Thomas surveyed the room. Tapestries hung over two of the six walls. Windows overlooked the outer towers, between which he could see the Atlantic Ocean, glistening with phosphorescent sparks. It was a wonder she wanted to leave at all. “What makes you so keen to get out of here, Celia?”
She crossed toward him, gazing out the window. “When I returned to Maremount, I found that everyone in my mother’s family had been executed. It wasn’t Rawhed who’d done it. It happened before that. Bathsheba framed them all for treason.” Her voice was flattened. “She especially wants me dead. And she always gets what she wants.”
Thomas nodded. “So that’s why you’ve pretended to be mad. To seem like less of a threat.”
She turned to him with a bitter smile. “It’s surprisingly effective. Not only have I kept myself alive, but I’ve got my hands on a spell to get us into Boston.”
Thomas couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer, and they drifted closed. An image flashed in his mind of Ayland, his tiny chest heaving. “Oswald is right. If there’s any chance we can find the cure to pass on to the Tatters, we need to take it. And I might need a miracle cure at this point.”
He could hear the exasperation in Celia’s voice. “You don’t understand what they’ll do to us. They will find us.”
A hollow pain welled deep within Thomas. He didn’t even know the two little kids, but he somehow felt responsible for them. The thought of abandoning them to their deaths made him feel even sicker than he was. The potion he’d stolen for them would wear off soon, and they couldn’t go to a Theurgeon. “You should go, Celia. Oswald and I will take care of it.”
She stood immobile, staring at him, while her golden sparrow fluttered around her. “No. I’ll help you.”
“Are you sure?”
“Someone needs to. As soon as your friend finishes beautifying himself, we can try to find the cure.” She paced in front of the window. “One of the Theurgeons has the spell. He likes me. If I can find a way to speak to him—”
“Asmodeus, by any chance?” asked Thomas. “I have his keys.”
“Yes, Asmodeus.” A startled look flashed across her face. “You what?”
“Oswald rammed a knife into his heart. He was his torturer.”
The color drained from her face. “You killed Asmodeus? His father is one of the most powerful philosophers in Maremount. Once they realize he’s dead, they’ll send a legion of wardens to scour every inch of Maremount until they find us.”
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Celia
Celia hurried to the door. As much as she admired Oswald’s commitment to his appearance, there wasn’t any more time to waste. The guards could sound the alarm at any moment.
“Are you almost done?” she hissed.
“It’s a little wearying to get the robe on with minced limbs.”
She threw up her hands in frustration. “I’ll help you, then.”
“No.” His voice was emphatic.
She tapped her fingers on the wooden door. She had quite a pair of soldiers to work with here: one tortured within an inch of his life, and the other with the damn bubonic plague. She had no one but her father to blame for this—as with everything else in her life.
She could remember very little from her childhood before her exile. Only that her mother had called her Blossom, and her father had brought her candied fruit and jewels every now and then. She closed her eyes, an image flitting through her mind of her mother’s long, golden hair, threaded with pearls and dandelions.
Her throat bobbed. When she was little, she couldn’t understand why her father had decided to remove her mother’s head in the public square. I only know that the King is an egomaniacal monster with delusions of divinity. She’d spent many late nights in Boston, turning over the memory of the morning her mother was arrested and dragged into Lullaby Square. The recollections had been replayed so many times now, she couldn’t be sure how faithful they were. Did Bathsheba really hold my hand, pointing to the scaffold as an executioner hacked my mother’s head off her shoulders with a dull axe? She couldn’t remember screaming, but she must have.
She balled her hands into fists. Since her return, she had learned her mother’s crime. Bathsheba had been only to happy to tell her that Queen Morella was a whore. Apparently, she had taken a number of young lovers from court. Since Morella wasn’t a descendant of the gods as Bathsheba was, such depraved behavior was only to be expected. Celia had just feigned disinterest during this conversation, plucking at the hem on her dress, but secretly she’d envisioned herself smashing a nearby vase and driving the shards into Bathsheba’s withered little heart.