Roan slowly drops his hands from my arms.
“All right,” he says at last. “I’ll stay with her. But after that, you’ll come fetch us and explain all this?”
“I will,” I breathe, so relieved I could cry. “I promise I will. Now go. Lock the door and don’t let anyone in, no matter what they say.” I turn away from him and head down the hall, forcing myself not to look back.
As soon as my feet move, I know where I’m going.
To the Queen.
29
I have my hands out when I round the corner of the hall where the Queen’s suite is, ready to stop time to get past the three guards who are always stationed by her door after dark. But instead I halt in my tracks, faced with an empty hall.
Maybe the Queen is off somewhere—I can wait here and confront her when she returns. I cross the hall to her door and try it, just in case. To my shock, the knob turns under my touch, and the door opens. I hesitate, a small voice inside whispering to me that something is wrong.
The Queen’s chamber is dim and glittering, draped in gold fabric and illuminated with the low light of candles. The huge window is covered over with bloodred drapes, and all I can make out are shades of light and shadows as my eyes adjust. The room is vast, easily twice as big as Ina’s, and the walls are covered in alternating panes of bookshelves and mirrors. I had expected to find Ivan in here, or more guards—but the room is empty, save for one.
The queen of Sempera is standing at a magnificent vanity in one corner, her back turned to me, a single candle on the vanity lighting her face in the mirror. She’s wearing an indigo dressing robe, and her dark red hair is loose around her shoulders, cascading down her back. She doesn’t react to the sound of the door closing.
“Your Majesty?” I call softly, running over in my head the story I’ve come up with. Ina is sick and has sent me to ask that the Queen come to her chambers. It’s far-fetched, but I don’t need her to believe me for long. If I can just stop her in time, I can tell Ina the truth, and we can decide what to do together.
Still, the Queen doesn’t turn around as I pad closer.
It seems to take an eternity to cross the cavernous room. There’s something eerie about it—the size and the rich cloth draped everywhere muffle some sounds and amplify others, so it’s silent except for my heartbeat, which seems somehow to fill the whole room. “Your Majesty,” I say again, louder, when I’m halfway there.
Still the Queen doesn’t react. She stands at her mirror with the same erect bearing and lifted chin I can imagine her using when sitting on her throne by the ocean, or giving speeches to an adoring crowd—but she’s utterly still, except for the motion of her arm and hand as she carefully applies an outline of kohl to her eyes, then a coat of red to her lips. Of all the things I expected, this silence unnerves me, chews at my resolve.
Now I can see my face in the mirror behind the Queen. Our faces float together in the glass, hers pale as snow and standing out in the dimness, mine sun-browned and small and scared behind her. The rush of power and will that propelled me from the field with Liam has evaporated completely. I don’t feel like the Alchemist. I feel like a little girl who has walked knowingly into the mouth of a beast.
The Queen sets down her paints and turns around.
I have never been so close to her before. I can see the paleness of her eyes, the fine lines that fan at the corners. What is it like to move around the world in a body and mind that has seen five centuries? I am facing a mountain, a goddess. An old enemy, though I see nothing familiar in her.
“Jules,” she says. And then, “Antonia.”
The name sends a momentary surge of rightness through me. Yes. I am Antonia. The author of the book my father died to retrieve, to keep the secret of me safe. I suddenly know it deep in my bones. Another incarnation of the Alchemist, I realize. Perhaps the very first. But the feeling evaporates quickly. The knowledge doesn’t make me any safer.
The weight of the Queen’s gaze makes me want to flinch, to run. It’s like a physical force, a ray of heat trained on my eyes. But I force myself to stand straight, keep my head up.
The Queen laughs, a low, rolling laugh like distant thunder. “We meet and meet and meet.”
“It’s me you want. Not Ina,” I say. “Whatever you’re planning, you can let her go now.”
That laugh again. I fight not to cower.
“You needn’t fear for Ina,” the Queen says. “I’ve no need for her now.” Her voice is strange, too soft. “It was sweet of you, though, to task Roan Gerling to guard her, when you love him so yourself.”
“I— What?” I choke, fear and confusion crowding together in my throat. How does she know what I said to Roan?
The Queen steps forward and lays a hand on my chest, directly over my pounding heart. Her fingers are ice-cold through the thin fabric of my dress. The cold spreads through my body with wicked speed, and the strength of silver wire.
“You are right. Ina Gold does not have the heart I need.” Now the Queen’s voice is splitting into two voices, one her own, one girlish and conspiratorial. The two-toned sound makes my stomach turn.
The heart.
As her words fade, I feel myself going numb—when I try to make a fist, my fingers only stiffen in a silent rebellion.
Then my legs buckle, and I go down.
I hit the ground on my knees. Every last bit of strength evaporates from my body, all my muscles and bones turned to water. I remember Addie’s words about touching the Queen, the look on her face as frightened as a doe’s: like getting your time drawn.
I can barely even raise my head, much less defend myself. I hear a door open behind me, and someone else walks into the room.
“No,” the Queen repeats, and now her voice is coming from all around, before and behind me, emanating from the walls, the earth itself. “Ina is not the one I need. She never was.”
Then a small, cool hand touches my chin, raises my head. I keep my eyes shut, not wanting to see the flash of the knife as it opens my throat or pierces my heart. Not wanting to know how I’ve failed Ina—failed everyone. If Liam was right, and the Sorceress is evil, I, in my foolishness, have just signed the world over to her.
But—
“Open your eyes, Jules,” someone says. Not the Queen.
I obey.
Caro is kneeling before me, cradling my cheek, smiling. Behind her, the Queen stands, her eyes fixed in the middle distance.
“Caro!” I gasp in relief. “The Queen, she’s—”
“She is nothing,” Caro cuts in.
For the first time since I’ve known her, she isn’t whispering. Her voice is high and clear and familiar as my own heartbeat. She’s wearing a black velvet dress, not her servant’s uniform, and her hair is unbound.
She doesn’t look a bit ill or feverish.