18

tongue-tied and tie-dyed yuletide

Nix

Filigree flaps through the lair’s open screen, a note clamped in her beak.

The queen takes it, and the owl cocks her head as if hearing something outside. Blinking buggy-eyed, Filigree flutters back out before the screen’s glass pane slides shut again.

Lady Glacia reads the note quietly, then glowers in my direction. “They’re escorting your other half here as we speak.”

I slump in place, defeated. At least I managed to keep Uncle out, so he’ll be safe. I just wish Clarey and Lark had given up.

Only minutes ago, the queen caught me trying to stop them from crossing into Mystiquiel. As punishment, she uprooted my vines with a ferocity that ripped my muscles and rattled my bones. She dragged me over to the corner just beneath Mystiquiel’s viewing screen and tied me to a stalagmite formed of ice rising like a dragon’s tooth from the ground—a means of keeping me under her freezing spell while her attention is elsewhere.

The stalagmite feels like a steel skewer pierced through my spine, crushing each vertebra with its frigid bulk. Even if my tongue weren’t frozen, if I could warn Lark the instant she entered, she couldn’t escape with the tinkers standing guard at the only accessible entrance and exit for someone other than a bird.

It leaves me only one final card to play. Since I’m now at the back of the upper level, the stone slab and its comatose Goblin King will be the first thing Lark encounters when she’s brought here. My plan is to keep myself invisible, out of sight, so she’ll only see Perish. I know how deep Lark’s feelings run for him, and I know how strong a fighter she is. How she thinks like a fey; she’s tricky, like one of them. If she forces her way over to him, maybe she can wake him up. He’ll break himself out of the bubble, and she’ll revive his magic. Then he can talk his mother out of reuniting us. He won the argument in my room earlier. And now that I know he returns Lark’s feelings, with her life on the line, he won’t give his mother any quarter. Maybe he can even convince his subjects to let me give Lark the eternity necklace, and it could stop her fading.

The queen may have glaciated my muscles, leaving them locked in place . . . ​she may have temporarily mangled the vines and roots making up my tunic and leggings . . . ​but my underthings, made of a frothy lace of baby’s breath that peeks out at intervals, remain untouched, as do the dandelion tufts lining my boots.

I command the tiny flowers and seeds to spread and intertwine, to tighten in layers across my body and form a skintight cocoon. From my fingertips to my toe ends, the cobwebby shroud expands, advancing over my neck then weaving across my face to cloak every feature and conceal every ounce of flesh. When Lark arrives, she’ll be safe from my touch. And for added insurance, I coax the covering over my eyes so there will be opacity between our gazes.

The long, colorful waves on my head hang free, the only part of me bared other than tiny sections of my nostrils for breathing. I’ve memorized the way my hair looks in this Architect state: the strands twisted in clumps like frayed ribbons, glittery, as if dew bejewels every turn . . . ​multiple pastel colors faded and bright in alternating patches.

It reminds me of the tie-dyed Easter eggs Lark and I used to make as kids, the shells painted in patchwork prints and studded with metallic glitter—the bitter vinegar-sting of innocence and sisterhood. Because my hair is so different from the way she knows me, she’ll overlook me . . . ​assume I’m someone, or something, else. But I wonder if she’ll recognize the patterns on some subconscious level . . . ​if it will inspire images of better times. When we were inseparable, strong, and hopeful for our futures. All the more reason for me to hide, so she can hold on to those memories as long as possible, before every last one we’ve shared is lost forever.

“What’s the plan, Architect?” the queen asks, having noticed what I’ve done. She moves closer and leans in, centering her maliciously lovely face in my limited view. “I can slice you out easily, and you’ll feel the lacerations all the way to your entrails.” Her fingernails grow to razor-sharp icicles. “Do you wish for such pain?” With a snap of her fingers, she loosens my tongue and melts the rime glazing my lips.

I taste the mildly sweet onion-tang of the baby’s breath pasted to my skin as I answer from behind my mask, “Any amount of time I can buy my sister is worth the pain.”

“She’s not your sister, fool human. She’s the part of you that’s been missing your whole life. Don’t you ache to claim it? To become all you were meant to be? I’ve sensed your hunger for power. You can only quell such cravings for so long.”

