“Won’t she be sorry when Endless Night falls,” said a colorless young man with so much lace at his throat it looked like it might strangle him. “Nothing but work, work, work forever after.”
“You mean if it falls,” said the older woman. “We’re supposed to keep the sun in the sky by weeping over our sins, aren’t we? I think that’s what our tiresome Bishop said last Sunday.”
“Weeping is too much trouble,” sighed l’étoile-Polaire. “I’ll just have to die in eternal darkness.”
All three of them burst into soft, inane laughter that made Rachelle want to scream. They were rich enough to burn lamps all night long; they didn’t have to go out on errands when woodspawn were roaming the streets. So they didn’t believe in the return of Endless Night. None of the nobility did.
“I don’t think I could bear killing things,” said a young girl wearing a dress that was the exact same pale yellow as the curls piled atop her head. “Even woodspawn.”
“But you forget,” said the young man. “She’s already killed somebody, the naughty girl.” He gave Rachelle a grin that looked like it was trying to be rakish.
“Of course, I did forget,” sighed l’étoile-Polaire, and once again slowly drifted her gaze back to Rachelle. “Who was it?”
Rachelle stared at them. She had expected to be mocked or scorned. That was how it went in the city: people despised her for being bloodbound, or laughed at her for being a peasant from the north end of nowhere.
She had never dreamed that the court might find her exotic.
“I—I don’t think it’s very nice to ask,” said the girl in the yellow dress.
“Come, come, Soleil,” said the young man. “It’s not as if she’s a blushing innocent. She’s already said she wasn’t sorry.”
“And I wouldn’t be sorry after killing you either,” said Rachelle. “So maybe you shouldn’t bother me.”
Beside her, Armand let out a soft snort of laughter.
At that moment, one of the servants arrived with a tray of little cakes—the ones, Rachelle supposed, that la Fontaine had mentioned when they first met—and everyone was distracted.
“Oh,” said Soleil, turning toward Armand, “aren’t you going to eat any of the lovely cakes?”
“No,” said Armand, who seemed to have forgotten completely about being a charming liar. Maybe he didn’t think Soleil was any use to him, though she was certainly pretty enough.
“Oh, I forgot!” said Soleil. “Your poor hands. I’ll feed them to you.”
Armand’s jaw tightened slightly. “No, thank you.”
Soleil, who had already seized a little cake frosted in pink icing, paused. “But why not?”
“Because I’m not hungry.” Armand’s voice stayed quiet and even, but Rachelle could see his shoulders tensing slightly, and she suddenly remembered all the times she had kept her voice quiet and even while attempting to answer Erec.
“Because,” said Erec, suddenly behind them—Rachelle flinched, feeling like she had summoned him—“he’s ashamed that he can’t feed himself.”
He spoke in the light, needling tone that he used to tease Rachelle, so it took her a moment to realize that he’d been speaking of Armand, and to realize what he’d said of him.
It took her another moment to realize she was angry.
“But you shouldn’t be ashamed,” said Soleil. “I think it’s so beautiful, how much you were willing to sacrifice—I can’t imagine it, of course, but when I try to imagine it, then I feel like I can be strong too, and—” She bit her lip, blushing. “Please, please let me help you.”
Armand’s mouth flattened.
“Yes, let the girl do you a kindness,” said Erec. “Aren’t saints supposed to be meek and humble of heart?”
Seemingly encouraged, Soleil shoved the cake forward. “Won’t you—”
Rachelle caught her wrist. “Did I mention I’m his bodyguard?” she said. “And I’m not a saint, so I can do what I like.”
Armand sighed and reached up with his metal hand to push their hands apart.
“Mademoiselle, you’re very kind,” he said to Soleil. “But I did not lose my hands for the purpose of making you feel special.”
Soleil had gone red, but before she could say anything, la Fontaine clapped her hands once. Everyone in the room fell silent.
“Enough chatter,” said la Fontaine. “It is time for stories. And in honor of our guest, I propose that we each tell a tale from the north.”
Soleil rose. “If you will excuse me, gracious goddess,” she said quietly, “I am not well enough for stories.” Then she bolted out of the room.
“Now you’ve made her cry,” said Erec. “Not so very saintly.”
“Now you’re talking when our hostess called for silence,” said Armand.
“Do you have a tale to share, my dear Fleur-du-Mal?” asked la Fontaine, her voice ringing across the room like a bell.