I all but felt his skin crawl, his shudder visible to the eye. “How is she?” I asked, keeping my voice low.

He turned his head, looking me up and down before snorting softly. “Better than you, it would seem,” he said. “And yet worse. The woman I have watching her says she has turned to the dark arts.”

Blood magic. My stomach tightened at the idea of Cécile killing anything, and I almost regretted handing my father back the crown when I might have murdered him where he sat.

“I know what it is she seeks and how,” he said. “And as much as I know it is against her will, if I were master of my own, I would see her dead before I would see her succeed.”

Like a giant fist, my power contracted, forcing a wheeze of pain from the man. Only the small thread of control I had left kept me from squeezing the life out of him. From his own lips he’d admitted he could not harm her. My father owned his will, and this man hated him for it. Which meant there was a chance he’d help Cécile if he thought it in his best interests. Or he might be so bound by oath that he’d turn around and deliver the information back to my father. Did I risk giving him knowledge that might help her? It might be her only chance. Drawing in a ragged breath, I released him.

He staggered back and away from me, colliding with the guards. “You and yours are a scourge on this earth,” he hissed. “If Cécile falls like so many before her, it will not be because of anything I have done. Her death will be on your hands.”

Shoving the guards aside, I leaned close so that we were eye to eye. “I think that if you let her die because of what you have not done, you will find that guilt is not such an easy thing to escape.” Hands were snatching at me, pulling me back and away. And I could feel my father coming in our direction; this man of enough importance to him that he’d interfere himself. I had only a second. Jerking out of their grip, I whispered, “There is a loophole in the promise she made. Tell her to think on it.”

The human’s eyes widened, but there was no time to say more. I could only pray that I’d delivered Cécile an ally, not an enemy.

Twenty-Seven

Cécile

I spent the entire night sitting in front of the fire, hoping Catherine would contact me through the flames and tell me that she’d help; but all I’d got for my efforts were bloodshot eyes, smoky hair, and the realization that the other witch might be too afraid to provide me with assistance. If I hadn’t heard from her by tonight, my plan was to try the map spell again to see if the mark at the castle moved. It was a sure way to prove that it was Anushka, but I’d been avoiding using it again mostly because I so badly wanted to. The need to feel that flood of power lurked inside me, and I was afraid of how much worse the feeling would be if I gave in to the temptation.

Although I might not have a choice.

We were rehearsing in the foyer de la danse, because the stage in the room was much closer in size to the one we’d perform on at the castle than the massive one in the main theatre. A dozen young girls from the dance school played the roles belonging to the ladies of the court, their tarlatan skirts jutting out from their hips to reveal legs muscled from hours of training. The steps were no challenge to them, but their eyes gleamed with the excitement of holding the attention, however briefly, of the most influential members of the company.

I watched dubiously while crewmembers rigged a swing that would suspend me above the rest of the cast through the second half of the masque.

“And you will swing gently back and forth,” Monsieur Johnson explained to me. “The Queen of Virtue, smiling down upon her beautiful subjects.”

“I can’t smile while I sing,” I said, giving the swing a hard jerk with one hand to ensure it was secure.

“Smile with your eyes,” he exclaimed. “With your posture. With your very soul!”

From behind him, my mother rolled her eyes, and I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. I was back in her good graces after my venture out with Julian, who had dutifully returned me home before midnight, and, to the best of my knowledge, not breathed a word about where we had gone. “My soul will be beaming, monsieur,” I said. “I will not disappoint.”

He clapped his hands together, then ran off to herd the rest of the cast into the wings.

“What a silly little man,” my mother murmured, yanking on the ropes. Seeming unsatisfied, she took hold of the swing with both hands and lifted her feet so that she was suspended off the ground. “If it holds my weight, it will hold yours,” she said. “Although maybe we should attach a wire to you just in case.”

“It will be fine,” I said, sitting down on the plank.

“Please hold on tightly.” She pulled my hair out from where it was tucked behind my ears. “If you were to fall and injure yourself, it would be a disaster.”

“I won’t fall,” I assured her.

She did not look convinced.

“How do you feel about tomorrow?” I asked. Tomorrow was closing night for this particular production run, and Genevieve’s final public performance.

“It matters less than you might think,” she said, bending down to kiss me on the forehead. “I’ll be living through you every time you step onstage.”

Pulleys creaked, and I lifted up into the air until I was at the same level as the massive crystal chandelier hanging in the center of the room. Kicking my feet, I began to swing back and forth.

“Too much vigor,” Monsieur Johnson shouted. “You look like a child at play, not a queen.”