Cinderella Is Dead(67)

Constance’s laugh is like bells. I could listen to it all day. She scoops up the dagger and puts it back in my hand. “That was my fault.”

Constance shows me how to angle my arm to make the cut. I copy her movements. I stab the stuffed target.

“Good,” she says. “Now flip the blade so the tip is pointing down.”

I do as she says.

“This is a kill stroke,” she says, plunging her dagger into the rind of the gourd. It splits in half and falls off the top of the target’s shoulders. “That probably won’t actually happen if you try to stab him in the head, but here’s hoping, right?”

“Right,” I say, a little shaken. She presses the dagger’s handle into my palm. I raise up the blade and bring it down, right into the target’s chest.

“Good,” Constance says, smiling. “I’m not as good a teacher as my mother was, but we’ll manage.” She looks at the ground.

“I think you’re a great teacher,” I say. “Look.” I stab the target a few times, and Constance laughs. “What else did she teach you?”

She hesitates a moment.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” I say, resting my hand on her arm.

She looks at me. “My mother was the fiercest woman I’ve ever known. She taught me everything I know. Her mother before her was a fighter, too. Once, when I was eleven, we moved as far north as we’d ever been. A small regiment of the king’s men tracked us through the mountains, snuck up on us in the night. One of them put a knife to my throat.”

The thought of anyone hurting her makes me so angry I can barely contain myself.

“My mother ran him straight through, and his knife tore open my arm as he fell away from me.” She runs her hand over the scar on her arm. “She killed two more of them and escaped with me on one of their horses.”

“Your mother was a hero.”

“I don’t think she would have liked that title at all, but she really was.” Constance’s eyes mist over. “My family may have been forced to leave Lille, but they never forgot.” Her voice catches in her throat. “I only wish there were someone left to witness this moment.”

“You will witness it,” I say. “You and I together. We’ll make them proud or die trying.”

There is a pause. I’ve said out loud the thing that’s always at the back of our minds. No matter how much we laugh or joke or try to find the good in our situation, there’s a very real possibility that we won’t make it out of this alive.

Constance looks at me. “Have I told you how amazing you are?”

“Not today,” I tease.

We practice with the dagger, restuffing and redressing the target when we’ve torn it to shreds, and steal moments alone, which feel fleeting. I long for her, even when I’m right by her side. I feel a pull to touch her, to speak to her, to know her every thought, but still, I can’t get out from under this heavy feeling.

I must kill the king.

It’s the only way to make this work, and I ask myself if I’m up to it. Can I take his life? Am I capable of that? I think of what is at stake and all that has already been lost, and the answers are clear.

I have to put him in the ground. That is our only hope.





31





Three nights before the cotillion, I dream of Liv and Erin, of Luke and Constance, and of the seamstress. I see Constance’s face shining like the sun, and Liv and Luke standing far off under a juniper tree. Liv smiles as Constance and I dance happily in the poppy field just past the orchard. The flowers in vibrant reds and pale yellows surround us as I feel the warmth of Constance’s skin and catch a whiff of her lemon verbena perfume. We spin around and around, our hands locked together.

And then Erin appears. Her clothes are tattered, her face bruised. She cries silent tears as she watches me with Constance. She yells out to me, and I run toward her. Constance calls my name as I stand between them. I’m being pulled in both directions, like I’m being torn apart. Then a man appears at Erin’s side. édouard. He grabs her by the wrist and drags her away as she screams my name. The seamstress steps forward, a gaping wound encircling her neck. She reaches out for me, and I shrink back.

“I’m sorry!” I scream. “I’m so sorry!”

A stifling darkness falls around me, and everyone is gone. In the darkness, someone laughs. A deep, throaty sound that begins low and distant, then swells until it’s deafening. I cover my ears but can’t block it out.

I wake in the small hours of the morning; my bedclothes cling to my sweat-drenched back, and my hair sticks to my damp forehead. I sob harder than I have in weeks. Constance’s hand finds mine under the blankets.

“What is it?” she asks, brushing my hair away from my face.

I don’t want to hurt her, but there’s something I must do. “I need to see Erin to make sure she’s okay.”

Constance gives me a pained smile. “She’s not okay, Sophia. You know that.”

“Yes, but I need to go,” I whisper. “If we can’t stop the king, I may never see her again. I need to do this. Please understand.”

Constance hangs her head. “It’ll be dangerous, but I can see that you’ve already made up your mind.”