The ceiling of the lobby was like a wedding dress, white silk-smooth lines and gold in the same patterns as lace. The floor was mosaics of huge flowers and twining vines. Blood was smeared across one flower, lending vivid crimson to a rose. The chandelier was like a wedding cake made of light, tier on bright tier. Everything was bloodstained luxury.
I pulled away from Carwyn for a moment, lifted my hand, and felt the rings on my fingers humming to the magic in those lights. My veins were stinging as if the blood in them were literally burning, but I let what seemed like my last burst of magic glitter and glow and then sent it flying to its target. It hit the chandelier and was amplified by the chandelier’s own magic.
Every line of gold in the ceiling blazed like fire, and the chandelier exploded in a shower of sparks and shards. The people below scattered into other rooms or cringed on the floor with their arms over their heads and their heads pressed to their knees.
I seized Carwyn’s hand again and ran down the stairs, one of my silver heels sliding in blood. Carwyn caught me when I tilted off balance, and we didn’t stop running. I wouldn’t have stopped even if I had broken my ankle: I knew this reckless rush was our only chance.
We were almost out, almost through the gold and glass doors. I could hear the slosh and patter that was the dancing water in the fountain outside.
Then I saw the waiter, the man I had first spotted in the ballroom and almost-not-quite recognized, the first sign I’d had that something was wrong, the sign I had let pass me by. He ran into our path, pointed at us, and shouted for the whole room to hear.
“That’s Ethan Stryker!”
I pushed Carwyn behind me, raising my sword, and shouted, “No, he’s not!”
It was the truth I had been holding back for weeks, and now it was a truth that would save us rather than damn us. It was a truth that nobody would believe.
“And who are you?” demanded the man. His eyes raked over my face and I waited in dread for the instant he would recognize me. I felt again that rush of contempt for these people who would commit murder in my name and did not even know my face.
Instead, behind me, a familiar and beloved voice spoke. I felt cold all over, as if a shadow had called on me and claimed me, as if the very darkness knew my name and could now swallow me up.
“That’s the Golden Thread in the Dark,” said my Aunt Leila. “That’s the face of the revolution. That’s who we fought to free, that’s who we came here to find. That is my niece, Lucie. Don’t you dare lay a hand on her.”
I had not seen her in so long. She looked just the same as she had in the Dark city, always wearing severe clothes and an even more severe expression. Her dark locks flowed in a sleek waterfall, not a hair out of place despite the chaos all around her. She wore the black and scarlet band knotted around her arm, like the others, like all the members of the sans-merci, and carried a knife in her hand. The blade was coated with blood, fresh and red, a few drops falling to the parquet floor as she gestured the man away from me.
After a moment’s hesitation, he stepped back.
“Nobody has suffered more due to the Light than Lucie,” said Aunt Leila. “Good news, my niece. We have taken the city. The rule of the Light Council is broken. You are free.” Her keen eyes surveyed me, from my gleaming dress to the sword and then to my face, pitiless as a searchlight. “Are you not going to thank me?”
Thank her, for bringing death to my door, for using my name for her own ends. I’d been wrong: the rebels were not using a girl they did not know.
Aunt Leila knew me, and she had used me anyway.
But I knew what to say to those who had power over me: whatever they wanted to hear. Aunt Leila had taught me that herself.
I could not help the slight pause before I forced out, “Thank you. Aunt Leila, can we . . . can we go? I want to tell my father the good news.”
Aunt Leila was silent for a long time: she had to consider it. She seemed very reluctant to let me leave. Her sharp gaze moved over to Carwyn, and I saw cool speculation there that made my fingers tighten reflexively on Carwyn’s hand.
I loved her. I had loved her all my life, and she had always been loyal to me, had never lied to me, had taught me how to survive and how to save my father. I loved her, and I did not love Carwyn.
I looked at the blood on my aunt’s knife, and I held on to him as if he was the most precious thing I had, the last thing I had, in all the world.
Aunt Leila looked torn. Her eyes searched mine, and I stared defiantly back. She seemed disturbed, I thought, as if after all this time she had thought I would still be the child who performed on her command, as if she had not been prepared for the flesh-and-blood reality of me at all. She had clearly not expected me to fight her, and perhaps was not prepared to fight with me.