Chapter Thirty-Three
We creep up the monstrous curving staircases, the grand chandeliers hanging overhead, surrounded by the sheer splendor of the Kingdom that sees me as its enemy. I belong to another.
“Queen Maria’s mirror is in her chambers,” I whisper to Cerise and Professor Borges as we navigate the halls. “We can only hope they didn’t move it after her death.”
“The silver stake might be useful, should we run into anything the Queen has concocted to terrorize us,” the professor says.
“Then Viola should have it,” Cerise says.
The professor’s eyes sharpen. She clearly doesn’t think I should be the one handling her things, and actually, I happen to agree. I hand the stake to Cerise.
“No,” she says, holding up her hands. “Viola, you take it.”
“I have my shadows.”
“And the gargoyle,” Professor Borges adds.
It seems like an odd comment to make. “Oh. Yes, I guess that’s true.” I glance down at Saint Waffles, trotting beside us.
The professor raises her eyebrows. “Your parents sent him with you to Aragoa for your protection. Didn’t you notice how peculiarly loyal he is?”
I look down at Waffles’s squat form, and he looks back up at me, his mouth panting and eyes smiling. “I thought that was just his personality.”
Professor Borges scoffs. “Gargoyles are fearsome beings—creatures of pure night trained to protect their human companions from all manner of evil. They will slaughter enemies, reduce a threat to shreds of flesh and bone in moments if they sense any danger.”
Waffles’s tongue lolls sloppily out of his mouth.
“He’s terrifying,” Cerise says.
The professor bristles. “Don’t underestimate a gargoyle, girl. It’ll be a mistake you never forget.”
“All right,” I say. “I have Waffles and my shadows. Cerise, you take the silver.”
She grumbles but takes the stake from me.
“Good. Now keep up.”
I glance out the casement windows as we sprint past them. The Mists are still black—no sign of the sun. It’s little consolation.
I’m breathless, and there’s a sharp pain in my ribs as we climb into the upper castle, toward the royal residences.
I round a corner, expecting us to find ourselves in the hall that leads to the Queen’s chambers, and I am met with a sight that is completely wrong, but familiar—the hall outside the throne room.
I jog to a halt, Cerise and Waffles beside me and the professor lagging behind.
This hall is larger than the others, with a grand ceiling painted with the faces of the saints among clouds and beams of glorious sunlight.
I can barely make it out with the chandeliers lit so dimly, turning what must have been an awe-inspiring piece into something vaguely ominous.
“This is wrong,” I say. “We must’ve gotten turned around.”
The professor tuts. “You’ve led us to the throne room. I thought you knew where you were going.”
I shake my head. “I was sure this was the way, I just—”
My words lodge in my throat as I turn. On the other end of the hall, the way we just came, is a dead end.
“What the hell?” Cerise mutters, looking back and forth between both ends of the hall. “What’s happening? Where’s the hall?”
“It’s the Queen,” I whisper. I cross back to the end of the hall we just came from.
It’s an illusion, I think confidently. Just like the faceless guards. Just like the beetles in my soup.
I reach out a hand toward the wall, begging my palm to fall through it like smoke. But instead, my palm smacks into dark, embroidered wallpaper, the feel of thread beneath my fingers entirely real.
“Impossible,” Professor Borges breathes. “This is magic I’ve never seen.”
I swallow. “She’s getting stronger.”
She feeds on fear. And even at that thought, panic seizes my chest. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, palm still flat against the wall.
Calm.
Control.
I will not feed her power.
I turn on my heel toward Cerise and Borges, looking around at the room the Queen has created from the hall we were just in. No doors. Save one. “All right. There’s only one way forward.”
I take a step toward the doors to the throne room, but Cerise stops me with a hand on my elbow. “Aren’t we falling into a trap?”
“Yes,” Professor Borges says, arms crossed. “You’re playing right into her hands.”
“We don’t have a choice.”
I reach toward the doors and hesitate when my hand touches the cool gold handle. I release one more steadying breath and push open the door.
The throne room is pitch black. There are no windows here, and the candelabra lights just a few feet ahead of us.
The lush scarlet carpet silences our footsteps as we pad farther into the room.
My shadows beg to be set free, ready to lash out at a moment’s notice.
We tread farther into the darkness, and the flickering candlelight reveals the thrones and the princesses’ empty chairs beside them.
“No one’s here,” I whisper.
The words barely leave my lips when a low, soft growl reaches my ears. A growl that definitely does not belong to Waffles. My heart jumps into my throat as I turn in its direction—toward the darkness behind the thrones.
“What was that?” Cerise asks.
“We should go,” Professor Borges says. “Now.”
We turn and rush toward the door. The professor gets there first, reaches for the handle … and it’s gone. The door has transformed into a solid wall. And I can just barely hear the faintest sound—scratching and whimpering on the other side.
“Waffles is trapped outside,” I say. “The Queen’s shut us in.”
Another rumbling growl rattles across the floor. I scan the darkness behind the throne. My breath is still. I think I can see something moving in the shadows, but that could be just a trick of my eyes.
But then it’s unmistakable. A shape moves in the dark behind the Queen’s throne. The light of the candles catches on something. An enormous paw. Wild yellow eyes meet mine.
A roar, loud enough to split eardrums, slices toward me, and it leaps. Teeth and claws lunge for me.
I run, hurtling for Cerise as a great, dark lion collides with the floor behind me. It bounds off the door and leaps again, and I barely duck in time before it flies over my head.
“Cerise!” I scream.
