Winter Glass (Spindle Fire #2)(51)
Icy winds nip at her skin.
She’s outside. She’s not sure how that happened, and takes a few steps forward, listening hard, trying to get her bearings. Is this a courtyard in the middle of the palace, or has she managed to find a secret exit in the outer wall?
Snow blasts down and around her like a blizzard. She isn’t wearing gloves or a coat, and her whole body is already shaking. She needs to find her way inside, but when she swivels back toward the direction she came from, she hits . . . a wall. She turns and moves forward, only to hit another wall. How is this possible?
Her dinner somersaults in her stomach. Has she wandered into the mouth of the labyrinth?
With the sun almost down, that’s the last place she’d want to be.
Panic rises. She darts again toward where the door should be, and finds, again, smooth wall. She tries her tactic of following the wall, fearing more and more by the second that this is not the wall of the palace itself but one of the many that make up the labyrinth.
Her fingertips are going numb, getting frostbitten. She lets go and tunnels frantically in a new direction. Wall after wall. Turn after turn. No. She is starting to cry and knows she mustn’t—the tears are hardening and tightening against her face. She hears buzzing all around her, closing in on her. Is it the sound of the ice shifting? The wind’s echo within the labyrinth?
She hits another wall and lets out a scream, stumbling backward onto the snowy ground.
The buzzing sound abruptly stops. She feels the silence of the snow.
She scrambles shakily to her feet and lurches forward—into something soft and thick and sturdy. Two hands fall on her shoulders.
“Miss. You should not be out here, and without a cloak.” The voice is gravelly and unfamiliar. One of the palace servants, most likely.
She gasps with relief, clutching on to the stranger. Her teeth are chattering.
“You lost?” He clucks admonishingly. “Lucky I was doing last rounds.” He throws a scratchy fur around her shoulders. “Let’s get you out of here.”
“Are—are you a g-guard?” she asks, trying to control the rapid tremor of her jaw. He laughs. “Groundskeeper. Name’s Dariel. I keep the ice sculptures pristine with this,” he explains, holding something up. It’s whatever caused the buzzing earlier, Isbe guesses.
“There must . . . there must be a way,” she bursts out, her voice still shaky.
“Yes, just follow me,” Dariel says.
“No. No, that’s not what I meant.” She pulls against him, knowing that she’s being irrational—that if she’s left out here alone, she’ll freeze. But it’s like the ice is staring at her, waiting; she can feel the burn of anticipation, of its infinite crystal eyes.
“I’m sorry, miss?”
“To read the ice,” she cries. “There must be a way.”
Dariel pauses, as if thinking, and then responds matter-of-factly. “There is.”
21
Aurora
Some kinds can heal, some can nourish, and others can kill. She hopes these are the right ones.
On her knees in the guest room of Blackthorn Castle, Aurora tears off a corner of her sheet and slips it over her hand like a mitten, then fingers the mushrooms she collected, which have been drying beneath her bed. The mushrooms crumble into a fine dust in her covered palm. Aurora brushes this powder into an emptied clay vase. She then carefully ties the piece of torn sheet over the vase to keep its contents from spilling out. She puts the vase under her bed. When the time is right, Malfleur will succumb. Even the fae are made of flesh and blood.
She draws open the sashes, and the scarlet rays of a smoky sunset spin through the window of her room. She had been consigned to a straw pallet during the first days of her training, which was still far nicer, she knew, than the terrible dungeon where the refugees from Sommeil are held. She can hardly think of them, writhing in fear and sadness, slowly starving—in fact she hasn’t thought of them much since the dark magic began to consume her mind.
But recently—ever since her fight with Heath—Aurora has been given access to a bedroom with fine linens, as well as a small library and a sitting room where she meets with the queen. She has been moved up to these guest quarters ostensibly so that Malfleur can chart her recovery, though Aurora can’t help but wonder if it’s really that Malfleur gets a thrill from keeping dangerous things close.
Sometimes she can hear the queen pacing the halls. Last night, she heard Malfleur leaving her rooms for some unknown purpose, and several mornings ago she could have sworn she saw her return from an all-night sojourn before the sun had fully risen, wiping red from her lips. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, wondering where the queen had gone, what that had been staining her mouth.
Aurora has been meeting with her every evening. The sitting room has a pair of thick-padded chairs, and a grandfather clock that stands in the corner, ominously ticking. The queen seems to enjoy playing with her experiment, asking Aurora to do petty tasks with her magic, like causing the candles to go out just by staring at them. She has even gifted Aurora with a pen and ink so that they can communicate. Aurora can’t help but admit to herself that their conversations have been fascinating. Her desire for vengeance is just as strong as ever, but it has become like a bejeweled dagger—something splendid to behold. She is tempted to take her time with it, to savor it.