“Come on, Lady!” Elston shouted again, and Kelsea allowed him to tug her down the lawn. Now she was running with a solid bloc of guards around her, and she did not see what became of Dyer or Kibb, or of the Caden.
“Majesty,” Father Tyler panted beside her. Never in her life had she seen a man so ill-used, so close to collapse. He held out a thick strap, and Kelsea saw that he was still carrying his old satchel, though it looked considerably the worse for wear. Did he expect her to carry it for him? Now?
The old Kelsea would have carried it for him, Carlin’s voice mocked in her head, and Kelsea took the satchel, frowning.
“Thank God,” Father Tyler said, tears pouring down his cheeks. “Thank God.”
She stared at him, confused, but they were pounding across the drawbridge now and through the gate. Mace caught up to them as they ran and as soon as they were through, he began shouting orders, leading Kelsea around several piles of broken brick. She saw many faces: Andalie, white with horror as she clutched Glee in her arms; Devin; even Javel, in the uniform of a Gate Guard. But there was no time to speak to anyone, for the Guard was already hustling her down the hallway. Behind them, Kelsea could hear Row’s children still coming, a high-pitched screaming that seemed to be inside her head as well as without. Glancing backward, she saw that the corridor was covered with them; they swarmed over the Gate Guard, climbing the walls and ceiling, their movements sickening and insectile. Father Tyler’s satchel bounced against Kelsea’s leg, hurting her knee, but she couldn’t give it back to him; the priest had been left behind.
“Here,” Mace said, throwing open one of the many doors on the main hallway. “Seal us inside.”
He pushed Kelsea through, and she was relieved to see Pen, Elston, Ewen, Coryn, and Galen follow them inside. Mace slammed the door behind them.
“Bar the door!” he shouted.
Elston and Coryn put their shoulders to the door just as it began to shudder. Pen stood in front of Kelsea, sword in hand. She sank to the floor, blinking, and Father Tyler’s satchel thudded to the ground beside her.
“Ah, God, Lazarus,” she murmured. “How I failed.”
“That’s not you talking, Lady,” Mace grunted, shoving his shoulder against the pile of men holding the door closed. “Don’t you get maudlin on me now.”
What else am I supposed to do? she wanted to ask. Mace had chosen this room well; the door was thick oak, but it would not hold forever. The Queen of Spades was gone, and all that remained was Kelsea, who was not nearly so resilient. A great blow shook the door, and the room echoed with a moan of wounded wood. With nothing else to do, Kelsea opened Father Tyler’s satchel and found two items: an old, battered Bible and a large red box.
“Push, boys!” Mace shouted. “Push for the Queen!”
Another blow echoed off the door, but Kelsea barely heard it. She stared down at the polished cherrywood surface. She had seen this box before, in Katie’s hands. It was nearly as old as the Tearling, but here it was. Flicking the latch, she opened it and stared down at the crown inside, perfect in every detail, just as Katie had seen it.
He wanted to be a king, she thought. That’s all he ever wanted, and wouldn’t I love to introduce him to the Queen of Spades? Oh, how I would love that—
BOOM!
Another great blow shook the doorframe, and several of her guard cried out at the impact. Coryn flew backward.
Brought back to herself, Kelsea picked up the crown, ignoring a weakly hectoring voice that seemed to travel through her fingers all the way to her brain—
Don’t you dare!
—and placed it on her head. Beyond the stone walls, she heard Row Finn scream with rage.
She had expected the crown to be heavy—it had felt so in the box—but it was light as air on her head; she felt its power travel through her, a line of current directly down to her chest, a pleasure so great that it was agonizing, making her close her eyes. She opened them and
Found herself in the cottage.
But it was empty. She had always been able to tell, even upon waking, whether Barty and Carlin were home. Now she could sense their absence. Nothing moved in the rooms around her. Even the dust motes dancing in the light seemed lethargic, undisturbed.
She was standing in the middle of Carlin’s library. She felt years younger, seven or eight perhaps, as on those mornings when she used to come in here and curl up in Kelsea’s Patch and feel that all was right with the world. But Kelsea’s Patch was not here; in fact, the room held no furniture at all, apart from the bookshelves. Carlin’s books surrounded her on all sides . . . but not old and beaten, as so many of them had been in Kelsea’s youth. These books looked brand-new. Instinctively, Kelsea reached for one—she had not held a book in so long!—and found that she had taken down The Bluest Eye. But when she opened the cover, the pages were blank.