4

Fi

fi stood at the window, holding a single flickering candle and watching the roiling night outside. Breathy wisps of fog slid over the windowsill, hissing as they met the warmer air beyond. It was time.

In the late afternoon, mist had rolled in over the great cage of mountains, slithering between the jagged peaks like an unwinding snake. By the time the sun set, the mist blanketed everything, sinking into the valley until the Spindle Witch’s spire was shrouded in fog, the view from the windows an unbroken wall of white. As though the tower were cut off from the rest of the world.

Fi had been waiting for a moment like this since her ill-fated trip to the Spindle Witch’s chamber three days before. The Witch had been watching her closely, and so had all of her crows. Fi had seen them flying around the tower, sometimes perching on the wide windowsill, tipping their heads and studying her with impenetrable black eyes. But there was no way anything could see through this haze, and the room upstairs had been silent all day. This might be her only chance to get back to the mirror.

The swallowtail engravings on the mirror were the last hint Fi had needed to put the clues together. Especially with what Shane had told her of the Witch who hid his knowledge by leaving pieces of himself inside mirrors.

Fi traced the butterfly on her palm and then squeezed her hand into a fist. She retrieved the folded paper from the small desk. Her single candle shivered in the dark.

The mist was spreading softly across her floor, bringing the chill with it. Fi left her feet bare, letting the prickling cold keep her alert as she crept up to the Spindle Witch’s room. She popped the little hook easily this time. As the door swished open, the mist swirled and churned around her. The fog had beaten her to the Spindle Witch’s room, and the tower was thick with it, the heavy air making it hard to breathe.

Fi’s candle burned a path through the silvery cloud as she crept to the vanity. This time, she sat carefully on the padded stool, setting the candle next to the brush and scissors and looking into her fractured reflection. Her face was shadowed in the firelight.

“You’re the Lord of the Butterflies, aren’t you? Or at least a piece of him,” she said, lifting her hand and uncurling her fingers to reveal the swallowtail mark. “This is what you meant when you said I had something of yours.”

“Clever little visitor.” Fi’s reflection disappeared, leaving the one-eyed man sitting just as she was at the vanity. Long strings of unbrushed hair fell around his face, and his black-and-red robes stood out against the same mist that seethed behind Fi. “Glad to see you survived the drop.” His smile grew wider, distorted by a crack in the mirror.

“Did you know someone would catch me?” Fi asked.

There was something careless about the man’s expression as he shrugged. “I knew it was a kindness either way.”

The thought made Fi’s chest tighten. The Lord of the Butterflies had been perfectly willing to kill her. He had also implied there was a fate worse than death in this tower. Fi didn’t want to dwell on either possibility. Instead, she held the butterfly mark close to the mirror.

“This curse—it’s the same one that was cast on you. Can you remove it?”

The Lord of the Butterflies leaned forward with an intense look of interest. “Mm . . . I’m afraid this was after my time.” He lifted both of his hands, revealing smooth palms empty of curse marks. “You see, I’m only a fragment of myself left in this mirror, frozen at one particular moment like a fossil trapped in amber. That curse, though . . .” He reached forward, and for a fleeting moment, Fi felt the phantom sensation of fingers running across her palm. “What a clever bit of spell work. The magic used to create it is definitely mine, but why would I cast a curse on myself?” He paused to fix Fi with an amused smile. “On the other hand, I do know of two Witches powerful enough to use my own magic against me.”

“Queen Aurora and the Spindle Witch,” Fi filled in. She had gathered as much from the letters she’d pieced together in the library of Everlynd, which had given her a glimpse into the relationship between the Lord of the Butterflies and the first Queen of Andar. From what she’d gleaned, it hadn’t ended particularly well.

“She was Princess Aurora when I first met her,” the man said. His expression softened, almost fond.

Fi felt a curl of disappointment that it wouldn’t be so easy, but she should have realized that if the Lord of the Butterflies had been able to remove the curse himself, he probably wouldn’t have disappeared into exile. Besides, she had far more important things to worry about right now. Fi shot a glance at the ghostly room behind her, the child’s bed veiled beneath a shroud of silver mist.