I clamp my lips shut, refusing to acknowledge that side of myself. The queen may as well refreeze my tongue, because as much as I want to tell her that she can unveil me but can’t force my eyes to stay open, that she can rip my casings free but can’t force me to take Lark’s hand, it’s a pipe dream. The moment Lark sees me, she’ll wrap our pinkies together and hug me close. In her mind, we’re still sisters. Sisters who have walked through flame to be together again.

Lady Glacia shrugs. “Have it your way then. I actually like this plan better. It’s tidier . . . ​let your other half do the work, cut through every layer and expose you herself. Let her save you in the same instant you end her. Watching your emotional turmoil upon swallowing her whole, however short it lasts before she’s forgotten, will be more delicious than any punishment I could dole out at my own hand.”

The malevolent irony behind the queen’s taunts stings more than the frost prickling behind my eyes. Lark being lured here to “save” me. Like I was brought in to “save” her at Halloween. Lark cutting my sheath away to “rescue” me, just like I cut all her circuits in the underground maze to “rescue” her.

Both of us being tricked into action without all the facts. Both of us unaware of the hell we’re about to unleash.

Scoffing at my stubborn silence, the queen ties my tongue in gelid knots once more then moves away to take her place by her comatose son. Her robes rustle with each step, the sound of a snake shedding its skin in tiny, teeth-shuddering increments.

I watch through gauzy lenses, helpless and miserable in my sweetly perfumed cocoon. Even the essential oils released by the petals fail to comfort as Perish’s subjects gather around his form in the bubble.

On a table beside him lies his dagger, as dark and lifeless as he’ll soon be. I’ve never seen Perish look so vulnerable, arms folded over his chest, horns aflicker with subsiding lights. The flashes grow dimmer and farther between, and with each lengthened interval, the queen curses softly. She begins to sing . . . ​a hymn or prayer in a language unknown to me, to an ancient fey god who isn’t listening.

My stomach churns. I haven’t forgotten all the things this Goblin King did: abducting my sister and me, cutting off all connections with my family during our tenures here. The problem is, now that I’ve come to know him, I can’t deny it was for the greater good of his kingdom and, in a roundabout way, to find a means of putting an end to using humans. He shouldn’t end up like this—his magic vanished into thin air, and his vile and vicious brother rising to the status of sovereign.

Scourge is the one who deserves to lose the crown challenge, to be forever indentured to Perish for all he’s done.

Yes, I’m angry about the time lost with my sister and Uncle Thatch and Clarey, but I blame King Talon and Queen Glacia’s ruthless rule, their gruesome enchantment that split an infant into two so the royal pair could have one human mind to exploit eternally.

At the thought of eternity, I focus on the pulsation of the life-force beads around my neck, warm and mocking. What kind of forever will I have, detached from my family and dearest friends, my love for them draining away alongside any memories of Lark? Maybe I should consider it a blessing that I’ll forget how I ate my own sister alive. Better than being tortured by it endlessly.

Uncle Thatch won’t have that benefit. He’ll grieve the nieces he raised and loved as his own daughters; he’ll blame himself for failing his sister. How can anyone live with that much loss and remorse?

A sob swells in my throat, an iceberg building a wedge against my epiglottis that I pray will choke me.

The sound of hooves and musical whinnies drifts in from outside—far below. They’ll be here in minutes once they’ve taken the staircase.

At my bidding, the baby’s breath and dandelion seed shroud thickens across my eyes until all I see is soft light and blurred forms, filtered through a filmy white membrane—as if I’ve been wrapped up for a snack by a spider.

I home in on every sound—aching to hear Clarey’s voice, the scrape of my sister’s footfalls, the tufts of their breaths—desperate for any last intimacy I can glean before they’re blotted out of my life and mind forever.

I love them both with all my heart—my precious sister, and the guy I’ve been crazy over since kindergarten. I didn’t get to tell him that . . . ​and now he’ll never know.

My eyes throb, a deep, exhausting need to shed tears too densely packed to fall.

There’s some small comfort that at least Lark and Clarey have spent these last few moments together; that Lark will get to see Perish one final time.

She deserves to sample pure happiness—however fleeting—before I swallow her whole. I mentally retreat further into my shell, wishing Queen Glacia’s frozen void would take my mind now and spare me the devastation yet to come.

