Thirty-Nine
Camille knew she should not be in the great hall.
Not this late at night.
Stepping lightly, she climbed up onto the track that arched in front of the golden clock and walked to the doors on its left side. She set down the candle and basket she was carrying, pulled a knife from her pocket, and slid its blade into the thin crack between the doors. A few twists at the latch, and they were open. Wedging her foot between them, she picked up her things and slipped inside the clockworks.
Careful not to disturb anything, she made her way through the figures, skirting around some, dipping under others, until she reached the one she wanted—a smiling baby girl sitting on the ground, her hands pressed together in a clap.
“There you are, my princess!” she said, kneeling down by the baby. She reached into her basket, fished out a pretty circlet of flowers and herbs, and settled it on the child’s head. “There’s lavender for devotion, thyme for courage, and rosemary for remembrance.” Then she kissed the baby’s cold porcelain hand. “I miss you, my darling girl. Every minute of every day. And I love you. So, so much.”
Camille had brought a tiny cake, too. She placed it in the child’s lap. She knew the mice carried away the sweets, but she liked to pretend that the little girl ate them.
“I hope you like this one. It has all your favorite flavors in it: vanilla, raspberry, and lemon, and it has a butterfly on top. Do you see? I made it out of meringue and rose petals.” Her voice caught. Tears spilled from her eyes. “Forgive me, my little one,” she said, trying for a smile. “Mama’s tired tonight.”
Camille had risen early that morning, as she always did to begin the day’s baking, but instead of going to bed early, as she knew she ought to, she’d stayed up to bake her daughter’s cake. A figure of a tall man holding a bridle in his hands stood behind the child. Camille leaned her head against his legs and closed her eyes.
She never meant to fall asleep, and when the huge clock started chiming the hour—eleven o’clock—she startled awake with a gasp.
“Oh no!” she whispered, frantically grabbing her basket. She kissed the child once more, then scrambled to her feet and picked up her candle.
Stumbling, slipping, banging her head on one figure’s arm, catching her foot against another’s skirts, she made her way back toward the doors, hoping that Lady Arabella had stayed in her chamber tonight. But as she burst through the doorway and jumped from the track to the floor, her hopes were dashed. Her mistress was sitting in a chair, a look of extreme displeasure on her face. Her ladies were standing behind her.
Camille looked down at her feet. “I-I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she stammered. “I was only—”
“Speak up!” Espidra ordered. “Why are you here? The mistress permits no one to be here so close to midnight except for her court.”
“I brought a cake,” Camille said softly. “To give to the baby.”
“A cake? For a clockwork child? What a useless gesture.”
Camille had been contrite, but as she felt the sting of Espidra’s harsh words, her remorse evaporated. Espidra was a poisonous weed, sending her vines everywhere, choking off every bright emotion that tried to send up shoots.
Camille raised her head. “It was for my child,” she repeated, struggling to keep her anger in check.
Espidra made a noise of disgust. “This is what those vicious little monsters, Hope and Faith, do. They upset the help,” she said to Arabella.
The last shreds of restraint Camille possessed gave way. “Do you think you’re the only character in this story?” she asked Arabella, her voice rising. She pointed at the clock. “My husband is in there … my child!”
“You wasted your efforts,” said Espidra. “The clock winds down. The curse cannot be broken.”
Camille ignored her. “Help him, mistress,” she said, her eyes still on Arabella.
“How dare you. Remember your place,” Espidra warned.
Camille whirled on her defiantly. “Or what, Lady Espidra? You’ll lock me up? Throw me in a cell like you did to the children? Go right ahead. You’re right—the clock is winding down. In a matter of days, the castle crumbles. I die. My husband dies. My baby girl …” Her voice caught. With effort, she continued. “My baby girl dies. So to hell with my place and to hell with you.” She turned back to Arabella. “He wants you to build him a bridge. Do it.”
“Why would she do that? Only a fool would make such a pointless gesture,” said Iglut.
