A Red-Rose Chain

“No.” May’s expression sobered, her heartbroken smile dying. “You’ve been stabbed in the heart. I know you think you’re immortal, Toby, but you’re not. Your body’s trying to fight through this. I’m not sure it can.”


“What?” The sucking feeling in my chest. I’d been assuming it was because the false Queen had hit my lung, but my heart . . . laughter rose unbidden to my lips. “Oh, man. I never thought this was how it was going to end. That’s almost stupid, it’s so predictable.”

May scowled and folded her arms. “Maybe you think this is funny, but I don’t. You think I want to wake up to a world where Tybalt is blaming me for letting you die, when you could have prevented it? That is not a fun world. That is a world full of bitterness and anger and dead mice in my shoes.”

“So what do you want me to do about it, May?” I demanded. “I’m not exactly in a position to negotiate, here. I’ve blacked out from shock, or I wouldn’t be talking to you, and there’s a knife in my heart.”

“You were starting to look for the keys to his spell when she stabbed you, weren’t you?” May’s question stopped me cold. She allowed herself the sliver of a smile. “See, I can be a smart girl sometimes. Marlis fed you some of your own blood, and you needed more, so you goaded him into hitting you. That way, you got what you needed, and you could start looking for a way out. It was a good plan. It’s not your fault she stabbed you before you could finish.”

“Still stabbed,” I said. “Still blacked out. What do you want me to do, May?”

“I want you to wake up,” she said. “Do what you were planning. You have a few seconds. Time’s different when you’re asleep.”

“I don’t know—”

“And tell Jazz I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t plan on this. I’ll see her when I wake up.” May’s smile grew, turning sad again. “Everything gets messed up sometimes. Now close your eyes, and live.”

I wanted to argue. I wanted to tell her that this was futile, that I couldn’t accomplish anything but looking foolish in my own dreamscape while my body was bleeding out back in the waking world.

I closed my eyes.

The world was replaced by blackness. There was still no pain, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything: if I was close enough to bleeding out, I might have reached the point where pain couldn’t reach me. There was something incredibly alluring about that thought. I could just stay where I was, and the pain would never touch me again.

But neither would the pleasure. I’d never see Quentin crowned; I’d miss my own wedding. I squinted my eyes tighter, blocking out all traces of light . . . until the light appeared in a glowing web of pale yellow strands, crossing and crisscrossing my body like a spider’s web. They covered parts of me that I couldn’t possibly have seen, but I saw them anyway. They were the logical extensions of each other, and once I knew what they were, I couldn’t have missed them if I’d tried.

Two of the lines came together and crossed over my fingers, tying them down. I flexed my hands, carefully at first, and then with more force, straining against the lines. They stung where they touched me. It started out light, and then it flared into a burn. Pain flooded back into my body, like it had been invited in when I started fighting against the lines. I welcomed it. If there was pain, I still had a body that was capable of hurting: there was a chance I’d be able to make it to all the things I didn’t want to miss. I strained harder.

Follow the lines, I thought, and then: Don’t let the bastards win.

The lines across my fingers snapped.