Chapter 24 #3
Just past the ballroom was a magnificent door made of intricate gold, wound in patterns of leaves and vines.
Inside the throats of the small gold flowers were little diamonds.
Heart racing, I reached for the handle and found it locked.
Only a moment of hesitation, quickly overcome.
I went into my pocket for the keys. My fingers trembled while I hunted for the right one—the iron twisted into delicate holdings—and slid it into the lock.
The door fell open soundlessly under the softest touch.
As it opened, I gasped, for this was even more magnificent than the library.
A wild tangle of plants crawled up every part of the room, crowded and lush under a roof made of glass.
Here, finally, I saw the ubiquitous blue flowers that twined over the carpets and tapestries, growing in pots, curving in elegant bows before me.
They were more beautiful in real life—velvety blues and crushed purples like no painting or carpet could truly render.
I spent a long time looking at them. Looking at everything and breathing in the heady, wild green scent.
In my wonder, I did not forget to be cautious.
I kept my hands tucked along my sides and gave all the plants, even the ones that begged to be touched, a wide berth.
It was only one little leaf that reached out. I was keeping my careful distance, but as I passed, it stretched its neck into my path, and before I knew it, swept a whisper of a touch across the back of my hand.
Pain instantly flared on my skin. I cried out, whipping my hand back, clutching it tight to my chest. The pain pulsed and burnt and seemed to grow hotter by the second.
I wiped my hand on my skirt over and over, but no relief came.
Thankfully, I had not lost my mind enough to go crashing through the rest of the plants.
But I was wild in pain, and I stumbled through the path, back the way I’d come, with my shoulders pulled tight in fear that something else would reach out and touch me.
The pain in my hand traveled up my arm and I realized, in sudden terror, that I could no longer move my fingers.
I needed Perchta. She was the only one who would know what to do, how to fix it.
But even as I thought it, I knew I would not make it.
The fire was already at my shoulder and everything below my elbow was dead.
I would not get through the forest in time.
I only had a minute. Maybe seconds. I dragged in a ragged breath against the pain.
My garden. There would be something in the garden. I burst out into the empty halls, running across the chateau and down the back stairs to the little stone door that took me out into the rain. As soon as the drops hit my shoulder more pain coursed through my body.
My hand, limp and dead at my side, had no visible sign of injury.
My mind stumbled and skipped through all the herbs and plants Perchta had made me memorize.
My thoughts were half formed, churning against the rising dark.
I needed a plant for the unseen. I needed a plant against the unseen.
I needed. I closed my eyes and grasped into the unknown.
I needed mugwort.
I ran to the corner where the mugwort grew in dark, leafy bushes with silver hairy undersides, always threatening to take over the whole garden.
Ripping off handfuls of the wet plant, I stuffed it into my mouth and began to chew.
I ground it in my teeth against the pain.
I forced myself to swallow the bitter green.
Then, in desperation, I buried my dead hand and arm in the plant itself, collapsing into its leafy bed.
The pain did not subside. I looked dimly into the gray sky, the rain pattering on my forehead.
If this was my last moment, I could accept it if only to receive relief from this fire that crawled up my neck. I couldn’t help but think again of Valerie and how I would never see Dacia again. In the last moments, I saw my sister’s face. I’m coming, Rochelle, I thought, and a peace slid over me.
But I did not die. The fire burnt on my neck but went no higher. I laid in the wet blanket of crushed mugwort as the pain slowly ebbed, like dying embers. Eventually I could move my arm, and then my elbow, and finally I felt the warm, damp earth on my fingertips.
My chest heavy with the hollowed-out feeling of disappointment, Rochelle remained, as always, out of reach. I sat up, soaked and muddy and somehow still sweating.
I just wanted to be clean and reborn of all this.
I wanted to understand how Renaud really felt.
I wanted so much I could not even put into words.
I undid my tunic and stripped the wet and muddy cloth off my body, throwing it to the side.
The day was warm, but the rain and earth cool on my back and legs, my breasts bared to the cloudy sky.
I felt like Eve after the apple but before God found her, twining fingers and legs through the wet garden, waiting for her god to return and judge her accordingly.
I took only the keys and left behind the pile of wet and muddied clothing.
Naked and free, with bits of grass and herbs stuck to my rain-washed body, I walked back into the chateau, iron clinking between my fingers.
Regret No. 3
There was nothing that could interest me about the chateau anymore. No door I wanted to open. No room I sought to explore. I locked the room with the flower, my fingers still trembling. Keep your secrets, I thought. I only wanted the comfort of my own bed.
But the house was not done with me yet. I climbed the stairs and turned down the hall, heading along the familiar route—the one I knew the best. And yet, I looked up and found myself in front of Renaud’s door, not my own.
Naked and wet, I shivered, feeling the presence of the house, pressing on all sides, watching quietly to see what I would do.
Earlier, I had not wanted to betray his trust. But now, cold and wet and tired, I felt there was no trust to betray.
Earlier, I’d felt myself his consort. Now, I felt he was keeping me from Rochelle, from himself, from knowledge I might need to save myself.
I had promised myself I’d do anything for him, but he had asked for too much.
I did not know what to do, how to draw back or move forward.
I felt so alone, and I hated being left alone.
I wanted to scream at him—I knew! I knew where he rode!
I knew the world between worlds! But he could not even fathom it of me—that was why he would not say it.
Angered at this thought, I strode into the room.
My desk sat as it always did—waiting for me to return.
The door to his bed chamber beyond it, closed and locked.
I gripped the keys. Countless times I watched him lock and unlock the door.
I watched him slide in and out without revealing anything inside.
In that moment, there was no real struggle over the decision.
I unlocked the door and stepped inside, the bits of grass and weeds sloughing off on the soft carpets.
There was something stripped and barren and colder about it, though the same blue orchid rugs that ran down the hall covered every inch of the floor.
I crossed my arms over my bare breasts and the loose lengths of my damp hair.
The bed was tall and wrought of blackened wood like the stones of the chateau.
I ran my fingers along the blankets and took a deep breath of his scent—that deep rotting spice that always made me think of graves and winter and his voice on a dark wind.
I climbed into the bed and let my naked body sink back onto the pillows and fur.
It was then that the second door revealed itself.
I had not seen it when I first walked in and looked around the room.
It was cut into the blackened stone, cleverly disguised—unadorned, flat, made of iron.
There was a small keyhole etched into the stone, and I felt the weight of the keys in my hands.
What would he keep there? Precious jewels?
A weapon from the gods? His mortal heart?
But I was too tired, too drained, too fearful of what I did not know to go any farther. I turned away, leaving the door behind.
I’d had enough curiosity for one day.