Lark

I’m surprised to find that instead of the castle, we’ve arrived below the Architect’s lair hanging high in the sky.

When I first came here three years ago, Mom’s vision had wrought a masklike visage woven with silvery threads, like a mummy’s wrap. Under my hand, it warped to steel, and now Nix’s concept has rendered it carved in stone, much like the statue she made of me at Astoria’s border—but granite gray instead of gold. In all three iterations, the lair’s giant structure has been shaped like the current Architect’s head, but in this latest rendition, the face is an uncanny amalgamation of Mom’s, my, and Nix’s features—an ectype too large to constrain, some disembodied god overseeing Mystiquiel’s landscapes.

The boggle leader dismounts, and Clarey and I follow suit. “They’re waiting inside.” The knight gestures toward the sky-high staircase with his craggy chin and shoves Clarey’s shoulder, while once again avoiding any contact with me.

As Clarey and I take the first few steps up, the quartet of knights encircles the base to guard against attacks, should the gingerbread bird-men and Scourge’s squads win the battle for Astoria’s streets—which seems ever more likely, considering the gingerbread men can regenerate. Hard to believe, just a little over an hour ago, I was decorating the tree with their innocuous doppelgangers. It won’t be long till the clock strikes midnight in that world, and as the humans naively ring in Christmas, a revolution will be taking place here. If Scourge wins Mystiquiel’s throne, a mass kidnapping of human infants will take place, and the holiday will never be celebrated with the same sense of wonder, grace, and peace again.

“The queen’s here and not at the castle,” Clarey says, interrupting my dark musings. “And that ogglety-bogglety knight said both her and Nix sent for us. What do you think that means?”

When I hesitate to answer, he crinkles his forehead so the white patch at his hairline dips low. With the movement, the scar in his eyebrow twitches. For the first time, I see a glimpse of the panic he’s worked so hard to master these past few months.

“Well”—I attempt a response—“I’m guessing they’re both on the opposite side of Scourge. So hopefully they’ve worked out a plan together to fix things.”

“And now we’ve been escorted to their hideout. Which means we’re all on the same team. We’re platinum.”

I clamp my lips. I really wish I could agree, but Lady Glacia is as trustworthy as a black widow knitting a welcome mat out of trip wires and nightshade petals. I remember all too intimately her predilection for playing with humans, freezing them so they’re vulnerable to her intrusive “physicals.”

“Just keep your guard up,” I say. “Lady Glacia is fey in every sense of the word. She always has her own agenda, and can’t be trusted under any circumstances.” No more dancing around the truth with Clarey—not if he’s going to get out of this unscathed. “Avoid eye contact with her. And stay behind me.”

He nods stiffly. In silence, we scale the soaring heights. With each step, the sounds of battle grow quieter and the clogging swelt of embers and ash thins to a mild firewood vapor. Yet even up here where the air’s clearing, I grow more breathless and winded with each step. My lungs ache, my heart buckles, and again I’m faced with the possibility that my fading sickness has reached my organs. Maybe that is affecting my memories.

I refuse Clarey’s offer of assistance when he hears my panting, determined to do this on my own in case this is the last time I ever get to make this climb. Clarey concedes, though he takes the duffle from my shoulders to lessen my burden. I flutter my frail, diaphanous wings, pushing myself closer to the doorway inch by strenuous inch.

At last, we reach the threshold. Stalled inside the entrance, I let my eyes adjust, starving for any sign of Nix or Perish. They’re nowhere on the lower level. In fact, I can’t feel my twin’s presence, can’t even feel her heartbeat. I do sense that she’s alive, but that’s all I can glean of her physical state. Even her emotions are muted and stifled. I can’t get a read on her.

It’s too dim to make out the upper landing, but Perish’s waning power tugs at the strands of magic nestled inside me with febrile persistence—confirming he’s up there, waiting.

I start forward, appraising the lair, overcome with reverence for the miracles I performed here under my Goblin King’s tutelage, while simultaneously haunted by the tragic results.

The space is softer than I left it. It’s not just that the delicate perfume of greenery and flowers has replaced the sulfury sting of hot sparks and fraying wires, but all the sharp points have been filed down to gentle curves. My tungsten desk, which I had forced to the upper landing, has returned to the room’s center and transformed into a creamy white tulip, half the size of a hot air balloon. The petal edges roll elegantly while in stasis, waiting like a canvas curling in a breeze, eager for its artist’s touch—for Nix to paint her next masterpiece.