“The Spindle Witch was the girl locked in this tower, wasn’t she?”

“Of course,” the man said. “We found her here. Aurora and I. Long ago.”

Fi filed that little tidbit away for later. “If that’s true,” she pressed, leaning forward over the vanity, “then why are you hiding from her?”

The Lord of the Butterflies sighed heavily, his face turning so that all Fi could see was his lips thinned beneath a curtain of hair. “The two of us can’t meet anymore,” he said. “She hunted down this mirror and dragged it back here many years ago, seeking my knowledge. But I’m afraid she wants something that I cannot give her.”

“The Siphoning Spells,” Fi guessed.

The Lord of the Butterflies didn’t answer, but the tight line of his lips said it all.

“Why is she so desperate to find them? She’s so powerful already,” Fi whispered. The Spindle Witch had crushed the Witches of Andar, left the kingdom in ashes, and come through without so much as a scratch. Fi thought about the monster girl in the story, trapped in a dark spire. “I mean, she’s clearly able to leave this tower . . .”

The Lord of the Butterflies held up a finger. “Not fully,” he said with a shake of his head. “A part of her will always be trapped here . . . a very small part.”

He looked unbearably sad as he said the last, and Fi felt cold, just as she had when she ran her hands over the carvings on the wall. She didn’t need to know the whole story to know that whatever was dark and terrible about the Spindle Witch had been born here, in this awful, lonely prison. But Fi was just as sure that the Witch had to be stopped now, before she wrought more horror and destruction.

Suffering begets suffering. That was what the Paper Witch had warned Fi just after she ended up with the Butterfly Curse. Hurt has a way of consuming from the inside out when left to fester in dark places.

Fi sucked in a breath, making the flame of the candle shudder. “Do you know how to kill her?” she asked quietly.

The Lord of the Butterflies fixed Fi with a disappointed look. “That is entirely the wrong question.”

Whatever else he might have said was interrupted by a great gust of wind. Black feathers surged out of the mist as a flock of crows burst through the window, cawing and scratching. They knocked over the spinning wheel, sending the basket of golden thread tumbling across the floor, and then suddenly the Spindle Witch was rising from the haze, striding forward with an expression of pure rage beneath her veil. The train of the long black dress followed her like a shadow, and her long nails shredded the delicate lace of her skirts. All the mist in the room seemed to burn up at once.

“I knew you were still in there,” she hissed, stalking toward the vanity. Fi stumbled to her feet, kicking the stool away and trying to escape, but the Spindle Witch wasn’t even looking at her. She was looking at the now-blank face of the mirror. “I should have realized you’d reveal yourself to a girl like her.” The Witch’s nails raked against the glass. “Come out,” she crooned, dragging her fingers over her own splintered reflection.

Fi’s back hit the cold wall. All of her limbs felt numb. She held her breath, praying she’d go unnoticed.

“Come out,” the Spindle Witch beckoned again. Then she wrenched away from the mirror, seizing Fi by the back of her neck. She hadn’t even used her thread—her sharp nails cut into Fi’s skin as the Spindle Witch dragged her forward, her grip so strong Fi could barely struggle.

Bony fingers dug into the flesh at the base of her skull until she felt like her neck would snap. Then the Spindle Witch whipped around and slammed Fi’s head against the mirror. Another crack slid across the surface. Fi gasped, dizzy and disoriented as the Spindle Witch ground her face into the cold glass.

“Come out,” the Witch warned, “or watch her die from in there!”

There was a hint of warm air on Fi’s cheek for a second, like a breath, and then the sensation of a strange hand carding through her hair. She was still hazy, but it was no longer her own reflection she was pressed against. The Lord of the Butterflies had returned.

“Temper, temper, little spider,” he mocked.

