“It looks almost like writing,” said Rachelle.
“Well. I might have added my initials to it.”
Sévigné was gone—“She saw the mark,” said Amélie, “and she’s probably halfway to the Archipelago by now”—but Amélie contrived to put Rachelle’s hair up easily enough. It was the dress that was a problem, because Rachelle didn’t want Erec to suspect she was planning anything, but a ball gown was hardly suitable for fighting. They compromised by lacing the corset as loosely as possible and strapping four knives to Rachelle’s legs.
The dress itself was magnificent. It was crimson silk that turned to gold at the hem, with golden roses embroidered on the skirt. The sleeves were slashed with white and ringed with little gold silk roses. The neckline bared her shoulders and her collarbones like a declaration of war. When Rachelle saw herself wearing it in the mirror, she felt beautiful. And glorious. And like a warrior who had a chance to win.
And none of that mattered next to knowing that every inch of her body had been decorated by somebody who loved her.
“Thank you,” she said, turning to Amélie, who had been fussing with the back panels of her skirt. “You’re amazing.”
“This is my last performance,” said Amélie. “It had better be good.”
“I mean,” said Rachelle, “thank you for everything, ever since we met. Without you . . . I don’t know if I’d be strong enough to keep fighting.”
Amélie smiled and took her hands. “I have never regretted being your friend,” she said. “Make me proud tonight.”
32
Erec came to fetch her. Rachelle had expected him to come looking for punishment or vengeance, but when she opened the door and saw him standing on the other side resplendent in black velvet and silver, he only smiled at her, the same as always.
“Good evening,” he said. “I think you will enjoy tonight.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Have you forgiven me, then?”
“Still so human, my lady?” He laid his hands on her shoulders. “You misunderstand our nature. We don’t need to hate or forgive what belongs to us.” He kissed her neck, and she shivered. “Someday you’ll understand that.”
Rachelle thought of when she had first learned what he was, and how desperately she had wanted to disbelieve it. Even now—even after what he had done to her, to Armand, to Amélie, to Aunt Léonie—some part of her wanted to forget it all, just so that they could be Rachelle-and-Erec again, fighting woodspawn in the streets of Rocamadour.
But that had only been a game to him, when it had been salvation to her.
“Humans are not so far from forestborn as you think,” she said.
He smiled. “You’ll sing differently when we ride to hunt the humans for sport.”
Night had fallen; as they walked through the hallways of the Château, the light from the chandeliers glittered off the glass windows. Shadowy rabbits raced beside their feet, and translucent flowers sprouted from the picture frames. The air was thick with the Forest’s longing.
The Midsummer Night festival was in the Garden of the Four Fountains: a wide, square lawn, enclosed by trees, with a great fountain at each corner. Lanterns hung on every tree, and candles sat around the rims of the fountains, setting the water alight as it leaped into the air. In one corner, a score of musicians played; in another were tables nearly buried under food and wine; and in the center, almost the whole court milled about, talking and laughing and dancing.
“Is it not glorious?” said Erec into her ear. His arm was tucked into the crook of hers. “Like peacocks, rounded up for slaughter.”
“Peacocks aren’t raised for meat,” said Rachelle. Her heart was beating fast but steady. She felt the vast magical power gathering in the air the same way she felt the exact space between Erec’s body and hers. But she was not, for now, overpowered by either feeling.
“They’ve appeared on the King’s table a time or two. Besides, it’s for their feathers they are killed.” Erec surveyed the glittering crowd. They wore dresses and coats of every color, with feathers in their hair and jewels at their necks. The little heeled shoes that men and women alike wore gave most of them a delicate, mincing gait quite like birds picking their way through grass.
“They’re so very human,” said Erec. “Laughing and dancing and civilized only because of their ignorance. If they knew what was coming, they would tear each other to pieces to escape. But that’s the human way, I suppose.”
“Too bad you’re killing them all,” said Rachelle. “When night falls, to whom will you feel superior?”
“Oh, they won’t all die. We shall keep them as our King keeps peacocks on his lawn. And hunt them as we please, like foxes.”
“Hardly challenging prey, in those shoes and without claws,” said Rachelle, scanning the crowd. “Did you drag Armand out for a final show, or is he staying somewhere safe?”
“Quite safe,” Erec began, but just then the King called out merrily, “D’Anjou!”
They turned, and there was the King bearing down upon them, dressed in cloth of gold, curls waving in the breeze. A step behind him, face solemn and still, came Armand.
Rachelle’s heart slammed against her ribs. His face was pale and grim, but he was alive. He was alive, and he was not harmed, and he met her eyes.
“Your Majesty,” said Erec, and bowed. Rachelle curtsied awkwardly a moment after.
“I thought it well for appearances if my son were here, this final night,” said the King. “After all, the announcement we make tonight closely concerns him, does it not?”
“Of course,” said Erec, and Rachelle knew that she was the only one who could hear the suppressed annoyance in his voice.
“I’ll leave him in your care and Mademoiselle Brinon’s,” said the King, giving Armand’s shoulder a light slap, and then returned to the dancing.
“Well, well, well,” said Erec. “Monsieur Vareilles, whatever shall we do with you?”
“Let him dance with me,” said Rachelle.
“You’ll plot,” said Erec.
“Yes,” she said, “but what can we do? You have your forestborn everywhere in the crowd.”
“That does not explain why I should let you.”
“Because you’ll take me away again at the end of the dance,” she said. “And you would love to show how you can give me and take me away.”