But I’m not looking at the queen.
I’m looking at what she’s holding in her arms.
There’s nothing in my stomach, so when I retch, nothing comes up this time.
The queen’s nose wrinkles in disgust. “My darling Farin,” she says, her voice silky in a way that only furthers my sickness. “Don’t think this didn’t hurt me more than it hurt you. But you must understand, it’s my responsibility as your mother to ensure you understand that your actions have consequences.”
I can’t hear her. Not really. Only in the muffled sort of way.
Because what the queen is holding in her arms is the body of a girl. The way the queen has her arms does nothing to support the girl’s head, so it hangs back limply, exposing her neck, her golden hair falling, almost scraping the floor.
When I lurch to my feet, they give out on me, needles prickling my skin and making it so I can’t support my weight.
I crawl over to her, dragging the bedsheets with me. I’m hardly aware of the hot tears coating my cheeks. Or perhaps it’s sweat. I can’t really tell.
All I know is that when I reach the queen and force myself to stand, though my legs scream at me not to, the girl’s eyes are closed.
“Zora,” I say, whispering my sister’s name. She doesn’t answer, doesn’t as much as flinch, so I call her name louder.
My throat is dry, and she still doesn’t stir.
“ZORA,” I cry, and now I’m shaking her shoulders, and I’m not being gentle enough, but I don’t really care.
“I need you to understand,” says the queen, “how I would have felt if my guards hadn’t made it to you in time.”
I can barely hear her, because now I’m weeping, chanting the same phrase over and over as if it’s an incantation. “Zora, please wake up. Please wake up.”
She doesn’t.
CHAPTER 22
NOX
When the queen’s guards finally come for me, I’ve hardly the sense to pull my robes on.
I can’t remember when they came off. Sometime during my hallucinations, I suppose.
An impatient knock on my door pulls me out of a fitful slumber I don’t remember consenting to. I don’t even remember crawling back to my rooms.
My muscles are knotted from how I’ve slept lopsided on the stone floor, my neck craned as I rested my head against the talon-shaped foot of my bed.
A guard barks an admonition to hurry just as I open the door. He startles when he sees me.
They always do.
I remember a time when I used to fear them.
Now it’s they who fear me.
I look like death on a good day; I can’t imagine what I look like now, though I catch glimpses of my gaunt appearance in the guard’s face.
“Is she stable?” I ask, not bothering with the ruse that the guards know nothing of my and Gunter’s experiments. The guards rarely come for me, and the clock resting against my wall claims dinner isn’t for another hour. It’s no coincidence.
The guards blink and exchange a wary glance. “We’re not at liberty to discuss the state of the girl.”
“Tell you what,” I say, resting my palm against the doorpost. I do it to steady myself, because I feel I might sway with nausea any moment now, but the guards retreat a hair, so I suppose it comes across as intimidating. I’ll have to keep that in mind. “You tell me what you know, and I’ll refrain from venturing into town after dark and stumbling across your wives by happenstance.”
The threat is flat as it leaves my tongue, but the words are sharp enough to make up for my unconvincing delivery. The guards shudder and the one on the left murmurs, “The physician reported to the queen an hour ago and claimed the girl is sleeping, but stable.”
The relief that floods my bones isn’t complete. It doesn’t wash me of my regret or give me any right to set foot in Blaise’s presence again. But she’s alive, and that’s enough for me at the moment.
I pat the guard to the left on the shoulder and allow them to lead me to the queen.
“I’m disappointed in you, Farin.”
The words are meant to wound, and for the first time in years, the queen’s efforts are successful.
It’s not that I care what the queen thinks of me, but I’m disappointed in myself, and to hear my self-loathing echoed by another has me gripping my chalice until my fingertips threaten to bleed.
I say nothing, nor do I spare a glance at the queen.
That’s probably a mistake, but I can’t look at her right now.
Not when all I can think about is Blaise, froth bubbling from her mouth as her eyes shoot back in her head.
I think I might be ill.
The nausea isn’t improved when a servant sets a plate of frog eyes in front of me.
