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.
“It looks almost like writing,” said Rachelle.
“Well. I might have added my initials to it.”
Sévigné was gone—“She saw the mark,” said Amélie, “and she’s probably halfway to the Archipelago by now”—but Amélie contrived to put Rachelle’s hair up easily enough. It was the dress that was a problem, because Rachelle didn’t want Erec to suspect she was planning anything, but a ball gown was hardly suitable for fighting. They compromised by lacing the corset as loosely as possible and strapping four knives to Rachelle’s legs.
The dress itself was magnificent. It was crimson silk that turned to gold at the hem, with golden roses embroidered on the skirt. The sleeves were slashed with white and ringed with little gold silk roses. The neckline bared her shoulders and her collarbones like a declaration of war. When Rachelle saw herself wearing it in the mirror, she felt beautiful. And glorious. And like a warrior who had a chance to win.
And none of that mattered next to knowing that every inch of her body had been decorated by somebody who loved her.
“Thank you,” she said, turning to Amélie, who had been fussing with the back panels of her skirt. “You’re amazing.”
“This is my last performance,” said Amélie. “It had better be good.”
“I mean,” said Rachelle, “thank you for everything, ever since we met. Without you . . . I don’t know if I’d be strong enough to keep fighting.”
Amélie smiled and took her hands. “I have never regretted being your friend,” she said. “Make me proud tonight.”
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Erec came to fetch her. Rachelle had expected him to come looking for punishment or vengeance, but when she opened the door and saw him standing on the other side resplendent in black velvet and silver, he only smiled at her, the same as always.
“Good evening,” he said. “I think you will enjoy tonight.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Have you forgiven me, then?”
“Still so human, my lady?” He laid his hands on her shoulders. “You misunderstand our nature. We don’t need to hate or forgive what belongs to us.” He kissed her neck, and she shivered. “Someday you’ll understand that.”
Rachelle thought of when she had first learned what he was, and how desperately she had wanted to disbelieve it. Even now—even after what he had done to her, to Armand, to Amélie, to Aunt Léonie—some part of her wanted to forget it all, just so that they could be Rachelle-and-Erec again, fighting woodspawn in the streets of Rocamadour.
But that had only been a game to him, when it had been salvation to her.
“Humans are not so far from forestborn as you think,” she said.
He smiled. “You’ll sing differently when we ride to hunt the humans for sport.”