“Something’s breathing . . . smacking . . . clacking,” Clarey mumbles, a tremor in his voice.

“Shhh.” Even without his super-hearing, I’m already attuned to the fey spectators hidden in the darkest corners of the room—fervently tracking our every move. I edge toward the tulip to avoid the shadows for Clarey’s sake. The petals tighten like a cabbage at my closeness—an obvious warning Mystiquiel’s Heart no longer welcomes my toxic touch.

I grind my teeth, then lift my gaze to the moss and ivy that dangle from the ceilings and cloak the walls in place of popping electrical pulses and humming synthetic cords. More of Nix’s brazenly colorful flowers break up the greens, grays, and browns in eye-searing bouquets, as if she painted them in place using my bountiful blood.

Clarey’s feet shuffle behind me and I glance his way. He’s studying the lair with the same cautious awe I feel. He last saw this place under my curse; to him, this must look like the Garden of Eden compared to my industrial purgatory. Even the lighting and sounds are gentler. Instead of the garish flash of penlights or red chirping alarms, there are tender blue torches and the queen’s muted song.

That melody. My stomach drops as I relive when I last heard her melancholy tune. It’s an eldritch lamentation . . . ​the same one she sang when King Talon’s spirit was preparing to pass into a crown that would later belong to Perish.

“No,” I gasp, and start for the stairs, desperate to silence her at all costs.

“Bind them both!” Lady Glacia shouts from the upper level. “Then bring her to me.”

Her command lures the hidden fey from the shadows.

“So much for us being on the same team,” Clarey grumbles.

I frown. I can’t believe she’d be on the side of Scourge. Is she holding Perish here so there’s no chance of him reclaiming his crown? But he was always her favorite . . . ​what could’ve changed that? And what does it mean for my sister? That she’s working alone to fix all of this? Is that why I don’t sense her presence here?

Armed with ropes, the fey clamber out from every corner of the room—snarling fangs, shivering scales, and bristled fur—more rehabilitated victims that I crippled with metal and voltage only months ago.

I recognize all of them along with the weaknesses I tried to alter, from the smallest memory-altering piskies who are allergic to their own dust, to Angorla with her bony hoof-hands that have trouble gripping tools, to the armored gnome-tinkers whose eyes are too sensitive to withstand the blacksmith flames they stoke day after day.

Even Slinx and Binx are here . . . ​the grimalkin Perish employed to help us swindle Nix into taking my place as Architect. The lamb-size black cat arches its two swanlike necks, both heads hissing in my direction. Its claws flex out from all four paw pads with a deadly sharpness that razes off a layer of the stony floor. It flicks its whiplike tail, looping the tip around to form a large noose with which to rope me and Clarey in.

My mind races. Of all the eldritch, this one has the biggest bone to pick with me. The heads, each having their own minds and opinions, have a tendency to fight for dominance of their one body, causing them to scratch and bite their shared body to a bloody mess anytime they disagree. So I placed a zipper smack down its chest and formed two separate mechanical hearts, giving Slinx and Binx the option of switching hearts sometimes, so they might better relate to and understand the other.

Another experiment that went horribly awry, as the zipper became its vulnerability. Anyone could open the torso and have access to the gears and wires that kept the grimalkin functioning. A deficiency that proved its downfall when my sister came to save me.

There’s no zipper now, which leaves me with the grimalkin’s original weakness to exploit. Clarey ducks out of the way as the tail attempts to lasso him. He springs back up at my side and I motion for him to open the duffle. The plan is to reach in and grab a robotic mouse with spider legs along with the one seaplane I didn’t launch on the beach; if I send them in opposite directions, it will spur an argument between heads as to which they should chase.

Clarey has the bag on the ground, unopened, when the grimalkin swings its tail back around and glowers at me with swirly, gleaming eyes.

“I thought we sent this one packing, Slinx,” head one says, punctuating the statement with a yowl.

“Best we to try once more, Binx,” head two responds with a growling, chirping sort of sound.