Just as suddenly as the Spindle Witch had grabbed Fi, she released her, tossing her aside. Fi managed to catch the edge of the vanity, stumbling but staying on her feet. The Spindle Witch rose before the mirror, a victorious smile splitting her painted lips. “I’ve waited a lifetime for this, and now you’re going to tell me everything.”

The Lord of the Butterflies didn’t seem fazed. He just shook his head with a knowing look. “Oh, my sweet little Witch,” he murmured, “you’ve never had the power to make me do anything.”

His green eye flickered to Fi for one moment, his expression piercing into her. Then the black veil over the Spindle Witch’s head burst into flames, a crimson fire that enveloped her and chewed through the curls of black lace. At the same time, the Lord of the Butterflies in the mirror seemed to shimmer, fading and turning to smoke.

“There,” he said, just a wisp of a ghost. “Now you look like the girl I remember.”

The crimson fire burned itself out at the same moment as the Lord of the Butterflies disappeared, leaving the reflection of a young blond woman in the mirror. Fi stared. The Spindle Witch was painfully beautiful right now, clearly flush with magic. Her skin was pale as porcelain, and her blue eyes were wide with long black lashes—just like the girl in the pages of the storybook.

The Spindle Witch let out a shriek of fury as she pounded on the mirror. She dragged the bone drop spindle from her sleeve and drove it viciously into the surface of the mirror, shattering it out of its frame.

Splinters of glass crashed to her feet. The golden hair that had been coiled around her head like a crown ripped free, and a long golden braid slithered over her shoulder, falling almost to the floor. So long that once it might have trailed from the window of the tower . . .

Fi gasped as the pieces came together. The brush, the scissors, the girl in the story, and most of all, the spindle and the golden thread. It wasn’t thread at all. It was golden hair—the golden hair of the Spindle Witch, which she had learned to twist and spin to make her spells. Those thousands of strands of gold in the forest below were from the girl who had dangled her hair from the tower. That was how she had stayed alive for centuries, sucking the life from the creatures of the forest. And if she’d had this terrible power from the moment she was born, maybe she had killed everyone who had ever loved her . . . whether she was a monster or not.

Fi’s heart warred between pity and horror.

“You!” The Spindle Witch rounded on her. “I knew you were working against me, but I didn’t care as long as you were useful. You’ve just outlived that usefulness.”

Golden thread gathered at the Witch’s fingers. Fi stepped back, cornered against the cold stone of the tower with nowhere to run.

“The code—Camellia’s code—” she stuttered.

“Don’t think you can keep playing that card.” The Spindle Witch wrenched up her hands, throwing out her fingers. The golden thread shot toward Fi, winding around her arms, pulling tight and slicing into the skin around her wrists. A single thread that shone like a piano wire looped around her neck.

“I’ve solved it!” Fi said desperately, as she felt the thread tightening. “I have the whole code!”

The Spindle Witch stepped forward with a swish of black skirts. Without her veil, it was easy to see the malice shining in her eyes. The thread had stopped squeezing Fi’s neck, but it remained painfully tight.

“Then give it to me right now. The whole code.”

Fi’s first instinct was to try to make the Spindle Witch some kind of deal, or at least beg for her life. She swallowed it down. She had a feeling that if the next words out of her mouth weren’t Camellia’s riddle, she would be dead.

“In the forest of spines

Where the thorns gather

The shine of Andar’s most precious rose

Reveals the hidden butterfly.”

The thread slid against Fi’s neck, and she closed her eyes, wondering if those would be her last words. Instead, she felt the slither of the thread coming free, and she gasped, able to breathe again.

“It’s a riddle,” Fi hurried on, bracing herself against the sudden weakness in her knees. “I haven’t solved all of it, but I know what one of the lines means. ‘Andar’s most precious rose’ has to be the ruby in Queen Aurora’s crown, buried with her in her tomb.”

The Spindle Witch wound her thread back, the golden loops slowly tightening around her drop spindle. Her gaze never left Fi. “And I suppose you coincidentally happen to know where this tomb is.”

