Scene XXII The Secret Laboratory
The Step-Queen struts toward me, indigo skirts swishing around her ankles.
I shove the book behind myself, as though it isn’t obvious what I’ve been doing, as though I haven’t made a mess of her carefully arranged notes.
A worried voice slips through my thoughts: How did she know I was here? Why didn’t Marie stop her?
“W-wait,” I stammer. “It’s not what you think.”
“I doubt that,” she says, coming closer. I have nowhere to run—my tailbone slams into the edge of the desk. “Now tell me, who is that impostor downstairs?”
My brain scrambles to concoct a worthy lie, coming up with an impressive, resounding nothing.
Instead, I try for a distraction. “There was a spell on that door, wasn’t there?
” I only now realize that the shimmering I had seen were spell-threads: so faint, I hadn’t noticed them in my excitement. “You cast it. You’re a sorcier.”
“Aren’t you clever,” the Step-Queen purrs. Step by step she comes closer, a prowling wildcat. Her eyes gleam in the low light.
“But you—you don’t smell like one,” I stammer. Keep her talking, until I can think of a way out.
“My potions do their work well,” she says. “I am hidden in plain sight, as my husband wanted me to be.”
“Your husband?” I echo. “The King knew what you were?”
She smirks. “He married me because of it, you fool.”
My fingers tighten on the book. “And now you’re trying to kill his son.”
“I’m— Ha! Is that what you think?” She shakes her head.
“You poor, stupid little creature. You know, I never understood what my boy saw in you. Never understood why he took your word over the word of his own stepmother. But you made him happy, so I allowed your dalliance, decided to bide my time to see if you had changed. But I see now—I should have gotten rid of you the moment you stepped foot in this court.” With a snick , she draws something from behind her back.
A black dagger, a single sapphire glinting in its pommel.
“I suppose it is time to rectify that error.”
My blood goes cold.
“Before I kill you,” the Step-Queen hisses, “know this. Once I am done here, I will ensure that the impostor downstairs is captured and questioned. I will know the truth behind your actions.”
Fear, true fear, shoots through me. “I won’t let you touch her,” I growl, squaring my shoulders, my muscles tensing in preparation. “And you’re wrong. The girl downstairs is not the impostor.”
The Step-Queen hesitates. “What?”
“I am,” I sneer. Then I hurl Medicinal Applications of Sorcerous Elixirs at her head.
The Step-Queen rears back in surprise, and I claim the moment to make my escape.
I don’t get far before she closes the distance again, moving almost unnaturally fast, her skirts a flurry of shadow around her.
I try to slip past her, but my foot catches on the leg of an armchair, and I slow just as the Step-Queen closes in on me.
I reach for Buttons, but before I can even turn him over, the Step-Queen’s dagger slashes down toward me.
I try to twist aside, but I’m too slow. Pain explodes through my side.
I gasp and stumble away, clutching the side where the dagger passed over my ribs.
Buttons slips out of my hand, clatters to the floor, and rolls away into the darkness.
A strange tingling sensation spreads from the wound, traveling across my body like a flame devouring firewood. The feeling is so intense, I crumple to my knees, gritting my teeth as my muscles twitch involuntarily.
The Step-Queen stands back, a victorious smile slicing across her angular features, distorting them into a ghoulish rictus.
I lean back, grimacing, against the wall. “What—what did you do to me?”
Before she can answer, the door clicks open. We both turn to see Aimé in the doorway, breathing heavily.
“Maman, I’m here. What did you—” He trails off as he notices me, lying on the floor. I press my palm harder against my side, but I know it’s too late—I can feel the golden blood leaking between my fingers.
“Marie? But—” His eyes widen.
That’s when it happens. The tingling reaches a crescendo—I don’t know how to describe the sensation other than melting , as though a layer of me is peeling away and pouring off my skin in a cold wave.
The hair that has fallen in front of my face shortens from Marie’s shining coils to my own black hair.
When I move my legs, I realize I’m wearing breeches again, from the black-and-gold costume I’d worn at the Théatre.
My disguise is gone. Aimé is seeing a golden-eyed stranger.
“Aimé,” the Step-Queen says, her voice low, “go get the guards.”
“Aimé, don’t listen to her,” I plead. But when Aimé’s eyes meet mine, they’re filled with bleak, frightened betrayal. He shakes his head mutely and turns on his heel, bolting out the door.
“Aimé!” I shout after him, despair shooting through me. The Step-Queen sneers, crouching down in front of me and skimming the point of her dagger along my throat.
“Surrender,” she says sweetly. “Your ruse is ov—”
Then we hear it: Aimé’s scream. The sound cuts off abruptly, interrupted by another bone-chilling noise: a growl like a thunderclap, so powerful that the walls seem to shake with it.
A look of potent, understanding terror passes over the Step-Queen’s face. “No.” She leaps to her feet. I make to follow, but the pain in my side is too great, and my hands slip on my own blood.
“Wait!” I call after her. “Don’t—”
But the Step-Queen ignores me. She runs for the door, dagger raised.
“Aimé!” she shouts, and all I see are the hem of her sapphire skirts and the heels of her boots as she runs toward whatever horror is approaching down the corridor.
There’s another growl. The sound of her feet against the ground is joined by the hiss of tearing claws as the beast gallops toward her.
“Stop!” the Step-Queen shouts at the unseen monstrosity. “Stop—you must stop, I’m your— agh!” She is cut off by the horrid sound of claws meeting flesh. A spray of blood flies past the doorway. Something heavy thuds against the ground. There is a beat of utter, deafening silence.
Then comes the worst sound of all: the smacking of lips, the wet tearing of skin from bone. My blood freezes in my veins as I realize what I’m hearing.
The beast is eating her.
