Impossible. The Forest didn’t appear in human homes unless something terrible called it forth, like a bloodbound turning into a forestborn. And she still felt human. She didn’t think Erec was ready to leave the court yet, either.

Rachelle knew she should be scared, but she was still too dazed by the charm’s destruction; her head felt cold and hollow. Slowly she sat up. The floor seemed to rock underneath her as she moved; she put a hand against the floor to steady herself, and gasped in pain. Her palms were raw and bloody.

One slow breath. Two. She looked around: the Hall of Mirrors was still standing, and the Forest was fading away from it as she watched. Everything was all right, despite what Aunt Léonie had said.

Then she noticed that the mirrors nearest to her were shattered.

She had to get out of the hall before she got in trouble.

Rachelle managed to stand, but she forgot and tried to steady herself with her hand again, which made her flinch and stagger away from the wall.

Somehow she got back to her room without anyone seeing her. She climbed into her bed and a moment later was asleep.

And she dreamed.

She was in a forest of dead black trees. The ground was covered in fine white dust; the sky was featureless gray. Ahead of her, through the trees, she could see a small cottage.

Everything was real: the cool wind blowing between her fingers, the dust shifting under her feet. The terrified breath rasping in her throat.

She walked forward. She couldn’t stop her feet from moving, though she tried desperately, because even a glimpse of the cottage’s flat walls and closed door—its roof thatched with bones—made her choke with terror. But she still took one step and then another. She knew that when she reached the door, she would be helpless to stop herself from opening it. She knew that what lay beyond the door would destroy her.

The scar on her right hand burned with a terrible cold fire, like a last warning. But she couldn’t stop.

One step forward.

Then another.

Rachelle woke gasping for breath, her body screaming at her to run. But there was nowhere to go: the nightmare was inside of her, part of her.

She’d had the dream before, over and over. All the bloodbound did. Sooner or later, they all reached the cottage and opened the door. And then they became forestborn.

Not tonight, she thought. Not tonight.

Now that her terror was fading, she realized that her head ached terribly. And then she remembered what she had been doing the night before. And that she had failed.

What had she been thinking? Why had she imagined that a bloodbound would be able to use a woodwife charm? She was one of the things that those charms were meant to kill.

She was one of the things that Joyeuse was meant to kill, too. Maybe that was why she couldn’t find it.

10

The next day, all anyone could talk about was the mysterious vandal who had attacked the Hall of Mirrors. Even Erec was—well, not worried, but he spent a good deal of the day talking to the guard about trying to find the culprit.

Rachelle’s hands had healed in the night—there were benefits to being bloodbound—but she still felt a fleeting, phantom ache where the charm had burst apart in her grasp. Her head ached too, whenever she moved too quickly or saw a sudden shaft of bright sunlight.

None of it mattered beside the useless fury of knowing that there was nothing more she could do. She’d tried and tried and done her best, and none of it had helped.

Maybe finding Joyeuse had been a fool’s dream all along. Maybe she should have spent the time preparing to fight her forestborn.

“What’s wrong?” Amélie asked her that afternoon.

For once Armand was not required anywhere in the Château. Rachelle might have been able to slip out and search for the door without Erec hearing about it, but today she didn’t have the heart to try. She would try, again and again, until time ran out and Endless Night fell and she died fighting. But right now, her heart and her bones were made of lead. So she sat still and watched Amélie knit. She stared at the fine brown hairs falling out of Amélie’s braid, at the quick, deft motions of her tiny hands, and she wondered how long somebody so gentle would survive, once Endless Night returned.

“Rachelle?” Amélie was looking straight at her now, forehead creased. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Rachelle said quickly. “Nothing.” Guilt tugged at her stomach. But if she couldn’t save Amélie, at least she could let her live in peace a little longer. Surely there was no need to tell her the truth when it couldn’t save her.

“Of course.” Amélie’s voice was sharper than she’d ever heard it before. “Nothing’s ever wrong.” She stared at her yarn; she wrapped it around the needle with a particularly ferocious gesture.

It was all wrong; Amélie was never angry. Rachelle sat up straight. “Did something happen?”

“Nothing,” said Amélie, still staring at her knitting. Her needles clacked once, twice. Then her hands stilled and she sighed. “A letter from my mother. I’m worried.”

“Woodspawn?” said Rachelle, and her body tensed with the need to fight. She should have known there wouldn’t be enough bloodbound to patrol the city properly without her. She should have known, and now people were dying, and it was all her fault—

“What?” Amélie looked up at her. “No. The riot. You know.”

“The riot?” Rachelle echoed stupidly.

“I suppose it wasn’t quite a riot—my mother called it a ‘tussle’ in her letter, but of course she never tells me the whole truth—” Amélie paused, staring at her. “You mean you didn’t know?”

“No,” said Rachelle, feeling like the ground was rocking underneath her. “What happened? What did the Bishop do?”

“Nothing,” said Amélie, looking nervous now. “It was just a crowd on the streets. There was a bloodbound—Raymond something, I think—some people say he was hurting a child, some say he came to blows with a drunkard. Whatever happened, the people turned on him. They beat him half to death.”

It must have been Raymond Dubois. He was the newest of the King’s bloodbound in Rocamadour. Rachelle had always disliked him, because he was never far from the prostitutes in Thieves’ Alley, but when she imagined him being trampled into the mud and cobblestones by a furious crowd, her stomach turned.

“The city guard’s rounded up at least a dozen people,” Amélie went on, “but who knows if they’re the ones who were really there.” Her mouth tightened. “People are scared, and angry. Next time there may be a real riot. And Mother will never run, not even if it happens on her doorstep. She didn’t even tell me the whole story in her letter; I had to get it from the other servants.”