A Drop of Night(69)

Together we move toward the panel in the wall.

“Are you with me?” Jacques says.

“I am with you,” I answer, and we step into the servants’ passageway and begin to run.



You’re dumb, Anouk. You’re dumb, and now you’re alone.

I slide around a door into a bare, unpainted antechamber and slam in the floor peg. Up ahead is another double door. I burst through them. Close them behind me as quietly as I can. I scan for a way to lock them. There isn’t one. From this side they’re just panels of pale-green brocade, two brass rings for handles.

I spin. I’m in another one of these people’s pointless ballrooms. The floor is ivory-hued marble, veined with black like dirty snow. The ceiling soars forty feet above me, the chandeliers glowing bright. The walls are a mass of stone carvings and alcoves full of animal sculptures. A row of tall golden candelabras extends down both sides of the gallery.

I run for the nearest candelabra and grab it. Wedge it into the brass rings on the door. Jiggle it once to make sure it’ll hold. Whirl and start sprinting for the opposite end.

I don’t know if I’m close to the perimeter of the palace, if this is a trap room, but it’s too late to worry about that now. I’m halfway down it, running like a crazy person.

A sharp crack sounds behind me as the floor peg in the antechamber breaks.

Something’s been following me. Don’t know what, don’t know who, but it might be Miss Sei, it might be Dorf. They’re probably already at the door I came through. I go up on my tiptoes, trying to quiet the squeak of my shoes on the marble. The ballroom is way too long. That candelabra won’t hold forever. If they have a gun, I’ll be dead before I’m three-fourths of the way down it.

Whatever’s outside begins banging hard and fast. The candelabra groans.

I slip to the side of the ballroom, looking around frantically for a side door.

With a ringing snap, one of the prongs on the candelabra breaks, spinning into the air.

No side doors. I won’t make it to the end. Soft and quick I shimmy up onto a ledge in the wall. My toes find the curling gilt. My fingers grip the moldings. I pull myself up silently. I’m a moderately good climber with harnesses and carabiners and a climbing partner waiting to rope me down when I slip. I’m an even better climber when running for my life.

My lungs heave. Every few feet along the wall are pillars, holding up the corners of the vaults. Each pillar is topped with a plinth. Each plinth has a tiny overhang. Maybe six inches of space. I make for the one closest to me, climbing spread-eagled along the wall. I’m high up now. If I fall, I’ll break bones.

I hear the candelabra snapping again. I brace myself. Muscles tense. I leap.

For a millisecond I’m suspended in the air, high up in that hallway of gold and marble. Now my hand catches on the overhang and I swing. My fingers almost wrench out of their sockets. I smack my other hand onto the ledge and lift myself up. Gasp for breath. There’s not enough space to rest. Sweat is dripping down my forehead, stinging my eyes.

Without another thought, I launch myself off the plinth.

I’m going for the chandelier. The huge rack of gold and crystal balloons in front of me. I slam into it and the chandelier swings dangerously. I realize too late that it’s set up like a shell, hollow on the inside. I’m slipping through strands of crystal, falling into the center of the chandelier––

I flail, reaching for anything I can hold on to. My fingers wrap around the golden frame. My foot finds one of the tines, and my fall jerks to a halt. I hear the doors to the ballroom burst open. I see the floor bobbing below. Nausea sweeps over me. Don’t be sick. You don’t have time to be sick.

The woman in the red dress is hurtling down the ballroom. I see her through the tinkling crystal beads, her gown swirling across the marble.

Did she see me jump? I glance around. My toes are fitted on either side of the lower bubble of beads. The woman’s directly below me, sweeping away the fallen bits of crystal, murmuring.

“Aurélie?” her voice echoes up to me. “Aurélie, ne me quitte pas. . .”

I feel like I might sneeze. I remember watching a YouTube clip once where a bowler-wearing guy explained how you could stop yourself from sneezing by licking the top of your mouth so I do that, running my tongue frantically over the arch of my mouth.

Below me, the woman throws back her head. Lets loose a series of hawking, raptor-like cries:

“Aurélie! Aurélie!”

She’s looking straight up at my chandelier. The ropes of crystal cut the scene below into ribbons. I hear running. Pounding. The woman stiffens. Now she leaps away, racing for the far end of the ballroom like some sort of red gazelle. She skitters through the doors. I stay where I am, trying to steady my breathing, the shivering beads.

Trackers are filing into the ballroom through the green doors I came in through. A swarm of them, glistening black and tiny red lights. They’re passing under me––

The gilt prong I’m standing on is bending. I feel the chandelier shiver around me.

“No,” I whisper. “No!”

The prong snaps. I’m sliding through the crystal threads. They’re breaking against my back. I’m falling, tumbling through the air.

I slam against the floor so hard, it’s like a white spark exploding in the center of my skull. My brain goes out before my eyes do. I see a pair of velvet shoes approaching between all those black boots—old-fashioned block heels, bows, red as poppies. And now a second pair arrives, plain and dark, standing next to the first.