“I know how to find it,” Fi admitted.

Just giving the Spindle Witch the code would have been meaningless, after all, with nothing else to offer. The riddle alone would have saved Fi’s life only for as many seconds as it took her to gasp it out. Fi had to keep something back, something to make sure she was still useful.

“There are old maps, scores of them, in the library of Illya on the border of Darfell,” she went on. “They map out all the ruins in Andar. One of them points to Queen Aurora’s tomb. With that, I’m sure I could get there.”

“How very irritating that you remain just useful enough to keep alive,” the Spindle Witch said. She clicked her tongue. “Very well. I’ll let you out of your cage to fetch me the ruby.”

Fi wanted to sag with relief, but she was careful to keep her expression neutral. She didn’t want to give the Witch any reason to change her mind.

“But . . .” the Spindle Witch said, drawing out the word with a smile that made Fi’s neck prickle. “It seems you need a reminder of what’s at stake.”

She crooked her fingers. In a second, Briar appeared in the window, the fog churning around his dark wings. Fi’s heart plummeted at the sight of him. Briar landed obediently at the Spindle Witch’s side, waiting for a command, his face blank as if he couldn’t see the wicked smirk on the woman’s red lips.

Fi was shouting before she even knew why. “No! Please!”

The Spindle Witch reached out and tugged, yanking a thread Fi couldn’t see. Suddenly, Briar was on the ground, writhing and screeching, clawing at the stones as pain tore through him. Fi’s ears rang with his screams. Briar hadn’t said a word to her in weeks, and now his voice was all around her, pounding in her head until she thought she’d start screaming, too.

One wing crashed into the armoire and splintered the door, chunks of wood exploding across the floor. The Spindle Witch just laughed. When Briar tossed his head, Fi could see the knobs of his spine jutting up against the skin, his bones growing sharper under the ragged velvet coat. The skull-headed monster from her dreams flashed through Fi’s mind.

For one second, fear held her in place like a chain. Then she shook free and ran for Briar, dodging the Spindle Witch’s outstretched hand.

“Stop it!” she shouted. She caught one handful of Briar’s coat before a leathery wing struck her in the shoulder, throwing her across the room. Fi groaned in pain but forced herself up on her elbows. She looked desperately at the Spindle Witch. “I understand. I won’t try anything else. Just stop, please—you’re torturing him!”

The Spindle Witch’s eyes glittered. Then she twisted her fingers as though tying an invisible knot, and instantly Briar collapsed, his body heaving. Fi scrambled to his side. Golden hair hung into Briar’s face, and she pushed it back from his sweaty forehead, careful of the horns. His cheekbones were sharp against her hands. But his face was still covered in smooth, pale skin, and she could feel his heart beating just as fast as hers. He was still Briar, underneath it all. Still alive.

Fi blinked back tears. “Briar . . .”

Briar stared at her. Then he wrenched away and flung himself from the windowsill, vanishing into the night. Fi raced to the window, too, but caught herself against the frame. In his current state, she wasn’t at all sure Briar would save her from a second fall. The mist swirled where his wings had swept through it.

Bony fingers seized Fi’s wrist. She whirled to find the Spindle Witch sneering down at her. “Continue defying me, and there will be nothing left of Briar Rose—at least nothing you would recognize. Never forget his life is in my hands. Don’t disappoint me again.”

“I won’t,” Fi promised.

The Spindle Witch released her, and Fi fell back against the wall, rubbing her wrist.

Her fingernails dug into her palms at the memory of Briar writhing on the floor. Fi hadn’t forgotten the stakes. She’d left her partner, abandoned her friends, joined the Spindle Witch, and been locked away in this sinister place—and all of it, every sickening choice, was to get Briar back. Their last night, under the stars, Fi had looked into Briar’s eyes and promised they would be together forever. She didn’t take that promise lightly.

It was time to start fighting back against the Spindle Witch, and the Lord of the Butterflies had given her an idea how.