Their whiskers quiver. Ears flattened and scruffs bristled, they snarl simultaneously in my direction: “What say we start with your bag, little beassst?”

With a snap, their tail forms a hook and swishes over to snatch the duffle out of Clarey’s reach. It’s then handed off to the line of tinkers, who pass it overhead to the others, until I can no longer see it.

Of course, the grimalkin finally found something to agree on: their hatred of me.

Yet even as the feline fey tightens the barricade along the top step, standing between me and the upper level, it remains hesitant, like the kelpine earlier. Despite the queen’s command, all ropes and tails of the eldritch go unused . . . ​they don’t even lash out with claws or teeth against me.

Their reticence gives me hope. Maybe, because these creatures shared my hive mind, they know of my fondness for them. That I wanted nothing more than to help.

“I know I hurt you. I’m sorry . . . ​I’ll never try to change you again. But please, let me by. I’m here to save the king.” I start forward, palms up in absolution; they cringe away, bumping into one another to avoid me. Pushed off-kilter, Angorla topples over her mismatched legs, accidentally snipping the air with her gardening shears.

On instinct, I raise my hand to keep Angorla from falling. The blades slash my metal palm. I yelp as an agonizing jolt shoots all the way up to my elbow—a mere echo of the agony I felt when Nix sliced my cords free of this world two months ago. But this time I’m taken off guard. I knew the robotic appendage had become part of me, yet I didn’t expect it to soften to something like tin instead of steel, able to be carved and chiseled. The revelation, along with the pain, sends me into momentary shock.

“Get back!” Clarey shouts at the fey, pulling me close to study my oozing wound. In place of rainbow blood, a drizzle of orangish-brown goop leaks out.

“Rust,” I whisper, shaking myself from my trance.

Clarey plucks the handkerchief from his pocket and ties it around my palm. He applies gentle pressure, both to stop the flow before any flowers can germinate and as a show of support. Clenching my teeth, I squeeze his hand back.

Angorla drops her shears and releases a horrified bleat, pointing at the rusty driblets spattered along the floor that sizzle in lieu of sprouting petals or leaves. The synthetic alterations in my hands appear to be preventing Nix’s flowers from breaking through.

Angorla and the others creep higher up the stairs, as if fearing the rust will infect them.

Infection. I turn both hands over and study the carbon fiber skeleture.

A sick comprehension lifts all the hairs across my body, as if an electrical pulse brushes my skin, sparking a new theory to light: why the kelpines were keeping a distance to begin with; why the boggles—as they escorted us here—were always a few paces behind or in front of me, never neck to neck, never grazing me with even a fingertip.

They’re not just filled with hatred and disgust, they’re afraid to their bones. All of Mystiquiel’s denizens consider me a walking disease, a sentient plague. It makes sense, after the contagious rust I set loose on the streets and terrain here that eventually poisoned them. They think I’ve become metal myself and that if they even touch me, I’ll infect them once more. They think I can’t help but harm them because it’s not only in my nature, it’s in my DNA—a cancer of alloy and rust woven within my flesh.

However misguided their phobia is, and however much I want to show them that having no metal parts means they can’t be affected by oxidation, I choose instead to use it to my advantage.

“Hold on and follow my lead,” I whisper to Clarey as I fist my good hand around his and rush the staircase, meeting their startled gazes. “Stand back, unless you want me to bleed all over your world again!” I hold my cut palm face up, splaying my fingers so the rust-stained bandage is up close and personal—a threat as well as a reminder of what they once were beneath my thumb.

The barrier of fey parts like a great jaw unhinged, opening with reluctance amid wailing and baring of jagged teeth. They let me pass with a wide berth—some gasping, others shuddering, all of them repulsed by the contagion I am.

I hunch my shoulders, relieved the ploy worked but saddened to have exploited their ungrounded fears.

Upon reaching the top step, I release Clarey’s hand.

“Feckless cretins!” the queen yells at the cowering fey. She launches to her feet, attempting to block a stone slab where Perish’s inert form inhabits a transparent casing.

“Get out of my way.” I lift my bandaged palm in hopes to send the queen scampering in fear so I can cross the upper level toward her son.

Lady Glacia stands her ground, a chilling smile crackling across the moonlit pond of her lips. “My subjects may be too naive to understand the nature of your craft, but I’ve seen inside you. And you have no power over me. Don’t you recall? I know how every part of you works. Every part.”

