Chapter Twenty-Seven
I’m still so dazed from the sleeping draught, it takes my brain a moment to catch up to the scene in front of me.
Lydia and I have been dumped in the middle of a coliseum, something right out of one of our father’s mealtime history lectures.
The noise of the roaring crowd is enough to make me dizzy, and the sun is so bright, my eyes still haven’t adjusted.
I’ve been dropped like a cat drops a dead bird for its owner, directly at the base of Bram’s throne.
His wretched announcement rattles around my skull, and I’m attempting to puzzle some way out of it when an object glinting
in Lydia’s hand catches my eye.
I turn, to find her with the unicorn horn raised aloft. Her eyes are closed and there’s something about her that’s so still,
like she’s already made peace with what’s happening.
“Don’t look, Ivy!” she screams, and in one rapid motion, she drives the horn toward her own heart.
I don’t think, I just run, throwing my body weight into her in a side tackle, sending us both splayed out on the gravel.
Lydia pushes herself up, sputtering, and crawls, on her hands and knees, searching for the horn, which went flying when she fell.
“Lydia, stop!” I scream. “Please!”
I wish I could open the door back to England again and free us both from this, but the bowl of the coliseum is lined with
sheets of iron, dampening whatever small magic I have within me.
“Let me do this!” she groans, still sifting through the gravel, looking for the horn.
But Ferrinus, the weapon Bram placed in my hand, landed directly behind me when we fell.
If she’s not going to give me time to think of a plan that saves us both, then my next action is clear. I once snuck out of
a warm town house and took off into a cold London night to search for her. It was the riskiest thing I’d done in all eighteen
years of my life.
When we were children, for the first five years of my life, Lydia was the only person I spoke to willingly. It would drive
our parents and governess mad, the way I’d lean over to Lydia and mumble in whispers only she could understand.
Lydia was the first person I ever spoke to.
I am glad she will also be the last.
“I love you, Lydia. I’m sorry,” I say as I pick up Ferrinus, the knife that failed me so terribly, and hope it lands true.
I strike before the fear of pain sets in.
The knife connects with my jugular vein, but just before it opens skin, something tears it from my wrist and knocks me back.
Lydia is on top of me, clawing like a feral animal. She drives her elbow into the wrapped palm of my broken hand, causing
me to lurch in pain and drop the knife.
She picks it up herself, and I kick her wrist hard enough to hear it pop.
I can’t even look at Emmett for fear I’ll lose my nerve and not be able to do what I need to do.
A sharp pain rips through my head and I taste metal in the back of my throat, the eerie heat of magic suddenly crawling up
my fingertips, through my shoulders, my collarbones, and up into my brain.
You hate her, a voice that sounds eerily like my own whispers. You hate her. She abandoned you, she shut you out, she left your family’s fate on your shoulders, then resented you for your power and fame. You were the
one who dreamed of magic, but she stole your dream and became queen of the Otherworld. Emmett loves her. Maybe he’s in love with her. While she’s living, you’ll always wonder if he wants her more. But you could kill her, kill her and be done
with it. You’d be queen of England and of the Otherworld, just as you always imagined as a child. It was your dream. Not hers.
Kill her, kill her, kill her.
I claw at my hair and throw the tiara on the ground, desperate to get the awful words out of my head.
Kill her. She’s jealous of you.
Kill her. She’s never loved you as much as you love her. In fact, she doesn’t love you at all.
“No!” I scream, just to drown out the voice. “It’s not true!” I know it’s not, because loving Lydia is an inexorable part
of who I am, just as vital as my blood or bones.
It hurts to love a sister, but the only thing I’ve ever hated about her is the way she reflects the parts of me I can’t stand, my living mirror. I hate that I can’t lie to her, that I dread letting her down, that she’s always been more honest than me. But I don’t hate her. I couldn’t.
I know what my sister is made of because I am made of exactly the same thing.
I turn to see Lydia in an identical battle, curled up in the fetal position, thrashing in the dirt, with her hands clamped
over her ears.