“You were six,” Jules says. “It’s not your fault, you—”
“It is my fault!” I say, and it comes out vicious, jagged. “I wanted her gone, okay? And even after she survived, I wanted my parents to see her ugly, scarred face and love me instead, and think I was special, and think I was talented and awesome, because I never was; I was never enough for them.” I hiccup, and wipe a hand angrily across my eyes, mashing the tears into my skin. “How messed up is that? She never did anything. She just existed, and now she’s going to live with that for the rest of her life, and yeah, I’m sorry. I’m sorry she was born with a mentally unhinged adopted sister and awful parents. I’m sorry for everything, but being sorry doesn’t change jack.”
I’m still crying, and I can’t read the expressions of the others through the dark and the blur of tears, but I bet they’re horrified. I bet they’re finally realizing what a god-awful excuse for a human being I am. It’s about time. I want to leave now. I want to run out there into hall of mirrors and spray fire and death around me until there’s nothing left, until this whole palace is ashes at my feet. And then I’ll lie down in the ruins and die, too––
“Hey,” Lilly says. She grabs my hand. She sounds way too calm. “I’m sorry about your sister. I am, that’s really terrible what happened to her, but you were six years old and I’m sorry, but your parents sound like complete . . . complete poop, honestly, excuse my French. They were supposed to be your parents and they weren’t, and people do bad things when they feel alone.” She pauses and looks at me earnestly. “But you’re not alone anymore,” she says. “You’re not, okay? You have us now. Right, Jules? Will? Hayden?”
You’re not my parents! I want to scream. You’re not my family!
And Jules looks straight at me and says: “Right.”
“Right,” Will says.
Hayden’s watching us. “Righty-o,” he says, and his eyes glimmer, sharp and scornful.
“We’re alive,” Lilly says, and she’s squeezing my fingers so hard it hurts. “We’re here, and we’re together, and that’s what we’ve got. I mean, we’re in a stupid palace full of psychos trying to kill us, but . . . ” She trails off.
I feel the pain in my chest spreading down into my fingertips and sparking away, like Lilly’s a lightning rod. And now it’s gone, and Will’s hand is on my shoulder, and Jules is patting me awkwardly on the back.
“Are we ready?” Hayden says. He’s shouldering the shotgun, looking down the barrel, pointing it around the room.
“We’re ready,” Lilly says, and I am.
We’re out of the rose bedroom, moving in single file into the heart of the palace. No one’s talking. We’ve said all we needed to say.
We start to run, our feet thumping softly against the marble. We keep our lights pointed downward, the beams skimming the floor.
Ten minutes later we reach a wide, low staircase. At the top is a pair of mirrored doors. We jog up the steps. I open one of the doors, just a crack, as quietly as I can.
“Guys?” I look back over my shoulder.
“What.”
“I think we’re here.”
The others peek in. Nod.
This hall of mirrors is not at all like the one in Versailles. I saw the original on a humid day in August, jammed along with all the other fourth graders whose parents felt Paris would be more enriching than the binge-watching nanny all summer long. I remember thinking the hall of mirrors didn’t really have that many mirrors in it. It was mostly gold. Huge windows, parquet floor, a bunch of chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. On the other wall were some big mirrors, but overall it seemed like a misnomer.
The Palais du Papillon has an actual hall of mirrors. It’s like a huge version of the glass corridor we entered the palace through. A kaleidoscope, a fractured prism, high and narrow, glittering faintly blue. Only ten feet wide. Maybe a hundred feet long. Everything—floor, ceiling, walls—is made up of massive panels of reflective glass.
At the far end another doorway stands open. Golden light shines out of it, radiating in sharp lines down the hallway.
Slowly, I ease the door closed again.
“Ready?” We’re all staring at each other, wide-eyed. I feel like I should say something, give a stirring speech and send us off to death or glory, but my heart’s thudding, deafening. My mouth feels dry suddenly. I can’t think of anything.
“Ready,” Will says.
I nod. I feel someone’s hand on my arm and I realize we’re grabbing at one another, gripping one another’s hands, sweaty and dirty and alive. And now Lilly pulls away from us and steps through the doors, into the hall of mirrors.
Our plan is underway.
She starts down the hall, feet tapping quietly. She looks like a little lost deer. She’s not. She’s got a gun tucked under the bulky sweatshirt Will lent her. She’s got a small bomb and two knives. About halfway down the hall, she slows.
Don’t turn around, Lilly.