A lump of bile rises in my throat as I remember her icy intrusion into my body during my tenure as Architect. It’s how she discovered I was in love with her son, something she lorded over me because she knew I was afraid to tell him, due in no small part to her reaction. She laughed, looked upon me with pity, and assured me no Goblin King could ever love a mere Architect. He needed someone who was his match in every way. Not some lovesick human unable to even craft a landscape without his hand guiding her. “You’re nothing but a tool to him.”

Those taunting words ring with clarity even now, ever louder in the hollows of my chest where my heart curls thin as parchment. Her cruel barb was the reason I wanted to prove to Perish I was so much more than a simple human girl.

And prove it I did . . . ​by nearly ruining his world.

But tonight, as a human girl, I’ve met each challenge that stood in my way of rescuing Perish and finding my sister, even utilizing my “inferior” mechanical talents. So I guess that part of me isn’t so simple after all. Although I’ll always prefer the monstrous side.

I match the queen’s glare with one of my own. The moment her son shared his crown’s force with me, she lost the ability to trap me in her glacial gaze. And I’m willing to bet that since I still own a piece of that magic, my armor holds true.

She narrows her eyes, an arctic gale spinning through her pupils and irises. Her silvery brows lift when she sees I’m unaffected.

I sneer, vampiric fangs pinching my lower lip. “Looks like I’m still immune. What do you think that means?”

In lieu of answering, she blinks her lengthy lashes. Tufts of frost sift down her smiling cheeks. She isn’t surprised. In fact, she appears pleased. It’s almost as if she were testing me.

I stiffen my stance to conceal my confusion. “I can save Perish. But you have to let me by.” The statement starts as a plea then sharpens to a snarl. “Or are you working with Scourge?”

“I’m loyal only to one son,” the queen answers, and by the resolve in her eyes, I know she means Perish.

“Then let me get to him. He’s dying! He needs me.”

The queen’s resultant laugh is as unexpected and harsh as an iceberg striking a ship. “He needs what you hold inside you. But there’s no breaking through his preservation bubble. And even if there were, your hands are no longer flesh . . . ​they’re no longer able to pass his magic to him. You’re fading. Aren’t you curious why that is?”

“I don’t have time to be curious,” I say, but can’t help glancing at my robotic fingers. There’s rust inside these hands, and judging by how they blocked Nix’s creative powers a minute ago, I know they’ll block me from sharing his magic with him, too; it’s the same knowing that told me he was here, that he needed regeneration and I was the only one who could grant it. So there must be another way to get it to him.

“Oh, there is,” the queen taunts, and I realize I was reasoning aloud.

“There’s another pair of hands, purer than yours,” Lady Glacia continues. “More skilled than yours. Hands that have already worked miracles here.”

A knot hardens in my throat. “He shared his crown magic with my sister, too?”

She cocks her head. “You have no sister.”

Every muscle in my body tenses tight. “Your Architect, then. Nix. If she can help him, why isn’t she here?”

“Oh, she is.” The queen’s skirts swish as she shifts her feet. “She’s been waiting for your arrival. You’ll be reunited with her shortly. But first, I want to hear you say it.”

“Say what?”

“That I was right all along. That you were the wrong one because you were never good enough. That your talent was never pure enough. I want to hear you say you’re a failure. As an Architect: to Mystiquiel, to my son. As a person: to your family and friends. And then, and only then, will I lead you to our true Architect.”

I struggle to inhale. My lungs ache, and my heart shivers, like paper on the wind. It takes everything inside me not to scream, not to let on that I agree. Not to say aloud that I’ve been struggling with my worthlessness for over three years. I hate how I twisted this world, how I couldn’t fix every broken thing, because I didn’t have Nix’s talents.

Tears singe the inner corners of my eyes. My tongue prepares to confess all of it, word for word what she wants me to say, but I’m scared that once I do, what little fabric remains of my threadbare body will unravel, unspooling my blood, bones, and flesh into a pile of shapeless thread. I don’t how I’m sure of this, but I am.

Instead, I clamp my mouth shut and avert my gaze to escape the queen’s convincing lies, reminding myself how my mother and father fought for me and Nix both . . . ​that because of that alone I’m worthy of this moment, of helping Perish, of loving and being loved.

