Amber gulps, then nods. “But neither of our arcana are balanced.”
I squeeze her hand. “As long as we stay connected, we’ll be all right,” I say, even though it feels like a lie.
We close our eyes.
A knock rattles the door. “Your Majesty,” a guard calls out.
Amber jumps.
“Go on,” the queen says. “Ignore it.”
Arabella takes a sharp breath. I shake Amber’s hands. She closes her eyes again. In the darkness, I see Charlotte’s body. She’s thin, down to her bones. Almost a skeleton. I find every imperfection: her wispy hair, her hollow cheeks, her sallow skin, the too-slow beat of her heart. Her veins have a yellow tint beneath her skin. Her blood pressure is low. It reminds me of how I felt after being poisoned.
My eyes snap open. “Your Majesty, can I see the hair comb again?”
She hands it to me.
I turn it over and examine it, then wrench it open. The comb breaks. The queen gasps. The comb’s teeth release a clear liquid. The scent is familiar. “It’s poison. Just like the one that was used on me. It’s made from the pollen of bloodroot flowers.”
“We had her blood tasted.” The queen rushes to my side. “When she first became ill.”
The door vibrates again.
“Your Majesty!” the guards shout. “We will take down these doors.”
Lady Zurie rushes to press her back against them.
“Yes, but this poison smells and tastes like flowers,” I say to the queen. “I didn’t recognize it either.”
“How did the doctors not catch this?”
“It’s untraceable,” I say. “I overheard the nurses saying my blood was clean as well. But I know this smell now. I will never forget it.”
Amber touches Charlotte’s head. “It’s coming from her scalp. Look where the bald patches are. They’re oozing. The comb’s been piercing her.”
The queen rubs her fingers over Charlotte’s scalp. She sinks back. Arabella leads her to the chair, then scoops up the broken comb and holds it under a night-lantern. She sniffs. “There’s definitely something on the teeth.”
The door jolts forward.
“I don’t know how long I can hold them,” Lady Zurie calls out.
“She needs to have her blood cleaned.” I remove the leeches from my wrist and Amber’s, and pluck out the others in the jar. I hand a few to Amber. We lay them on Charlotte: on her wrists, beneath her neck, and on the top of her head near the small wound. The leeches turn a fiery red as they fill with her blood.
“Now, Amber, focus on her blood. Refresh the proteins, like we would someone’s skin or hair.”
“I’ve never done this before.”
“Me either.”
She looks at the queen.
“You have to try,” she cries.
Amber nods, a bead of sweat swooping down her nose.
The door starts to crack. The wood is being chipped away. The queen hollers. Lady Zurie beats back against it.
“I’m afraid,” Amber whispers. “And I’m so tired. I can’t feel the arcana anymore.”
“I’m tired, too.” I turn her wrist over and trace the veins. “It’s still there. It has to be.”
Her eyes are heavy with exhaustion. I lean over Charlotte and hug Amber. I fall neatly into the crook of Amber’s neck. The scent of orange blossom is still faint in her hair, even underneath the stench of the dungeons. “We can do this.” I hope my words burrow down inside her. “We’re strong together.”
Arabella’s hand squeezes my shoulder. “I’ll help, too.”
A door panel breaks. Sophia demands to be let in to see her sister. Amber, Arabella, and I clamp our eyes shut.
The arcana hiss underneath my skin.
The rhythm of Charlotte’s heart beats alongside mine. I see the pulsating organ—fleshy, red, thumping. Blood rushes through it and sluggishly moves through her veins. I push the arcana to reset the proteins, as I would her bones for beauty work. Amber and Arabella’s arcana combine with mine; it all showers through me like a hot rainstorm in the warm season.
Charlotte’s body jerks.
The queen screams.
Amber topples forward, crashing into me.
“Amber!” I shake her and hold her up.
Charlotte coughs and moans.
“Oh, my little girl.” The queen rushes to her side. “Wake up, please open your eyes.”
“You must go,” Arabella says to me.
Rémy helps me lift Amber’s body from the bed.
“Use the passages. I’ve left trunks for you that contain all you need.”
“I’ll lead them,” Arabella says, lifting a wall tapestry and pushing out a hidden panel.
“Thank you.” The queen kisses my cheek.
Rémy disappears with Amber into the dark passageway. I linger and hear Charlotte gasp for breath and mutter.
The bedroom doors shatter, wood flying in all directions.
“Go,” the queen shouts.
Hands find my shoulders. Arabella yanks me through. The door shuts us into darkness.
51
We follow behind Arabella. Her long veil sweeps along the cobblestone passage. “There will be guards here in a moment’s time. Sophia has her own tunnels beneath the palace. Hurry.”
She ducks and turns, seemingly at random, down a series of dark corridors. Pockets of gloom and dead air lurk about. Night-lanterns are hooked to the walls, creating quivering, infrequent splotches of light along the walls and floor.
My body quivers. Shadowy corners lie ahead. Spiderwebs spin a network of time gone by, stretching from lantern to lantern. I have no sense of where we are in the palace. Arabella knows every stair and turn and pathway through the darkness. The clomping of Rémy’s heavy boots matches the racing pattern of my heart.
Finally, Arabella slows down. The noise beyond the walls quiets. The scent of fresh bread creeps in, and the stone walls are warm to the touch.
Arabella drops to her knees and runs her fingers along the ground. She pulls on a latch, lifts a door, and exposes a Belle-trunk. Rémy sets a sleeping Amber on the floor and hoists it out.
Arabella flips it open and gazes up at me. “You are no longer a Belle.” She pulls a simple green dress from the trunk. “Out of those clothes.”
Rémy turns around while I change. I shiver with cold and fear. Dread fills every part of my body.
“Your name is Corinne Sauveterre, and you’re the daughter of a dragon merchant from the Gold Isles.” She ties the House of Rare Reptilians emblem around my neck, and shoves a parcel into my hands. Transport documents. A miniature portrait of me stares back. My new name and the names of my parents. “No one will ask for it unless you draw attention to yourself.” Arabella digs farther into the trunk.
“Why petit-dragons?”