This is the last sunlight, she thought. The last time any of us will ever see the sun.
No. No, the Bishop and Justine were still free—they must be, or Erec would have gloated—so maybe they would be able to intervene tonight. Or tomorrow, or next year. The world had lain under Endless Night for thousands of years before Tyr and Zisa defeated the Devourer. If he returned tonight, he could still be defeated later, and daylight restored.
But if the offering took place, whoever wanted to save the world would have to kill Armand. She was suddenly, wretchedly glad that she couldn’t hold Joyeuse.
She remembered Amélie gluing the patch on her face and telling her it meant first “assassin” and then “courage.”
Amélie. She had left her to wake up a bloodbound.
Rachelle surged to her feet, meaning to run back to the little storage room and find her. But then somebody coughed softly behind her. She turned.
Amélie waited in the doorway. She stood stiffly, mouth a little tense; her hair was wrapped up in a neat bun, but one little strand escaped. She had pasted a large velvet patch over the mark on her cheek.
“Rachelle,” she said, and Rachelle realized she was afraid.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry—”
Amélie flung her arms around her. “You’re all right.”
“Yes. No, what are you talking about?” Rachelle realized that she was hugging Amélie back just as fiercely. Warm, human arms that she would soon never feel again, and she just wanted to curl up and go to sleep forever in that embrace.
“I woke up and you were gone. I thought—I didn’t know what to think.”
“I tried to kill Erec and then I— You can tell, can’t you?”
Amélie looked up from her shoulder. “I’m not a fool and it seems I’m also not entirely human anymore. Yes, I can tell you’re a forestborn. I don’t care any more than I did when you were bloodbound.”
“I’m sorry,” said Rachelle. “It’s all my fault. That he hurt you.”
“No,” said Amélie.
“You don’t understand. He said you were a present—”
“My mother runs a printing press,” Amélie interrupted her. “You can buy anything, you know, if you just say it’s ingredients for medicine. That’s why I could never leave her to become a cosmetician. She needed my help mixing ink and setting type. And nobody ever looked twice at me when I carried pamphlets across the city.”
“You,” Rachelle said blankly.
“When I heard you were going to the palace with Monsieur Vareilles, I knew I had to come. I was the one who took his messages to the other rebels. I helped arrange the coup. Your d’Anjou caught me when I was trying to escape the Château afterward. He didn’t like it.” She shrugged. “Maybe he would have marked me whatever I did. But that isn’t what happened. I’m going to die because I tried to resist an unjust king. Not because of you.”
Rachelle stared at her. “Then why . . . if you were one of them, why did you ever become my friend?”
“I told you why.” Amélie looked steadily back at her. “Mother said I was crazy. But you saved my life, and you were—you were so kind, when you thought nobody would notice. Maybe we should have told you earlier, but it wasn’t just our secret and it didn’t seem fair to burden you—”
Rachelle started laughing, raggedly and almost hysterically. All this time, she was protecting my innocence, she thought, and had to sit down, she was laughing so hard.
“But if I’d known it would make you smile, I would have told you years ago,” said Amélie, kneeling beside her. She reached out a hand; Rachelle took it and squeezed her fingers.
She should have told Amélie so many things, so long ago.
When she had gotten her breath back, she said, “Did Erec tell you anything when he marked you?”
Amélie shook her head. So Rachelle told her everything.
“With so many forestborn,” she said, “I don’t see how I can stop the ceremony. I think—I think the only thing to do is let the Devourer awaken and then try to kill him.”
“You think you can?”
“No. I’d need Joyeuse for that. But the Bishop hasn’t been captured—that I know of—and neither he nor Justine will hesitate.” She swallowed. “To kill the Devourer, somebody needs to be possessed. But it doesn’t need to be Armand. I won’t let it be Armand if there’s any other way. I won’t.”
Amélie pulled Rachelle’s hand to her lips and kissed it.
“I would scold you,” she said after a moment, “but I’m planning to die as well.”
Rachelle thought she had never loved her so much as in that moment.
“If the Bishop kills the Devourer fast enough,” she said, “it might set you free.”
“Maybe,” said Amélie. “The great physician Albert le Magne believed that at the moment people receive the mark, both blood and bile are poisoned, and that is why they die in three days if the Devourer does not strengthen them. My mother thinks—” Her voice faltered and she fell silent.
“I’m sorry,” Rachelle said again.
“I told you, it’s not your fault.”
“I brought you here. If I hadn’t asked you—”
“If we really are doomed,” said Amélie, “if the Devourer returns and we can’t stop him and night falls forever—I am sorry I can’t be with my mother. But I’m glad I can be with you.”
“I wish there were something I could do for you,” Rachelle whispered. “But there’s something I’d ask of you. Tonight, for the ball. Will you . . . will you please make me beautiful?”
“You are always beautiful.” Amélie smiled. “But I will make you as glorious as the sun.”
Amélie kept her word. Rachelle’s skin had never shimmered so flawlessly; her cheeks had never flushed so perfectly. Her lips were painted pure, warlike bloodred. There was a patch on her left cheekbone—a tiny crescent moon—and on her right, a little swirling design painted in gold.
“Does that mean ‘assassin’?” asked Rachelle as the tiny brush tickled over her cheek, leaving gold tendrils behind.
“No,” said Amélie. “For a noblewoman I would paint her house’s coat of arms here. But since you’re not . . .” She trailed into silence as she worked on a particularly tricky portion. Then she went on, “I found this design in a book. It was painted on the wall of a cave in northern Gévaudan. There.” She laid down the brush and handed the mirror to Rachelle.