I do a double take when I catch Clarey sidling by in Lady Glacia’s blind spot while cupping his left ear. He hears something. I watch surreptitiously as he heads for a form coated in floral webbing under the window. The thick shroud thins at the top, where long, glistening tie-dyed waves burst free. Before I can even try to make sense of what I’m seeing, to sort through the catalog of fey in my mind, searching for the class that has such beautiful serpentine tendrils of hair, Lady Glacia spins around and snatches Clarey’s arm, forcing him to look into her eyes.

“Let him go!” I shout.

“Lark!” He struggles to tear his gaze free. “The web, I think it’s—” A crackling gurgle shuts down his voice as ice and frost expand across his tongue and over his vocal cords. Clarey claws at his throat, eyes wide with horror. He’s having a panic attack.

My instinct is to tackle Lady Glacia from behind, break her concentration. But I reconsider. The queen holds Clarey in her thrall, and it would do him more harm than good if I intervene. It’s better if his skin turns blue, if the ice frosts over his pupils, if his organs slow to a lull.

I know that feeling . . . ​I’ve been there before. When fully frozen, it’s more dissociative than frightening; it’s survivable. He’ll be safer there for now, in stasis. And with the queen preoccupied, her back turned to me, I have access to Perish at last.

I dart to the stone slab, falling to my knees so my face levels with my Goblin King’s. With each flickering glimpse, I begrudgingly admire Nix’s handiwork. His golden complexion perfectly accentuates those angelic and barbaric features that I couldn’t forget over the last couple of months, no matter how I tried to blot them out. My metallic regime had blemished his skin to a sickly pale hue, filed his teeth to rusty iron points. Now, with bone-white fang tips pressing into the plumpness of his burgundy lower lip, he looks healthy, robust. Feral, and regal.

If not for the feeble sputters of light tinseling his antlers—an unnerving contrast to the lightning storm that once scabbarded each and every prong—I’d think he was better off like everyone else here. But the moment those antlers blink out for the final time, there will be no retrieving his spirit.

I press my hand against the preservation casing holding him. The filmy walls bend, but won’t burst. Even with the queen’s attention solely on Clarey, I still can’t help. That bubble may as well be his coffin.

My throat expands, a swollen sensation that chokes my breath. “Perish.” I grind the whisper out slowly, so the sob I’m suppressing won’t burble up. My fingers clench the slab only inches from his translucent casing. “What are you doing? You don’t get to give up! You’re still the Goblin King,” I snarl, willing him to hear my murmurs, to remember our pact. I cast a glance at the queen to be sure she’s still distracted, then bend my lips closer to Perish’s closest ear. “Crown or no crown, you belong on that throne. I did everything you asked! Burned my uncle’s whole world to keep you there. Trapped my sister, and betrayed my closest friend. So don’t you dare leave me with your magic punching a million holes in my body. Tell me how to reach you!”

I see it happening, slowly but unmistakably, a clash in his muscles, a pull and push along the lines of his skintight clothes, an almost imperceptible stretch at the seams of his broad shoulders, across the cuffs on his wrists where his arms are limply folded over his chest. He’s trying to move . . . ​to respond.

His fragmented magic tugs at my sternum, a magnetic draw to the dagger laid at his side. I lean across the table to trace my finger from blade to handle. The unicorn horn lights up suddenly, then blinks off again when I jerk back in surprise.

I gasp, barely aware of the queen dragging Clarey toward the stairs where the fey are still cowed. “Hold on to the boy. We’ll decide what to do with him once this is finished.”

The grimalkin slinks forward, then wraps its tail around his frozen form and drags him into the midst of the fey, who carry him away like they did Dad’s duffle, into the shadowed fray of the lower level and out of view.

Before the queen can cross to me, I snatch the dagger and hold it high.

She stops midstride, gaping, as the unicorn horn comes to life in my grasp, an array of colors swirling through the handle like a lava lamp plugged in.

“How?” she murmurs. “How are you wielding his sword?”

I smirk, savoring the moment. “He showed me how to use it, because it’s mine as much as his. I cast the metal that went into the weapon. I helped him peel a panel free from his body, then we forged it together. And it remembers . . .”