If I’m going to get out, it has to be now, while it’s distracted. The thought is chilling, but I force myself to move, my hands scrabbling against the wall behind me as I haul myself up on shaking legs.
I peer around the corner, and the sight that greets me makes bile rise to my throat.
A few meters away, a hideous, unspeakable monstrosity is bent over the crimson-slathered remains of Anne de Malezieu.
It looks part wolf, part boar, every part of it ill-shaped and wrong.
Its skin is gray and leathery, cracked in places like ancient stone.
Beneath its massive, bearlike paws, I see shreds of sapphire gown twisted around a ribbon of slick, dripping muscle.
I can’t see a second body—no glints of Aimé’s golden hair or scraps of flamboyant lace. Relief shoots through me. Please, Mothers, I pray silently. Let him have gotten away safely.
I keep my eyes on the creature and move slowly, silently, despite every inch of my body begging me to flee.
I back up step by step, one hand desperately staunching my wound and the other reaching for Buttons, only to remember that I dropped the weapon earlier.
Thankfully, the beast does not notice, too focused on nosing over the Step-Queen’s corpse.
I continue. Step by step. My pulse throbs in my skull—nausea stirs behind my breastbone.
Something glints near my feet, and I look down to see Anne’s dagger.
I stoop to pick it up, shove it into my belt, and keep moving.
I’m almost at the end of the corridor now.
This wing of the Chateau is isolated, but it connects to the entrance hall—if only I can make it there, there will surely be guards present that might be able to kill the beast…
Suddenly a drop of my blood slips through my fingers and plops on the floor. It’s quiet—quiet enough that the sound is almost, almost muffled amid the sound of the monster’s smacking jaws. For a moment I dare to hope that my presence has gone unnoticed.
Then the beast’s nostrils flare.
Its head snaps up.
Our eyes meet, and my heart stops. The beast’s bullish jaws are slathered in gore, its eyes black pools of hatred. Boar-like tusks jut out behind wide, dribbling nostrils, and I nearly gag when I realize that one of the tusks still has a scrap of sapphire fabric caught on its tip.
“Merde,” I mutter.
The monster grunts. A rivulet of saliva slips from its jowls.
Then it charges.
I turn on my heel and run.
My wound screams in protest; my heart thuds so hard against my ribs, I nearly expect it to break through their cage.
Behind me, I can hear the monster getting closer, the shhshhshh of its claws a desperate, vicious scrape.
It snarls in frustration, and the sound is like a jagged knife dragged down my spine.
Cursing, I force my aching legs to move faster, blinking through my tears.
Part of me is glad that my disguise is gone, that I am wearing trousers and flat-soled boots.
Ahead of me, the double doors of the chapel appear, the twin tarasques upon them menacing with their glinting shells.
Behind me, the monster utters a scraping roar, and I know it’s catching up.
Panic cuts me to the quick: I’m not going to make it to the entrance hall.
There is one way I might be able to escape, but it’s a desperate fool’s hope.
I turn on my heel toward the chapel doors, shove at their heavy weight until there’s a mere crack for me to slip through.
The doors fall shut behind me. A moment later I hear the monster slam against them.
They’re not going to hold it for long, I know.
I don’t stop running. The chapel’s pews are long, the exit on the opposite side beckoning.
But if I go that way, the beast will see me, and it will catch me.
I need to shake it before my stamina runs out.
So instead, I bolt up the stairs that lead to the tribune.
As I run, I hear the monster break through the doors, scenting the air with a rasping inhale.
As I reach the top, it growls, and I hear the scrape of its shoulders against stone as it crams itself into the narrow stairwell.
I pause to catch my breath, looking around the blindingly white room. The Mothers stare at me blankly, utterly unhelpful. The monster roars again—it’s getting closer.
In front of me is a stained-glass window, narrow and tall, one of many that line the walls. I’m one story up—if I could break through the thick panes, I could probably survive the jump.
But how?
I clutch the owl-face pendant and jolt in realization.
The pendant feels wrong. No longer can I feel the intricate humming of spell-threads within. Instead, the magic is… raw. Unraveled. Returned to its natural, molten form.
Whatever the Step-Queen did to me when she stabbed me, it destroyed my father’s spell. Years’ worth of stolen goddess-gold, of scavenged magic, gone.
My stomach sinks—Marie. What does this mean for Marie?
Behind me, there is an eager, blood-curdling snarl. The monster reaches the top of the stairs, drags itself through the narrow opening. Its head whips around, searching for me.
No time to think. I press myself into the shadows and tear the pendant from my neck, wincing at the quiet snap.
I pull at the magic within, feeling it pool in my palm, wet and sticky.
With that same hand—now dripping gold—I weave the spell I remember from Bartrand’s journal, one shimmering thread at a time: mirror, shards, break, and finally window.
Then I slam my palm against the glittering glass.
The spell bursts out around my hand, a single spiderwebbing flare of light.
The window shatters in a diamond display, thousands of twinkling shards raining down around me.
The sudden sound alerts the beast to my location—I hear the bellow of its fury, the screech of its claws, as it barrels toward me.
I leap through the opening without hesitation, curling my hands over my face. A line of agony sears down my side as the beast reaches after me, its claws snagging on my doublet in one final, failed attempt to seize me in its grasp.
Then I am falling, falling, falling, the night opening up to swallow me in jaws of starless obscurity.
I do not remember hitting the ground. The next time awareness returns to me, I am lying gasping on the cold earth, scrambling to hold on to consciousness even as it slips from me. My skin feels tacky, lathered in stale blood. I can only pray my father finds me before the guards do.
The last thing I hear is my name, sobbed desperately through familiar tearstained lips.
Soft fingers brush my cheeks, and I swear I see glorious white wings unfurl above me.
Then I slip into darkness.