The gathering down in the courtyard was solemn.
Karina’s body had been quietly removed, leaving only the pool of blood from where she’d fallen.
Although Céline stood beside Anton, she had no idea how he felt toward her anymore. His body was stiff. Between his current struggle with a dependency on opiates and the death of Karina—combined with the other revelations of this night—she could almost see the waves and waves of pain coming off his skin.
Guardsman Rurik had come out with them, and he’d brought firewood, which he was placing in a long pile. He’d also brought a flask of lamp oil, which he’d set down on the ground while he worked. Jaromir and Amelie held the portrait between them. Amelie looked recovered from her brief touch by the ghost. At least that was something.
But she was still wearing the midnight blue gown, and Céline could not help but notice Jaromir casting puzzled glances. He had the good sense not to ask.
Céline could hear Anton breathing, as if with effort, and she wished he would say something, anything, to give her a chance to comfort him. She couldn’t bring herself to speak before he did—lest she try to offer comfort and discover he blamed her for tonight’s events. She didn’t think she could bear that.
“The apothecary’s shop is yours,” he said suddenly.
Why would he be thinking of that?
“You completed your side of the bargain,” he went on. “You…you found the murderer, and I always pay my debts. The shop is yours.”
“Anton,” she whispered.
“Unless you want to do as Helga suggests, and go find your own people, go away and live with the gypsies.”
And then she understood why he’d mentioned the shop. With the exception of Jaromir, everyone Anton cared about seemed to leave him. Did he fear Céline would leave, too?
She’d be a liar if she told him she hadn’t considered it. This was a world beyond her understanding, of people seeking position and power, capable of great violence when they felt threatened and great kindness when the spirit moved them. But perhaps she’d come to understand that at least Anton and Jaromir were neither villains nor saints, only men who did what they thought was right at the time and muddled through as best they could like everyone else. Anton had lost his mother and his wife, and an aunt who he thought loved him. He didn’t have much luck with the women in his life.
“Do you want me to stay?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I will.”
In that moment, had he asked, she might have sworn to stay forever.
Rurik finished laying the long pile of firewood, and Jaromir and Amelie lay the portrait, face up, on top of the wood. Jaromir picked up the flask of lamp oil and poured some of it over the painting.
“I’ll get a torch,” he said.
* * *
Although Jaromir was struggling with the painful guilt that he’d missed routing out yet another dangerous individual in the castle—and never suspected Karina for a moment—he took relief in the act of doing something, anything. He’d wanted to burn this portrait days ago, from the moment Céline described the actual killer from her vision.
Self-recrimination would come later. For now, at least he could take solid action.
After pouring half the oil in the flask over the portrait, he switched the flask to his left hand, walked to the courtyard wall, and lifted a torch from its bracket.
Going back to the painting, he lowered his torch but glanced over at Anton for the final order.
Anton nodded. “Do it.”
Amelie and Rurik both took a few steps back, and Jaromir ignited the portrait, watching the flames burst. The act brought relief as he tossed the torch onto the fire and moved away from the growing heat.
Karina was dead, and the portrait would be gone soon. No more girls would be drained to husks in their sleep.
This was over.
“Jaromir…,” Amelie said from beside him. “What is that?”
Squinting, he looked through the flames to see something rising from the painting, a muted blur of black and white.
A pain-filled wail exploded in the night air. In disbelief, Jaromir watched as the black-and-white blur solidified over the top of the portrait…into the form of the ghost.
She wailed again and screamed, “No!”
Her face was wild with terror, and she cast around madly until her gaze fixed on Céline. Jaromir stood helpless and useless as the ghost sailed through the air, straight toward Céline, and vanished inside of her.
The ghost was gone.
“Céline!” Amelie cried.
But Céline’s features twisted to mimic the same panic Jaromir had just seen on the ethereal woman. Céline wailed, echoing the same sound.
Anton grabbed hold of her, shouting. “Get out! Get out of her.”
Lost, Jaromir had no idea what to do until Céline snarled and clutched Anton’s face with both her hands. Anton gasped, and his skin began turning gray.
Jaromir drew his sword.
* * *
Amelie was running the instant Jaromir’s hand went for the hilt of his sword. She had no idea how far he’d go to protect Anton…but she had no intention of finding out.
