Enchantée(123)

Séguin started to speak but instead grunted, as if in pain. Wonderingly, he touched his throat. He stared at his fingers when they came away red. Above his cravat, under his jaw, she saw it: a violent, crimson line. The glass knife.

He looked at her with disbelief. “You have a magic weapon?”

And then Lazare was there, grabbing the back of Séguin’s coat, hauling him away. When Lazare released him, he sank to his knees. Blood poured from his wound as Lazare shouted for the surgeon.

While Foudriard kept his sword pointed at Séguin, Lazare knelt by Camille and pulled her into his arms. Camille let go. All the effort, all the pain, she let it fall away as she sank her head against his shoulder, tucking her face into the warm hollow of his throat. His pulse beat against her mouth as she inhaled: sweat, the iron bite of his blood, the sweet scents of crushed grass, horses, and skin. There was absolutely nothing about him that smelled of ash or cinder or magic.

“I thought I’d lost you … a second time,” Lazare choked. Even with dirt and grime glazing his skin and blood caked along his jaw, he was heart-stopping. “Will you forgive me?”

“For what?”

“For walking away from you, that night in the gardens. I was lost. I could see how proud and stubborn I was being, but I couldn’t escape myself.”

“Our shadows are tied to us, like it or not.” Camille brushed back a strand of hair from his face. “All we can do is run faster.”

He kissed her gently above her eyebrow. “Whatever shadow I might have, you have utterly vanquished it.”

“Vicomtess!”

She and Lazare stumbled to their feet. Across the grass, Chandon was making his way toward them. On his tired face was a wicked grin. In his hand he swung his cane—not like a crutch, but a weapon.

“See there?” he said, stabbing his stick at Séguin. “Is that a poisoned blade you just happened to have with you?” He snatched the dagger from Séguin’s hand. “You were always terrible at duels.”

On the ground, Séguin contracted in pain. The blood running from his throat had darkened to a deep, reddish black. In his face, furrows grew like cracks in ice, racing along the sides of his mouth, stretching across his forehead. He no longer looked nineteen or twenty. Magic had made him an old man. His hair grayed, age spots speckled his cheeks. Shadows swam under his eyes.

All the while, Séguin chanted to himself.

“What strange magic is this?” Chandon scoffed. “Something you read about in one of those grimoires?” As Séguin’s glamoire had fallen away, Chandon had stood up straighter, as if a great weight had been lifted from him. His face had gained back some of its high color, its gaunt hollows smoothed. Scornfully, he said, “Why don’t you use your own sorrow, Séguin? Or are you too dead inside to feel anything?”

Séguin stopped muttering his spell. It was clear that he expected something to have changed.

But it had not.

He stared at Camille. “You cheated.”

“You’ve never had to make the best of the cards you were dealt, have you? You’ve always gotten exactly what you wanted.” Determined tears stood in Camille’s eyes. “You assumed you had the winning card, but you hedged your bet. I did not cheat. I played my ace, and won.”





66


“Lie still, Séguin,” Foudriard said. “The surgeon’s coming.”

White wig askew, the surgeon shouted as he hobbled toward them. “All this noble blood spilled!” He sank to his knees next to the vicomte’s still form. “Are you still with us, monsieur?”

“After everything he has done to all of us,” Chandon said, pain crackling in his voice, “he deserves to die.”

Séguin’s lips moved. The surgeon bent close, listening. “Monsieur wishes to speak with his wife. Where is she?”

Camille stepped backward and bumped into Foudriard. He steadied her, his arm around her shoulders. “He will die, there is no doubt,” he said kindly. “You’re under no obligation to speak with him. It’s your choice.”

Her skin crawled when she thought of everything he’d done to those she loved. What he’d planned to do to her and Sophie. He would have made their lives a living hell such that they would beg for death to release them. What should she do? She listened for the dress to advise her.

But it was silent, more silent than it had been even in the burned box.

Clouds drifted across the pale blue sky; a scatter of swallows flew over the long grass. In the wind that hushed across the field, she heard Maman’s voice.

There are others more unfortunate than you, mon trésor.

She had hazarded it all, and she had won. There was only one more thing she needed.

“Shall I go with you?” Lazare asked.

Camille shook her head. “I’ll speak to him alone. I need to know for certain where Sophie is.”

“Hurry, madame,” urged the surgeon. “He fails fast.”

In the trampled, rust-red grass, Camille knelt by Séguin’s shoulder. Wrinkles and age spots continued to bloom across his face. Too much magic. The back of his hand, his enormous blue ring, the lace of his sleeve—all were gaudy with blood.

“I want your help, but I won’t apologize,” he said. A bright rivulet trickled from the corner of his mouth as acrid fumes of magic leaked from him. “You are stronger than I thought, Camille.”