Winter Glass (Spindle Fire #2)(14)

Isbe’s ears ring.

“However,” Hildegarde adds. “She left me this.”

The woman has approached her and now reaches out, her hand finding Isbe’s upper arm. She draws Isbe’s hands together, turning her palms up, and then, moments later, presses something into them. Something cool and lightweight, made of crystal or glass. The object is hollow, with a long, narrow opening at the top. One end is pointed, the other round.

A slipper. Just larger than the length of Isbe’s hand.

“She left you a . . . shoe?”

“A glass slipper,” the nun corrects.

“But why?”

“It was her most precious possession, that is all she told me. Something given to her by her own mother. She was cautioned never to lose it, but she said nothing of its true meaning or import. She wanted me to give it to you. However, I too was sent away soon after, and felt it would be safer in my possession than yours.”

Now it’s Isbe’s turn to snort. “You stole it.”

Hildegarde sighs. “Isabelle. I see you hold an unflattering impression of me, but I only want what is best for this kingdom, and I believe we are alike in that. It takes great bravery to travel in secret through the countryside, harboring a fugitive prince. Your mother would have been proud.”

At this, Isbe takes a step backward, her throat seizing up tight. It’s too much. This is all too much. She wants to throw the glass slipper and run—but she’s overcome with the wild impression that if she lets go of it, she’ll never possess it again. Not that it will shatter, but that it will simply vanish in the air.

“Isabelle.” Now the reverend mother has grown to the size of three men on the backs of three horses, and Isbe is certain she will be stampeded by the woman’s words, by her intensity. She is a storm cloud ready to break open and send down a torrent that will erode everything Isbe knows to be true. “I did not just come here for money.”

Isbe clears her throat, determined to stand strong, even as her world mudslides. “You came for me.” It is a statement, not a question.

“I came to galvanize you. I thought the slipper would inspire you.”

“Inspire me to what?”

“To lead.”





6


Binks,


a Male Faerie of Modest Nobility,

Who Still May or May Not Be Important to This Tale,

Except That He Once Again Happens to Be

in the Right Place at the Right Time

He wouldn’t have believed it if it weren’t for a lack of jam.

He approaches the swollen corpse with caution, glancing over his shoulder to make certain the town green is clear.

Surely there can be no other reason for Claudine’s brash escape from the relative protection of her manor, can be no other justification for the violet smears staining her mouth and face. She was fascinated with the vines, spoke often of their virulence—many of her maids could attest to this. And yet apparently she ate the purple flowers anyway, driven by, one can only imagine, a deep and unappeasable hunger.

Maybe if the roads hadn’t been closed, if trade hadn’t halted . . .

Maybe if there’d been just a little more jam to go around . . .

Claudine’s deep pockets have already been picked, Binks is disappointed to discover—even the collar of her heavy coat crudely shaved off by what can’t have been a very good blade. He is already wary of getting too close to this . . . this rotting, bloating flesh hill, its dance of maggots, its terrible reminder that even the fae must perish like the rest. He has begun to think better of his own sojourn to the village, and curses the bad gamble that lost him his preferred driver as well as three of his best mounts. He would have demanded his own butler drive him into town, but the man began to sob wretchedly, talking of plagues and soldiers, of lords with bloody sockets where their eyes should have been.

Binks is not usually one for mass hysteria, as the timid make terrible game mates. He is not too proud, however, to admit that perhaps his manservant was right: these are dangerous and unpleasant times.

He is in fact about to turn back when he spots a scroll balled in Claudine’s fist. Her fat fingers, nearly as blue as her lips are purple, curl tightly around the vellum. It is not easy to wrench it free. Perhaps a love letter, he thinks, or a tally of debts paid and owed. Perhaps a list of items for a maid to procure from market. But no. Claudine must have grown desperate if she had left the safety of her manor to seek out a courier on her own.

Binks has always had a nose for other people’s business. Information can prove more valuable than even the best of latterlu hands.

He wrenches the note free at last, and sees that it has been addressed to the Faerie Duchess Violette. He averts his eyes from Claudine’s purple-smeared mouth as he breaks the letter’s seal with one of his carefully filed fingernails. His pulse leaps, like it does in response to a marked card, a twisted lip, or a sleight of play.

The message says only this:

V:

IT IS TIME.

IT MAY IN FACT ALREADY BE TOO LATE.

MALFLEUR MUST BE STOPPED.

OUR ONLY HOPE IS TO FIND THE HART SLAYER.

—C





7


Isabelle


The wreath Aurora left on her bureau whispers to Isbe when she returns to her room from the stables, and she wonders how she didn’t notice it earlier: crocus, its scent says, and spring, hope, sisterhood, promise. It slips easily onto Isabelle’s head.