Beating him to Céline, she threw herself through the air, using all the strength in her body to knock Céline away from Anton and then pin her to the courtyard floor. Céline screamed and fought, trying to latch her hands onto Amelie’s face, but Amelie grasped her hands and tried to feel for the spark of a spirit, for whatever might still be left of Jaelle.
She felt something, connected with something.
And then…she began meshing her spirit with Jaelle’s, focusing on the past, on the last moment that Jaelle was truly happy.
The courtyard vanished.
Amelie and Jaelle were rushing backward down a corridor of white mists, on and on, while Amelie held on tightly to the spirit mingled with her own. The mists vanished, and she found herself standing in the Móndyalítko encampment near the Everfen, only this time, she did not see through Jaelle’s eyes. She was only an observer, with the ghost of Jaelle beside her.
“Where are we?” Jaelle asked.
“Home,” Amelie answered. “Safe at home.”
Her panicked, rapidly executed plan was to just keep Jaelle calm long enough for Jaromir to finish destroying the painting. It was all she could think to do.
But in the vision, the real Jaelle stood by a campfire with a small crowd of admirers. She was lovely, with glowing skin and waving, glossy hair. She began to sing, her light but haunting voice floating through the night.
The ghost sighed. “That was me.”
Leaving Amelie’s side, she walked through the crowd, and no one appeared to see her. Upon reaching her living self from the past, she stepped into her body. The ghost vanished, and the singing went on.
* * *
Back in the courtyard, Jaromir skidded to a halt as Amelie knocked Céline away from Anton, and the sisters began to struggle.
Anton dropped to the courtyard floor, but his eyes were open, and he tried struggling up to his knees. Suddenly, while rolling on the ground, Amelie grabbed ahold of Céline’s hands and pinned her, and both women went still.
“What’s happening?” Anton choked.
Jaromir didn’t know, but he stood ready with his sword drawn for whatever might happen next, and Rurik came up beside him, blade in hand.
“Don’t either of you touch Céline,” Anton ordered, still on his knees.
Jaromir didn’t know if he could obey that order—only that he would have to be the strong one here. This was all uncertain territory, and it seemed the ghost had taken possession of Céline. His priority was to protect Anton.
But then, a white-and-black blur rose from Céline’s body, and the ghost of Jaelle appeared again, this time walking across the courtyard as if she were alive. She stopped near the fire, and to Jaromir’s astonishment, she began to sing. It was beautiful.
The painting was about halfway burned, and he realized what Amelie must be attempting—to just hold the ghost at bay until the painting was gone. He also realized that he was still clutching the half-empty flask of lamp oil in his left hand.
“Stay with the prince,” he ordered Rurik.
Dropping his sword, he turned and ran to the fire. Jaelle did not see him. She seemed to believe she was somewhere else. But he didn’t hesitate. Holding out the flask of oil again, he splashed what he could on the painting and dropped the flask. Then he began stomping on the painting with his boots, stoking the flames, using his hands once to break off pieces to be burned at a faster pace.
The singing echoed over the flames.
He burned his hands and one of his legs, but he just kept stomping until the last of the painting was consumed by fire.
Jaelle stopped singing.
She turned slowly toward him.
* * *
The Móndyalítko encampment around Amelie vanished, and she found herself kneeling on the courtyard floor, pinning Céline’s hands. She let go of Céline and looked back just in time to see Jaromir crushing and stomping the last of the portrait into the flames, but the sight was alarming. One of his pant legs was on fire, and he didn’t appear to notice.
Jaelle’s voice trailed off, and she, too, was staring at Jaromir.
“No,” she said, as the last of the portrait was devoured.
Then she wailed again, with the pain-filled, earsplitting sound. But her feet began to dissipate, and the blurred dissipation moved upward, through her legs and her waist.
Jaromir leaped from the fire, using his already injured hands to put out the flames on his leg.
Jaelle continued to vanish until only her head remained, and then that dissipated as well. She was gone. The wailing echo lasted a few seconds longer than she did.
Anton crawled over to Céline, who was coughing and trying rise, and he helped her sit up. But Amelie couldn’t take her eyes from Jaromir.
He’d known exactly what to do.
Somehow, he’d known.