They dared not run. Maids don’t run, Anouk reminded herself. And that’s what they had to be now, furniture with legs, faceless girls concerned only with dust. But she clutched the broom hard in defiance.
Maids didn’t steal either. Or cast magic, or rescue idiot witch’s boys, and yet here she was. They’d done it! She held their very lives in her hands, hidden in the hollow broom shaft. What would Beau say when she pressed the spell against the windshield? They’d fly back to Montélimar as if the car had wings. Let the crows chase them. Let the whispers and rumors nip at their heels. It didn’t matter. As the stars came out, they would stand in the Château des Mille Fleurs’ gardens, and Mada Zola would take these stolen words and make them human forever, one by one. Wherever Luc was, he would feel the magic of it too. And she’d find him. She would. If she could steal this spell from Castle Ides, she could do anything.
Little dust bunny, Luc would say, and he’d lick his thumb and wipe away the perpetual streak of dust on her cheek. You saved me when I thought you were the one in need of saving.
She had to lower the lace veil to hide the smile on her face. “Which way is the kitchen?”
Cricket discreetly rolled up her sleeve and consulted the map on her forearm. “The hallway on the right, beneath the arch, second door on the left. Unless it’s past four o’clock. Then it’s the third door.”
An ancient grandfather clock sat beneath an arch, and Anouk checked the hour, but for once she didn’t feel shackled to its ticking and tocking. They had the spell. They had enough time for Mada Zola to cast it—though only just. All that was left now was to warn Viggo, get to the elevator and down to Beau.
The familiar aroma of baking bread and garlic led her to the kitchen. The penthouse kitchen was massive, and so crowded with cooks and maids and butlers that she and Cricket had to squeeze their way in. Steam rose from large pans on monstrous twin ovens. A gaggle of girls rolled dough, stamping Rennar’s crest into the crust. Cricket slowed, uncertain of the unspoken rules of a kitchen, but Anouk threw herself into the mess, expertly ducking pans, swerving around butlers carrying crates of wine. She spotted a stack of copper trays and grabbed one, hunted up a teakettle, sniffed out the éclairs, and arranged them prettily on the tray. She pulled a sharp knife from the wooden butcher’s block, hesitating only briefly before setting it next to the éclairs. Her hands knew the motions by heart: boil water, collect sugar cubes and cream, scoop out the tea—
She paused at the row of labeled tea canisters.
Lavender.
Bergamot.
Lavender to signal that they’d successfully stolen the spell and they should all meet at the elevator. Bergamot to mean that something had gone wrong and it was every beastie for himself. Her instinct was to reach for lavender, yet the scoop didn’t move in her hand. She whistled Cricket over, who narrowly ducked a piping-hot tray of madeleines to join her.
“Lavender or bergamot?” Anouk said quietly.
“What are you talking about?”
“It should be your choice, not mine. Viggo’s been awful to you. A brute.” She handed Cricket the scoop. “So you pick. I’m your friend above all else, Cricket. If you say screw the jerks, then we’ll give a tray of bergamot tea to the closest butler to deliver and sneak off to the elevator on our own. Leave them to their fates.”
Cricket was at a rare loss for words. She took the silver scoop and tapped it anxiously against the palm of her hand, leaning toward one canister, then the other.
At last, she scooped out a hefty spoonful from one and dumped it into the pot of boiling water, then picked up the tray and shoved it in Anouk’s direction. Anouk lifted the lid to catch the aroma.
“Lavender. You’re sure?”
“If anyone is going to torture the salaud, it’ll be me.”
Anouk adjusted her lace veil to hide as much of her face as possible, and Cricket did the same, then Anouk carried the tray into the hallway, Cricket right behind her with the broom and feather duster. Cricket glanced at the map on her arm and whispered directions to the salon. The door was cracked open. Anouk could feel heat within and hear the crackle of a fire and voices. A woman’s biting hiss, and then Viggo’s petulant moan.
“In and out,” Cricket whispered, hand on the doorknob. “Like thieves.”
“Like ghosts,” Anouk agreed.
Cricket nodded solemnly and opened the door. Anouk tried to hide the slight shaking of her hands as she entered the salon. She kept her gaze low, taking in the room out of the corner of her eye: Viggo sitting on the sofa, Hunter Black at his side. Countess Quine—she of the hissing voice—towering over Viggo with a blade-capped fingertip an inch from his face. Lord Metham in a leather armchair, stuffing a pipe. His wife by the window, looking drearily out at the rain, lips stained green and pink from powder.
Where was Rennar?
His absence made her falter, and she nearly tripped on the heavy fringe of the salon’s rug. The teacups clattered and Countess Quine shot her a look. Fear rippled all the way to Anouk’s toes. Rennar hadn’t recognized her earlier, but Countess Quine had been at the townhouse that night too, and so had the Methams.
“Pardon me,” Anouk said quietly. “I’ve brought tea at the prince’s request.”
She bent forward to set it on the coffee table and was able to catch Hunter Black’s eye. His face was as growl-some as ever, his posture tense and folded in on itself, but when he smelled the lavender tea, she saw that mask slip.
Was that—could it possibly be—a look of trust?
