“I think it doesn’t matter what either one of us regrets,” said Erec. “We are going to live forever, in darkness and in dancing. Because I know you, my lady, and you don’t have it in you to be a lamb for the slaughter any more than I do. The same wolfish greed beats in your heart: to have what you will, and kill for it. Or why would you be alive? And you are alive, and have your will, so what should you regret?”
It was like when Justine dislocated her arm: something familiar, swinging painfully out of place. Because Rachelle had told herself those same words, or near enough, a thousand times. She had wanted to live. She had gotten her wish. She could not claim to regret. Only minutes ago, she had snarled at Justine: If you were really sorry, you would get out a knife and cut your throat.
But now that she heard Erec say those words to her . . . they sounded wrong.
She thought, I regret.
“Speechless?” asked Erec. “Don’t be ashamed. I bring all ladies to that state sooner or later.”
Rachelle had always thought Erec understood her. No matter how she hated him, she had always loved him a little too, because he knew what she was in the darkest part of her soul. And yet now he really thought that she was speechless with desire for him. He really thought that she did not regret what she had done.
“Too bad for you,” she said, “I’m not a lady.”
He chuckled, clearly thinking that this was only another step in their dance together.
It was the most exquisite kind of freedom to realize that he could be wrong. It was terrifying too.
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Talking with Erec had made everything more clear. She did regret. She was willing to die. And that meant there was only one path for her to take: weave a charm and try her best against the lindenworm.
It would have to be a sleep charm. Margot had said, The most terrible charms or the most simple, and sleep charms were the only simple charms she knew that seemed like they might be at all helpful even if they did work. Yet one of the little snowflake-shaped sleep charms she used to hang over baby beds could not possibly be enough, or nobody would have ever feared lindenworms.
She decided to try weaving multiple sleep charms together, and she spent the rest of the day working out the pattern. Luckily Amélie already had a ball of yarn that she could use.
“You’re going to help,” Rachelle told Armand that evening.
He raised his eyebrows. “Are you planning to clamp knitting needles onto my hands? Because I don’t think that will work as well as it does with forks. And it doesn’t work all that well with forks either, though apparently it looks quite impressive. Several ladies have assured me that I’m very brave for managing to eat by myself.”
“Well,” said Rachelle, “I certainly won’t tell you that.”
He laughed.
“And luckily,” she went on, “I don’t need you to tie knots. I just need you to stay still. Here.” She sat him down in a chair and had him hold up his hands. She looped the yarn through his silver fingers and started weaving it together.
It was awkward sitting so close to him—their knees were almost touching, she could hear every breath he took, and the strange desire for him was seeping back into her. She tried to concentrate on the pattern, looking frequently at her sketches and weaving in quick, short motions.
The problem was, she hadn’t woven in three years. Very soon, the pattern started bunching. She had woven it too tight. So she pulled it out, and starting whirling through the pattern again with less tension—only now ungainly loops were dropping from it, because she was making it too loose. Again she pulled it out. This time it seemed to go better, but slowly the shape got more and more wrong, until at last she realized that she had left out two steps when she started the pattern. Her breath hissed out between her teeth in frustration.
“Now you know how I feel with forks,” said Armand.
She looked up at him, tensing. She expected to see mockery—Erec would have said the words with a sly grin and then winked—but Armand just looked at her with a wry half smile. Come to think of it, Erec would never have mentioned that he was bad at anything.
Rachelle laughed shakily and started to unwind again. “I have bloodbound grace and speed,” she said. “But it’s all for fighting.”
“You seemed to dance pretty well.”
“That was with Erec. That counts as fighting.” Her voice was rougher than she meant it to be, and she didn’t meet his eyes.
“I think everything at court counts,” he said.
She started weaving the pattern again, slowly and carefully. “I don’t think there’s enough chance of bloodshed.”
He paused. “There’s chance of bloodshed in dancing?”
“I repeat: with Erec d’Anjou.”