A Drop of Night(17)

Hayden is starting to move weirdly, like he’s underwater. His head lolls against his chest. He flops upright a second later with a weak laugh, but this isn’t funny. Everyone stares at him. Everyone but Dorf.

His eyes are fixed on me.

“Anouk?” he says, and his voice is rock hard. “Sit down. Take the pills.”








Chateau de Bessancourt—October 23, 1789


We whirl down the stairs, deeper and deeper into the earth, and all I can see is Mama turning away from us, the blood soaking her gown.

They shot her. The bullet ripped through flesh and sinew, lodging amid the pearly snakes of her intestines like a speck of a coal, a black seed, sprouting death. In five minutes she will no longer be able to breathe. In ten she will be gone forever. . . .

“Aurélie,” she screamed. “Do not leave me behind.”

But I did.

Above, I can hear the roar of flames as they consume the chateau, becoming steadily quieter, as if we are leaving chaos and gunpowder behind us, descending into another world entirely, a world where such things do not exist.

Our only light is from the open lantern in the old guard’s hand. The hot stench of it catches me in the face as I descend—animal fat and dirty rags and kerosene. Bernadette hurries behind him, dragging at her skirts, her tongue clucking like a goose as she cries. Charlotte is close at her back, doing the same, always her sister’s little shadow, even in distress. Delphine and I are next. The young guard brings up the rear, pushing us onward in a dogged panic.



I don’t sit down. I tuck the pills behind my teeth. Taste the gel casing, smooth, cold on my tongue. And run for the hall.

This was not part of the contract. Undisclosed drugs were not part of the contract. I’m going to get my phone and I’m going to call someone. I don’t know who, but someone needs to know where we are.

“Is there a problem, Anouk?” Dorf’s voice floats into the hall. “If there’s a problem, just let me know—”

I see a glass door at the far end of the hall, facing the border of trees and the fields. I could make a run for it. I taste something bitter on my tongue. The pills are dissolving, trickling into my mouth.

Crap-crap-crap, get rid of them, get out of here––

I turn, see Miss Sei striding across the hall toward me. She’s got Norse God and Red Spikes with her and they look freakish, dangerous, streaks of moonlight and shadow from the windows slashing across their faces.

I cough and spit a thick red glob onto the stairs. Wipe my mouth and stagger up them.

I’m so slow. What is happening? I can still taste the pill, can feel threads of numbness spreading into my cheeks. I reach the upper hallway, stumble down it, my hand on the wall.

“Anouk, what’s the matter?” Dorf’s voice reaches me, slowed down and warbling, from downstairs. “Why don’t you get some rest, it’s been a long day—”

I swear he sounds like he’s grinning. I fumble with the door handle, burst into my room. I need my phone, I need to call Penny––

I crash into the side table, almost knocking over the lamp. Swipe my hand over the marble top. The door is wide open. I hear them in the hallway. Where’s my PHONE? I whirl, glance around the room, swaying.

I see the drapes. Chairs. Pillows. No wrinkled sheets. Lilly’s monstrous hiking backpack is gone. The bed is made. There’s a water ring on the mahogany.

I heave myself toward the bathroom door. Collapse against the frame. A dull, pulsing pain explodes inside my skull. The sink is polished, empty. No bottles of mascara, no tissues, no toiletry bag. Everything’s been cleaned. Wiped down.

The pulsing becomes a beat, drowning out my thoughts. I’m on the floor. I see shoes approaching, black and shimmering, like beetles, swarming toward me. My pupils are dilating, my vision going blurry-clear-blurry.

Please, no, Mom-Dad-Penny, someone please help me––

And I’m gone.








Stairs to the Palais du Papillon—47 feet below—October 23, 1789


I see Mama in my mind’s eye, crawling down the gallery. Her beautiful gown is stained with blood and soot. She is coughing, weeping, and ash is whirling like a winter storm, filling the gallery. It coats her face and lashes, turns her to a statue of white and gray, and in the distance the flames flare, red-hot and hellish.

We cannot leave her. We cannot leave her behind.

I stop. The young guard collides with my back. Delphine squeaks in surprise.

“We must go back,” I whisper. “We must go back for Mother.”

“Mademoiselle, we cannot—“The young guard tries to guide me onward, but I dig my fingers into the stone on either side and refuse to move. It is foolishness, I know it is, but she is my mother. In Versailles they murdered two guards, and they were not even noble. I hope to God they have not yet taken her head.

Mademoiselle, if we return we will all be killed.” The young guard’s face is strangely exquisite in the torchlight, his expression not unkind. His words slide off me like water.

“I will go alone if you will not help me, but I will not leave her to be burned.”

“Please, mademoiselle. Baptiste!” The young guard calls after his companion. “La demoiselle, elle—”