Chapter 33

Path of Swords

Catherine Palace was the saddest fancy building Honoré Cote had ever set eyes upon. Its emptiness was a mockery. So much space, and almost every square inch was covered in gold. It felt a lot like a mausoleum, but instead of an epitaph about christening stars, one of Céleste’s favorite sayings echoed through her brain instead: Corpses can be stripped, and kings can be beheaded, so it’s best to be the taker.

“I’m trying, mon amie,” she whispered through gritted teeth, as she flew to the next window.

More emptiness.

More gold.

If Terreur’s heart happened to be made of such metal, then their hunt was well and truly fucked. Honoré’s search felt slow enough as it was—she’d spent most of the day circling the palace, holding her breath so it would not frost the glass as she peered through the panes. Her silver wings felt increasingly frozen between her shoulder blades. Her invisibility cloak itched. What she wouldn’t give to toss it off and walk through the palace’s front door. She could. Technically. But that would only result in an unwanted audience with the Mad Monk. The Sanct was wandering from room to room, his mouth moving as if in prayer, his masque flaring with icy light. Back and forth. Back and forth. Honoré watched his route, trying to determine if the Sanct paused in any particular place. The chapel perhaps? A ballroom? He did seem to spend more time in the southern portion of the palace—

“Have you found anything?”

Honoré’s dagger was out of her sleeve before she recognized the voice as Sylvie. The youngest Enchantress’s breath plumed from a nearby evergreen branch. Any nearer, and she might have gotten stabbed.

“You’re not supposed to be here, ma rêveuse! I told you to wait for me at the Children’s Palace.”

“I got bored.” Sylvie huffed. Some snow plopped onto the ground below as she settled on the bough.

“What? With all those toys?”

“I brought a few.” There was a shimmer as Sylvie pushed aside her invisibility cloak—ostensibly to dig even deeper into her pocket. Her wrist-less hand appeared, holding two tin soldiers. The metal men themselves were holding trumpets, looking quite disgruntled to be out of their petrified gumdrop fort.

Honoré could relate. “Dare I ask why?”

“I figured we’d need some lookouts while we’re searching the palace.”

“What I need is for you to stay out of the way.” Honoré could see the ghastly blue flash of the Mad Monk’s masque drifting toward the gold-domed chapel. This was the palace’s northernmost point, the logical place to start her search.

Sylvie must have been tracking the blue light too. “Looks like I’m not the one you have to get rid of,” she said. “What’s your contingency?”

One of the toy soldiers teetered off the branch, landing headfirst into the giant snowdrift below. Honoré watched the fruitless wiggle of its tiny legs. Again, she could relate. “I’m still working on the initial plan.”

“Which is?”

“Rasputin’s circuit through the palace takes thirty minutes. Give or take. If I time things carefully, I can search while he’s at the opposite end—”

“That will take forever!” Sylvie snatched the second marching soldier before it could follow in its comrade’s footsteps. “No. What you need is a decoy.” Her breath swirled through the bare branches, toward where Alexander Palace sat—its walls as pale and bright as this January sun. “Let me see if Anastasia and I can find a way to summon the Mad Monk so you’ll have longer to search. There’s a lot of cupid asses in there.”

Honoré released a fraught sigh. “Don’t swear, Sylvie.”

“Don’t treat me like a helpless child, Honoré.”

“You’re eleven.”

“Maybe not,” Sylvie’s icy breath shot back. “I might be twelve by now, but that doesn’t matter because the point is that I’m not powerless. Let me help. Please.”

Honoré was struck by this last word—and the way the girl said it. Not with sticky chocolate fingers or a whining punctuation. Sylvie wasn’t begging. She was right. She had power now. Purpose. And Honoré’s hunt for the heart would go much more smoothly if Rasputin wasn’t skulking around the place.

“Fine,” she relented.

With a small shout of glee, Sylvie launched off her branch, shaking pine needles to the ground below.

The afternoon wore on; it seemed the sun itself was frozen in the sky. Honoré heard laughter weaving through the leafless trees. She could see the flash of blades on the canal—not knives, but skates. Russia’s grand duchesses danced across the ice, their fur caps fluttering. Four became three, after Anastasia hurried inside.