On the other side of the room, Professor Borges is flat against the wall, eyes wide in terror.
Cerise grabs me around the waist and holds the stake out against the lion. Why couldn’t the professor have had a sword of silver?
The lion whirls around, and Cerise and I stumble onto the dais behind the thrones. They’ll do nothing to barricade us from the beast.
“Viola,” Cerise says, and she points up.
I glance upward—above is a baldachin, a surface of solid gold and draping fabric that canopies the throne.
She grabs me by the arm and throws me toward the column supporting the baldachin.
The lion paces closer to us, and I quickly climb the column, using the curtain to hoist myself up.
I reach down to my friend.
“Cerise.”
She glances up to me and grabs my hand. The lion leaps, and I heave her up. The beast’s great paw catches Cerise on her foot, and she cries out as I pull her onto the surface of the baldachin. I tug her under her arms and pull her to safety.
Below us, the lion growls and paces on the dais.
It’s only now that I realize it has a gold sheen to it—and that the lion statue that stands guard before the throne is missing.
I look to where Professor Borges is against the wall.
She’s cowering, visibly shaking, and she’s taken hold of a marble bust to protect herself.
I can barely see the shape of her in the darkness. I try to spot the beast beneath us, but it seems to have crept back into the darkness.
“We need to get to the professor before it attacks her,” I tell Cerise.
She cringes. “We can’t just sit up here and wait for that thing to go away?”
“No.”
“Would it be so bad if it ate her? She was horrible to you.”
I give her a chastening look, and she sighs. “Fine.”
I creep toward the back of the baldachin. I don’t see the beast anywhere. I listen intently for a moment—no breathing, no low growl. It can’t have just disappeared, can it?
I slip down behind the curtain as silently as I can. The walls are covered in thick drapes, and there’s nearly a foot of space for me to walk behind them, obscured in darkness.
Cerise slides down behind me and stifles a groan as she lands on her bloody foot. “What are you doing?” I hiss.
“Protecting you.”
“You’re injured.”
“I don’t care.”
I want to argue with her that this is no time to be noble, but we have so little time. “Stay here,” I command. “I’ll get the professor.”
She glares but nods, and I turn down the pathway. I’m careful not to brush the curtains, not to give away any sort of movement. It’s so dark that I can’t see past my own nose here. I can’t hear anything either.
Then, a shriek from nearby—the professor. I hear the running of feet, the ripping of claws across carpet, and then silence. I try to quiet my breathing, to make myself utterly invisible.
I’m not sure if I should keep going or if I should turn back. And then I hear something—breathing. Close.
I freeze and press myself into the wall behind me. There’s a faint sound, like the thud of paws on plush carpet. I bite the inside of my cheek, not daring to breathe, begging my heart not to beat too loudly.
I glance down, and I can see the shadows of its enormous paws in the candlelight—just outside the curtain. Can it smell me?
I press my head back into the wall and hold in a whimper.
And that’s when I feel something sticky drip onto my shoulder.
I shift my arms, feel the wall under my fingertips.
The whole wall is covered in a thick, dripping liquid.
I try to pull my arms away without making any sudden movements.
The muck covering the walls pulls against them painfully. It’s like honey, but thicker, stickier.
I’m trapped.
Another scraping sound—closer.
My heart races, pounding painfully against my ribs. My breaths are coming in sharp bursts, and my shadows itch like mad against my fingertips.
A low, deep growl—right outside the curtain. Inches from my stomach, the lion presses its nose into the fabric, pushing against it. He’s sniffing—I can hear it. The shape of his head in the curtain inches closer. I don’t dare breathe.
No. No. Not yet.
A sharp whistle rings across the room. The lion’s head pulls back immediately. And it roars—a sound that rattles my bones. And then it bounds away.
The sticky substance releases me, and I fall forward, tumbling through the curtain. But the lion is preoccupied and doesn’t see me. There, across the space are Cerise and the professor. Cerise is holding the silver stake, her eyes proud and angry as she faces the lion.
It prowls closer, bent low.
“What are you doing?” hisses Professor Borges.
“I’m saving the damn princess,” Cerise says. And then she slashes threateningly at the lion. It lurches back and growls furiously, baring its golden teeth.
And behind them, without any warning, the door to the room rematerializes, handle intact.
The professor sees it, her eyes widening slightly. She glances between me and the lion. The world slows as realization dawns—I know what she plans to do.
She rushes for the door. It bursts open for her, and then the professor is gone.
She’s abandoned us.
But at that same moment, Saint Waffles bounds into the room, a truly ferocious roar almost too big for his small body ripping from his chest as he launches himself at the lion.
To my amazement, the lion cowers, hunching its shoulders and backing away. Waffles shows no mercy. His wings launch him into the air, and he comes down at the lion with all four sets of claws bared, his tusks aimed right for the lion’s throat.
The lion reels backward, swatting at Waffles in the air. Then it seems to think better of its decision to fight rather than flee. It ducks beneath Waffles as it dashes through the door behind the professor. I can hear its heavy paws pound away through the hall—the exits must have reappeared.
Waffles sends it off with a final roar of warning before landing at my feet. I breathe deeply, trying desperately to regain control of my breathing, and turn to Cerise.
“Why did you do that?” I nearly shriek. I feel the tears threatening to burst from me. I want to shake her.
“You’re going to make it through this, Viola,” she says, breathing as heavily as I am. “Only you can stop the Queen. I’m going to make sure you make it through this.”
I pinch my lips together, and then I pull her into a fierce hug. “Thank you,” I say. “But never do that again.”