“But the little baker is a fool,” Hesma taunted.
“Camille,” Arabella said, “even if I could build a bridge—which is an absurd supposition because I cannot—the second it’s in place, he will cross it and leave us. Nothing will change. Not for us. The curse will not be broken. We will all still die.”
“Do it because you care for him.”
Espidra blanched. “Is this true?” she asked, looking from Camille to Arabella.
Arabella quickly turned away. “Of course not,” she said.
“Have those two demons found Love?” LaJoyuse shrilled. “Have they freed her?” She turned to Espidra. “You locked her away, didn’t you?”
Espidra was silent.
Rafe pressed her hands to her cheeks. “Lady Espidra, you did, didn’t you?” she asked in a tremulous voice.
Espidra gave a stiff, unwilling shake of her head. “She was too quick. She escaped.”
“So she’s still here?” Rafe whispered.
“No, she left the castle. Nearly a century ago.”
“How do you know?”
“Because I searched for her,” Espidra snapped. “For decades. In every room and corridor and alcove. She is not here. I promise you.”
Rafe exhaled. She lowered her hands.
Camille rushed to Arabella and knelt down beside her chair. “You care for him, I know you do. I see it in your eyes. You love him, mistress. And when you love someone, you help him.”
“Camille, I don’t—”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Espidra cut in. “Even if the mistress did love the thief, which she does not, love cannot build a bridge over a moat. It would take a hundred men, with pillars and ropes and winches. It would—”
Camille straightened. “Do not speak of love, Lady Espidra,” she said, her eyes blazing. “Do not hold that word in your mouth when you do not hold it in your heart.” She swept her finger in front of her, pointing at all the ladies in turn. “Not one of you knows anything of love. Love does not run. It does not turn tail. Love never, ever gives up.”
Arabella shrank back. From Camille, from all that she was asking. “I can’t help him. I can’t help anyone,” she whispered.
Lady Romeser stepped forward, gaunt and stiff. “The mistress is very sorry, Camille. For your husband, your child. But even so, nothing can be done.”
Camille ignored her and addressed Arabella. “I know you’re sorry, mistress, but I don’t care. I’m sick of sorry. You wallow in your pain. You wallow in our pain. You cloister yourself with your ladies, day after day after day. My God, don’t you think we all have remorse?”
Arabella closed her eyes. Bitterness moved across her face like spilled ink across parchment. “I imagine that mine is rather deeper,” she said.
“Of course you do,” Camille said, a caustic sear to her voice.
Arabella heard it. She opened her eyes. “The clockmaker cursed me,” she said hotly. “Me. For the terrible thing I did.”
“You have no idea what I’ve done. What any of us has done.”
Arabella laughed mirthlessly as she rose from her chair. “What have you done, Camille? Scorched some jam? Burned a cake?” she asked, walking away from her, from her court, the clock, everything.
“I cheated on my husband.”
The room was perfectly quiet, except for the ticking of the giant golden clock. Arabella stopped. She turned around.
“Twice. With your dance master.”
Lady Elge giggled behind her hand. “That’s a bit more than I needed to know.”
“Claudette steals chocolate from the cellar,” Camille continued. “Valmont kicked Henri. Josette likes stringing Florian along. Josephine filches wine. Martin keeps back a pint of milk from the morning milking and drinks it all himself.”
“For God’s sake, Camille,” Arabella said. “All of this is nothing compared to—”
“You? Your mistakes? Your regrets?” Camille approached Arabella. “Leave your high tower, mistress. Step down into the mud with the rest of us. With the fools. The cowards. The bad-tempered and jealous. The heartbroken. We are all like you. Can’t you see that?”
“It’s no use, Camille. It’s over. All is lost. I am lost,” Arabella said, and the sorrow in her voice made Camille catch her breath.
She took Arabella’s hands in her own. There was a surprising strength in those small fingers.
“Try, mistress. Try. Do all that you can. Help him. And you won’t be.”