His decades spent with the Queen had not left him as unprepared as Nina, as Blanche. The Queen’s blue light went through the studio garret like waves as she poured herself into Edward in pulses of force.
Edward staggered toward the window and with a great effort lifted it up, tore it from its nailed roots into the sash. The iron nails stuck through the wood, long and spiked.
Yet there was enough space around the nails that an agile man could climb out and through, could squeeze past the iron to dash his brains on the flagstones below.
Then the Queen would be free to try again. To enter someone weaker, more docile. Was this the Queen trying to sacrifice Edward? Or Edward trying to sacrifice himself, preferring to die rather than be the Fey Queen’s pawn ever again?
Jane saw both possibilities flickering before her and she ran to Edward, even as his shoulder hefted the pane high and he placed his hands on the windowsill. His eyes as he turned—oh, those beloved amber eyes were thick and glassy as he fought the Queen for dominion over his own body. Her own face stung, but no more, her trauma held at bay by Edward’s momentary touch.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered to Jane, and then he drew his shoulder back from the window. Drew back the support, and the window, free and heavy with iron, fell. It slammed into his fey-cursed hands, and blood welled thick and fast from the cut veins and broken bones of his pierced palms.
His neck corded in pain, he slumped to his knees beneath the sill, hands caught above him, iron in his blood.
There was a noise—or maybe it was only a feeling, a feeling of shrieking. All the air in the room crackled and Edward’s cowlick jumped on end. The air seemed to rush into Edward and implode with a sharp bang, so that Jane’s ears popped and her vision blinked blue and white.
And then—nothing. The air cleared out and the room colorized.
The Fey Queen was dead.
Dorie ran to her father, threw herself onto his chest, and he gasped with pain. But he was alive, alive, and the glass in his eyes slowly receded. He levered himself to his feet, and his face was wet and streaked, and he was quite caught by the window, speared through his broken, mangled hands.
But alive.
Jane sunk to the floor, spitting clay dust that tasted like iron. The last of Edward’s fey touch on her face receded. Everything was red—but of course, that was just blood. Just blood. And then the pain rushed in at last, and she groped for one of Edward’s work cloths, put it to her face, where it instantly soaked itself. She was dizzy, and this was no good. “Dorie,” said Jane. “Run for Poule. Quickly.”
But the short woman appeared at the door, panting, taking in the situation. In her hand she held something white and metal, ovoid, and she beat a path to Jane, holding it up to Jane as she ran.
It was the beautiful Jane mask with the chipped forehead.
But different.
It was criss-crossed with a web of threaded iron, iron that went above the clay, through the clay, behind the clay. The fey substance in the mask was both exposed and trapped—iron ringed the mask’s edges, outlining its eyes and lips in metal.
“Dorie,” Poule said, from a distance. “I’m hoping you can do something your father could.” She nodded at Jane: Yes?
“Yes,” said Jane, and Poule pressed the mask to her face. Iron and clay? No, iron and skin, it would be soon enough. This was true ironskin at last. It was cold and stiff and yet felt like an old friend, warming to her touch. She could feel the power of the fey substance inside, already sensing the emotions in the room, feeling waves from Dorie, sadness, confusion, determination. This time she would not spurn the blessings of that curse.
Dorie reached up to Jane’s face, and her tiny hands molded the mask as if they knew instinctively what to do. Jane’s face throbbed, stung, but the blood running down her neck slowed to a trickle as Dorie fitted the mask in place. Even the pain lessened. Dorie was saving her.
“Help me to my feet,” said Jane. Dorie stood still while Jane put weighty hands on her shoulder, standing. Together they moved to the window where Edward still hung, pinned, and then Jane and Poule freed him. He sunk to the floor, defeat written all over him despite their victory over the Queen. His nimble, beautiful hands hung limp.
If Edward could mend faces with that clay, surely she had enough fey substance in her to do that now herself.
She pressed the fey-infused clay to his wounds and saw it start to mend, saw the broken bone wiggle under its touch, straightening. It thrummed under her fingers, and she felt suddenly what power that was, to mold something into the shape of life and have it walk and breathe.
“No,” he said, and jerked his arms away, rubbing the blood and clay from his limp hands on his shirt with a gasp at the pain. The thrum died. “I am not strong enough to hold their gifts, Jane. I am not as good as you.”