Her left hand ached, and she looked at the tiny white scar. For the first time she could remember, it didn’t make her want to weep. The hurt that she felt was purely physical and completely irrelevant.
The ache turned into a stab of pain that drove her to her knees. Worse, her eyes stung with senseless tears. She scrabbled frantically for the easy despair of a moment before. This was nothing, it meant nothing—
Amélie’s brush stroking makeup onto her face. Armand with yarn woven between his silver fingers. Aunt Léonie kissing her cheek.
The memories wouldn’t stop. Her mind was like a whirling top that repeated nothing nothing do not care over and over, but now the top had fallen off balance and was wobbling wildly, back and forth between indifference and frenzied, grieving love.
You don’t have to feel this. You don’t have to love them.
The thought came into her head as clearly as if someone had spoken to her. Rachelle straightened up, the storm in her mind calming. She was suddenly very conscious of having one last choice.
She couldn’t feel any more longing to love the people she had known. But she remembered Armand’s voice: Maybe it’s just that, once they’re so deep in the Forest’s power, they don’t want to remember loving anyone.
Her hand clenched around the pain of the scar.
It was like trying to swallow broken glass or make her heart beat backward. But she thought of Aunt Léonie, Amélie, Armand. She remembered smiling at them, caring for them, what would they think of me now—
And it was over. There were tears on her face and she was gasping for breath, crouched on the floor beside Erec’s expensive bed.
I love them, she thought, and the words felt numb but true. I am a forestborn, and I love them.
She could still hear the Great Forest singing at the back of her mind, triumphant and hopeless and unafraid. If she listened to it, wanted it, she knew she could let it sweep away her mind again.
With a slow breath, she got to her feet. Her blood pulsed, ready for a fight.
I am Rachelle Brinon. I didn’t listen to my aunt when she told me to stay on the path and save my own life. Damned if I’ll listen to the Forest now.
She didn’t feel the slightest bit weak or unsteady as she strode to the door. Then she pushed it open and saw Erec sitting outside in his study.
He looked up. There was no time for fear. Rachelle thought of how the sunlight had poured drunkenly across her skin, and she let it give a swing to her steps as she strode out into the room.
He was on his feet in an instant. “My lady.”
She smiled back at him. “My lord.”
He crooked his finger, and she felt the compulsion he sent along the string that bound them, but she walked forward of her own will into his arms.
“Are you reconciled to your fate?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said, and it was not a lie. She knew what her fate was and how she was going to use it, and not one part of her rebelled against it.
“You led me a merry chase.” His fingers traced over her face. She could still feel her old lust for him. She could feel, also, the draw of the bond between them. Now that she could tell the difference, it was less terrifying.
“Would you be satisfied with less?” she asked. “What do you need me to do?”
“Kiss me,” he said, and she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek.
He laughed. “I’m glad you haven’t lost your defiance.”
“I’ll make you gladder still tonight,” she said. “Right now, I’m going to run through the gardens.”
She expected him to object. To demand further submission out of her first. But he only smiled and said, “As you wish,” and a moment later she was running lightly down the hallway.
Of course she didn’t head for the gardens. She went straight for the Lady Chapel, which was dedicated to the Holy Virgin. It had been built in fulfillment of some king’s vow a few hundred years ago, but since then it had become not just a chapel but also the repository of sundry royal treasures. So unlike the main chapel, there were guards.
Rachelle walked up to them without fear; they knew her, so they wouldn’t attack until she gave them cause.
Sleep, she thought. Darkness. And power blossomed in her palms, forming great night-black flowers that nobody but she could see. “Good afternoon,” she said as they drew to attention.
“Good afternoon, mademoiselle,” one of them said, and then Rachelle struck, her hands whipping out to slam the invisible flowers over their faces. They dropped instantly, and she stepped over their bodies and strode inside.