbling and slumping over only moments ago—were now straightening their backs and stretching their arms. They were drawing breath and looking around. Color bloomed in their cheeks; life brightened their eyes.
A kitchen girl was the first to step down. She moved forward slowly, stiffly, as if pulling her feet free of deep, sucking mud.
“Where’s my brother?” she croaked in a rusty voice. “Florian? Are you there?” She staggered off the platform to the floor, her legs nearly buckling.
“Amélie? Amélie!” Florian shouted. He ran to her and caught her in his arms.
An elderly countess tottered down next, calling for a glass of brandy. She was followed by a bishop, a young page, a blacksmith, a guard. All in a rush now, the castle’s inhabitants stumbled, shambled, tripped, and bumbled their way from the clock back into their lives. Cries, shouts, and laughter were heard as they found their family, their friends.
As Arabella continued to watch them, her heart swelling, she saw Camille move toward the platform, her eyes on a man, tall and strong, who was still standing there. At his feet sat a tiny girl. The look on Camille’s face was full of yearning so raw and deep, that Arabella was afraid for her, afraid she wouldn’t get what she’d fought so long for.
And then the tiny girl moved. She babbled and laughed. The man standing behind her bent down, scooped her up, and held her to his chest. He kissed the top of her head, then carried her down off the platform, to her mother.
Camille’s hands came up to her mouth. As the man stepped off the platform, she cried out with a wild, ferocious joy and ran to her family. Her husband enfolded her in his arms, the baby girl between them.
All the clockwork figures had left the platform now, except for two. Arabella’s parents, the duke and duchess, still stood on it. Proudly. Stiffly.
Arabella walked toward them, a mix of anger, sorrow, and love on her face. She reached the platform, then stopped, unsure what to do. The old Arabella would have waited coldly, imperiously, for them to come to her. Her parents would have waited, too—just as coldly, just as imperiously—for her to come to them.
But the old Arabella was gone. And the new one gathered her skirts in her hands and stepped up onto the platform. She bowed her head to her mother and father, then stood up. Taller, straighter, than she ever had before. Then she offered them her hands, and her simple act of kindness did what acts of kindness do—it melted resistance, dissolved anger, defanged cruelty.
The duchess’s face crumpled. “Oh, my darling, darling child. I thought—” Her voice broke. “I thought I was doing what was best for you. Can you ever forgive me?”
“I already have, Mother,” Arabella said. “With all my heart.”
“We’ll start over, Arabella. Things will be different,” the duke said. “You’ll have what you like—your books and tools. We’ll find you a husband who makes room for his wife’s interests.”
Arabella’s heart sank at her father’s words, but when she spoke, her voice was gentle. “Papa, I’m leaving. I can’t stay. You want me to fit into your world. I want to change it.”
The duke looked stricken. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “You must stay, Arabella. I can’t lose you again, my daughter … my only child.”
Arabella took his hand in hers. “I can’t lose me again.”
Tears came to the duke’s eyes. He shook his head helplessly. “I am old, Arabella. This is hard.”
“I know, Papa. I know.”
The three stood together, close and yet so far apart. Trying to bridge the distances between them.
And Beau, who had been watching Arabella, turned away. He felt like an intruder. He looked at all the people in the ballroom, people hugging and kissing and crying. Separated for a hundred years and now together again. Gustave was embracing Lucile. Josette was weeping. Percival and Phillipe stood perfectly still, facing each other, palms pressed together, fingers entwined, tears rolling down their cheeks. Josephine limped over to them; they pulled her close. Their happiness was so huge, Beau could feel it. Yet sorrow was present, and he felt that, too. In all the years gone by. In all that these people had suffered. Time had stopped in the castle, but outside it, the world had moved on. There were so many things they had lost, so many people they had lost. It would hit them, eventually. Hard.
Standing outside of them, outside of their happiness and their grief, Beau was alone. Or so he thought.
A hand, small and warm, slipped into his. He looked down at the radiant child standing next to him. And Love looked back.
“She has a lot to deal with, after a century and all. But she’ll kiss you again if that’s what you’re worried about. Pretty darn soon, I’d say, if that last kiss was anything to go by. I mean …” She shook her free hand as if she’d burned it. “Hot stuff!”
“Do you mind?” Beau said, highly uncomfortable.
“Friends?” she asked, squeezing his hand.
Beau gave her a rueful smile. “You’re a hard person to be friends with.”
“I know. But worth it. So … friends?”
Beau nodded. And squeezed back. “Yes, kid. Friends.”