Turning toward his bubble, I skim the filmy skin with the blade. The casing responds to the magic linked between the three of us—dagger, king, and fallen Architect—allowing the blade to breach. A gap opens above his face.

“Stop! You can’t expose him! He’s too vulnerable!” The queen rushes toward me.

“Glad to know you actually care,” I mumble. I flash the dagger, commanding it to change its shape like Perish taught me. It morphs to a metallic puddle. I toss it to the floor in front of the queen when she’s less than five steps away, and it captures her reflection. The metal grows to mimic her shape and size—a shimmery shadow that anticipates her every move and blocks her, giving me time to do what I need to do.

Lady Glacia trembles, trapped by her own reflection. “You’re worthless, tainted . . . ​you’ve no way to pass the crown’s life force back to him!”

I wince as her doubts give rise to all my insecurities. “Have a little faith in me. After all, your son did.” Unsure if my retort is aimed at the queen or myself, I study Perish, intent on those lips, full and serene, that spoke to me as an equal . . . ​as a partner. That shared his pride for this world; that teased me, made me laugh, and confessed his fears for his kingdom. Those lips that tried to draw me out, to remind me who I was when I was lost so deep in the hive mind I couldn’t remember. Now, they beckon me with the one thing I was too scared to ask for. The one thing I wanted from him even more than a queen’s crown. Even more than a share of his magic.

I hope wherever Nix is, she’ll forgive me for wanting it still.

I spare a pitying glance at Lady Glacia as she tries to outwit her reflective captor, to no avail. It’s the same pitying look she gave me every time she caught me watching her son with longing in my eyes.

“Who says I need hands to stir magic in you?” I whisper to my Goblin King. Fisting my poisoned metallic fingers and palms at my side, I lean my face into the bubble’s opening, hovering my mouth over his, feeling the frail rush of his breath—scented of paint, of oil, of sheep’s wool and yarn, of music and poetry, an intoxicant of all the art forms that have graced his world. I tasted it once, from every Architect that was part of the Heart . . . ​but I’ve always wanted to taste it from him . . . ​to get drunk on the king who rules over it all.

The fragment of the crown inside me flashes, moving from my chest into my lips—a feverish pull to him. I touch my mouth to his and the magic simmers there, a buildup, then a shock wave that shuttles between us, pushing the marrow from my bones and replacing it with power. But there’s more of it now . . . ​so much more . . .

I feel it expand to uncoil inside me, a thousand reverberations of the blinding, blazing scintillation that flooded my body when he first crushed his cut palm to mine, feeding my blood with his power.

I draw back, tipsy with the flavor of him, my skin pulsing with light. The burst of power trails the floor in lightning fringes, striking the transformed dagger, casting it back to a blade once more.

Breathless, I look down at Perish. His lashes twitch, a glitter of tears embroidering them; each liquid bead reflects the lightning that spangles his antlers in blinding flashes. I blot his eyes with the back of my hand, the leaves scraping his face with a soft crinkling sound. His lips move, his lashes flutter. His revival is slow but undeniable.

“He’s waking.” I can hardly contain the euphoric triumph I feel in those words. A bark of delighted laughter bursts out of me. “I did it! He’s going to live!”

“Yes, it seems I misjudged your strength after all,” the queen says flatly. Lightheaded, I turn in her direction. “But sadly, it won’t be enough to save yourself.”

She’s made her way across the stage to the shrouded form under the screen. She must’ve moved the moment the dagger lifted its hold on her, while I was lost in wonder over my kiss with her son. Glaring at me, she unsheathes her icicle-sharp fingernails. I watch, dumbfounded, as she claws away the webbing. Starting at the chest, she works her way up, revealing a slender neck, then a chin that I would recognize anywhere . . . ​a mouth that I see in the mirror each day, and a nose so like mine, I can almost smell the scent of winter on the queen’s nails from here.

“Nix!” I screech, hurtling across the stage, wanting to be there when she reveals my twin’s eyes. Wanting to be the first thing my sister sees. I haven’t even crossed halfway when Filigree rushes in—squawking a warning. The unmistakable sound of intrusion rattles the walls: a clash of swords, flapping paper wings, and a monster’s roar.

The queen meets my horrified gaze with her own in the instant Scourge and his minions burst inside.