Her sisters followed not ten minutes later, after a black cloud appeared over Alexander Palace’s lawn. A person, Honoré realized, as this specter called to the older princesses. I have seen strings like that before. They’re all around my mother. When Anastasia had said this, Honoré hadn’t quite grasped the severity of Tsarina Alexandra’s situation. She’d pictured wild black hairs or an extra stretch of shadow… There was a ribbon of darkness spooling out from the empress’s feet. Or, rather, where her feet should be. The woman was so entirely shrouded that Honoré couldn’t see her at all.

Instead, she watched thousands of strands pull taut across the snow, creating a dim path through the park. At the end? The Mad Monk halted. A look of annoyance flashed across his face. Then magic. He rushed out of Catherine Palace—following the queen’s shadowy call. The drifts looked whiter once his robes dragged over them, erasing his way to Alexander Palace.

Honoré swooped in, wondering if she should pause to shake snow off her invisibility cloak before climbing the entryway’s stairs. She wasn’t sure how much time she had—though surely it would be enough for the flakes that fell from her shoulders to melt into the crimson carpet.

She did a cursory scan of the chambers leading into the palace’s left wing. Sylvie was right. There were plenty of gilded cupids’ asses here. Céleste had been on to something too—every painting wielding a weapon aimed it in the same direction. Tridents. Scythes. Arrows. Pointing, all pointing. Honoré held her breath as she followed away from the tips of these blades, tiptoeing across parquet floors. No booby traps, so far. That, or the dragon ring was shielding her from such curses.

The fifth room was different, not just for the amber covering the walls, but because the cherub painted in the ceiling had aimed its arrow down toward the floor. A step into the adjoining room only confirmed Honoré’s suspicions; Mercury pointed his snake-entwined staff toward the southwest.

Terreur’s heart had to be here.

Somewhere.

Honoré stepped back into the amber room, studying the precious stones that covered the walls—thousands of pieces in hundreds of shades. The colors should have reminded her of La Fée Verte’s eyes, but they seemed a little too stagnant. Several pieces had bubbles trapped inside, unbreathed air left there for thousands of years. They’d since been carved into shapes: Crowns and cornucopias filled with fruit and chariot battles. Women with bare breasts and warriors holding their enemies’ heads and walled-off citadels. Seashells and garlands. A vast array of weaponry.

Again, Honoré followed the arrows to a corner table. She could see the shape of a box beneath its white sheet. Dare she look beneath? The surrounding mirrored panels showed nothing special in their reflections, though she supposed that if Terreur had really hidden his heart here, he would take care to keep it under wraps.

Or a dust cover.

Honoré lifted the cloth slowly, gently, so that not even a mote stirred. Her heart did though, at the thought that one of the cherubs perched above the mirrors had moved. Were they watching? Really watching? She waited a moment, then lifted the cloth another inch, revealing a pair of engraved letters:

C L

The initials of one Christine Leroux.

This was the opera singer’s jewelry box. The one her murderer had stolen away with the night she’d died. The one Honoré had been so sure had been buried in Paris’s catacombs. How had it ended up in a palace outside Saint Petersburg, Russia? And more importantly, what did it hold within?

There was a keyhole between the letters. Locked, surely. Not that Honoré would have been fool enough to try. Their plan—to hand over Terreur’s dream so that he might heal Céleste—would only work if he had no inkling his heart had been discovered. She’d already pushed her luck by shifting the sheet. She stole a glance through the keyhole instead. Her own heart thrashed like a bat’s broken wing. Yes, yes. That was him. Without a doubt. She could end Terreur. Right here. Right now. Forever.

Kill the bastard.

The dragon on Honoré’s arm went stiff.

The ring did not back down when she turned her thoughts to Céleste, how stabbing this heart now would seal her friend’s fate, so she shut her eyes and focused on La Fée Verte instead—her emerald laughter, her glowing touch, the better path they’d chosen for each other. You are more than a sword.

The heirloom’s metal softened then, just enough for Honoré to drop the sheet.

Soon, she whispered to the silver beast in her head. We’ll circle back soon.