“My love!”
Anouk’s short-lived optimism came crashing down. Viggo, the imbécile! He was already pitching himself toward her, almost knocking the tray out of her hands and looking inclined to throw his arms around her. Countess Quine stopped talking and stared at Viggo as though he were speaking in tongues. Lady Metham turned from the window with a quizzical expression. Anouk felt the blood drain from her cheeks, but they were saved by Hunter Black. He slammed his elbow into Viggo’s side, knocking the breath out of him before he could say one more incriminating word.
Viggo collapsed back on the sofa, clutching his side.
“Have you lost your mind?” Countess Quine asked him. “Do you even know this maid?” She started to look more closely at Anouk, her eyebrow rising.
Hunter Black leaned in as though to help Viggo, and Anouk heard him whisper something low and fast. Viggo blinked with understanding.
“I loved,” Viggo choked out. “I meant to say that I loved her. Mada Vittora, of course. I loved her as a mother; how can you think I had anything to do with her death?”
Countess Quine lowered her metallic fingernails one at a time as her suspicion shifted away from Anouk and onto Viggo. “Then who did?”
Anouk set down the tray and quickly poured the tea.
“How am I to know? She wasn’t short on enemies! Mon Dieu, I’d never have come here if I knew I’d be subjected to these accusations. My own mother murdered in my house, and you’re supposed to be the law of the Haute, you’re supposed to find out who did it and bring that person to justice—”
“What about your lapdog?” Countess Quine asked, looking at Hunter Black.
“Hunter Black, like myself, has been trying to solve this murder. What have you been doing? Sipping your tea and . . . and putting pomade in your hair and no one thinks about me, about what I’m going through. Don’t you understand how hard this is for me? Adopted children have attachment issues!”
He stood dramatically. “Hunter Black, we’re leaving. I refuse to allow myself to be abused in this manner. It’s unconscionable, really, treating us like Goblins. Worse—like Pretties! You there, you two maids, fetch my coat at once and escort us to the elevator.”
Perhaps he wasn’t a complete idiot after all. Anouk picked up the tea tray.
He started for the door, and then a look of minor terror crossed his face. A figure blocked his path.
Prince Rennar had decided to join them.
“Viggo, may I suggest that you sit back down, drink your tea, and shut your mouth before it gets you into even more trouble?”
Prickles tickled their way up and down Anouk’s spine. Thank goodness for her veil—she doubted she could have hidden her shock. Viggo, however, was as poor at acting as Cricket was. He stared, open-mouthed, searching for something to say.
“Your Majesty, really, it isn’t fair—”
Rennar slapped him across the cheek.
Viggo gasped. “You hit me!”
He started to protest more, but then wisely shut up. Hunter Black jumped to his feet, and from the way his eyes narrowed, Anouk guessed he must be fighting the urge to defend his master. Viggo slunk back to the sofa, cradling his cheek, sitting as ordered. Anouk could feel Cricket’s uncertainty as palpably as her own; the four of them were so close to escaping. An elevator ride was all that separated them from freedom.
No, not just the elevator—Rennar.
“These people,” Rennar muttered as he crossed to the fireplace to warm his fingers. “With their little dreams and their little desires.”
Such a simple phrase, thrown out like day-old bread crumbs for the birds. And yet a cold feeling washed over Anouk that was frigid enough to turn her blood to ice water.
Those words.
The voice was different—it had been raspy before, filtered through the wires and speakers of Luc’s scryboard, but it was the same.
She almost let out a cry.
Prince Rennar had been the man she’d heard through the scryboard.
Her mind started to whirl. Prince Rennar and Mada Zola were the scheming pair that Luc had written about in his secret log. But if that was the case, why would Mada Zola have sent them here, to the den of her accomplice? To the very man whom she conspired with to take control of the Haute?
She felt the prickly sensation of eyes on her and saw that Countess Quine was subtly watching her from across the room. Her sharpened fingernails click-click-clicked anxiously on the glass vial of powder around her neck. Her lips were now stained with a pale blue color. She’d swallowed some powder.
She knows, Anouk realized. They all know.
What a fool she was.
Prince Rennar had recognized her. Of course he had—he’d even been expecting her. He had known she was coming because Mada Zola had told him, probably as soon as they’d left. And now they had done his work for him, rounded themselves up tidily like pigs trotting together to the slaughter pen.
Shocked, she let the tea tray slip from her hands.
Beau.
The tray seemed to fall impossibly slowly, as though time were broken; she was distantly aware of Viggo jumping in surprise, but her eyes were on the window. Rain pounded against it, and beyond was the incessant flapping of crows.
Beau.
And then time resumed and the tray smashed to the ground with the crashing of china. Hot water scalded her feet. Countess Quine cried out, and Lord Metham choked on the smoke from his pipe, but Anouk didn’t flinch.
She didn’t care about the boiling water at her feet. The smell of lavender, sickening now.
Prince Rennar looked at her.
Really looked at her. No casual glance, no side-eyed peek. He saw her for what she was, what he had always known she was: the prey that had walked straight into the trap he had set for her.
For all of them.
She turned to Cricket and Hunter Black and Viggo.
“Run.”