Spindle Fire (Spindle Fire #1)(33)

She thought, like Ombeline, that she wanted to be freed from stone, that she wanted to speak, and to feel. But now she’s afraid of all the bad things she might feel—is already feeling. Of all the things she might say. She can hurt people now, and be hurt by them, in all new ways.

But what really hurts is seeing that her life until now was a lie. The only one who even cared about Aurora—not as a princess, but as a person—was Isbe.

She fumbles with the jewels in her hand. A tear streaks her face. She wipes it away, and another pearl comes loose from the strand. The pearl rolls away from her and under the locked door.

Slowly, the door opens.

Aurora scrambles back to her feet and then, with caution, she glances around her, before approaching the doorway. Almost despite herself, she walks through it.

She enters an enormous, windowless hall lined with cobwebs . . . and, she squints to see, beautiful, plentiful tapestries. There are so many they overlap on the walls. Some are coated in a thick layer of dust; others seem freshly hung. The Night Faerie’s work. She shivers.

But no one is in here, so how did the door open on its own?

Aurora can hear the tiny rattle of the rolling pearl, though she can’t see it in the dim-lit room. Her footsteps click faintly, as though the sound has come from a distance. The air is dense and stifling, and the weak light from the open door behind her only serves to highlight the dust motes in the air, making it even harder to see.

Though she’s been exposed to plenty of artwork before, Aurora is awed as she moves closer to the tapestries. They are especially elaborate, each depicting a landscape with immaculate detail, and she pauses, taking them in individually in the near darkness of the room. There’s something about each that she recognizes. They must be based on the queen’s memories from the real world.

It occurs to her that all of Sommeil has been constructed out of the queen’s memories of the real world—warped, dreamlike versions of real things. Blackthorn. The royal forest. She wonders what other pieces of her world have a double here.

She has the sensation of moving through water—a murky, reedy lake—as she walks farther into the room. She comes to a portrayal, this one newer, less dusty, of the cottage in the Borderlands. And within the window, a table set with tea, still steaming. The image, eerily familiar, sends a chill through her. It’s as though the silk itself wavers, like steam. As though Belcoeur purposely wove the steam over the tea so it would still be hot when Aurora arrived . . . like she knew someone was coming.

Aurora had forgotten about the rattling sound, until now. Abruptly, it stops.

She turns.

At the far end of the hall, someone has bent down to pick up the pearl. Someone with long, disheveled white hair . . . and a large crown. The old woman—the queen, Aurora realizes with a quick intake of breath—continues turning the bead over in her fingers with apparent consternation, like she’s trying to recall something. Then the queen looks up.

Aurora freezes, terrified. Her instinct is to run, but she can only stare. The woman was obviously once beautiful, but now old. Thick makeup streaks her face with a jesterlike horror, as though applied by a child’s hand. Her crown looks overlarge and jagged on her petite head. This is not the fearsome Night Faerie Aurora has always imagined, the one with enough strength—and evil—to rival Malfleur’s.

She doesn’t know why everyone here says it’s so difficult to get to the queen, and she doesn’t know why the locked door came unlocked, but here she is. She draws in a breath. This is it. This is her chance.

“Belcoeur,” she says, trying frantically to gather her courage, to channel Isbe’s bravery. “Why—why did you create Sommeil?” She stands taller. “Your people are suffering. You—you must release us.”

“Are the cherry tarts ready?”

“I’m sorry?”

“The tarts!” the queen hisses. “Bloodred. They must be red as blood. For the visitor. Someone is coming. Someone is coming.” Her hands shake. Then her clear green eyes lock on to Aurora’s. “Who are you?” she demands with renewed clarity. “Why are you here?”

“There was a spinning wheel,” Aurora stutters.

“But I don’t know you. You’re not the one I’m waiting for.” She shakes her head. “Everything is wrong.”

Aurora clears her throat. “Just tell me how to get back to the other world, the one you came from. The one we came from.”

The queen shakes her head again. “I don’t know how to make it right. I wish I could, but I can’t.”

“Surely you can help. You have greater power than any other living faerie.”

The queen stares back at her again, trembling now. “I’m trapped too.” Her voice, raspy and low, is unnerving.

“But that doesn’t make sense. You made this place. Why?”

There’s a pause.

The queen continues to stare at her in grief, a look that drives through Aurora’s chest like one of the deadly sharp icicles that hang from the Delucian gates in winter.

“I don’t remember.” The queen’s hoarse voice crawls into Aurora’s ears, making her shiver.

A series of shouts cause Aurora to turn. Through the open door there’s a light bobbing.

“Aurora?” It’s Wren’s voice. Relief floods her. “What are you doing here?” Wren asks urgently as she bursts through the door to the north hall carrying a lantern.