“He’s alive?” I asked, needing clarification, needing to hear her say the actual words aloud, as if they were some sort of magic spell binding him here, assuring his continued existence.
“He’s alive,” Camille repeated, and tears pricked at my eyes.
“So Viktor…”
He’d been the one to fall.
Alex had somehow, wonderfully, impossibly survived.
She bit at the corner of her lip. “The boy on the ground? Or the other one in the study? The authorities don’t know what to do about them. No one knows who they are.”
“Alex’s brothers. They’re…they were…triplets. Julien and Viktor.”
She licked her lips. “They’re dead too.”
I nodded.
Camille touched my hair again. “What happened here, Verity? When I arrived, there were no groundsmen to open the gates, no footmen to greet us once we made our way through. I came in and found that horrible old woman standing over you, about to…She was about to kill you, Verity. If I’d been just seconds later…” She swallowed and shook her head, the sentence too painful to finish.
A flash of red echoed through my mind as I remembered Marguerite’s confession.
“What happened? To Marguerite?”
“There was a poker on the floor. I picked it up and…struck her.”
I inhaled sharply, pain spiking along my ribs. “You killed her.”
Camille looked away uncomfortably. “I…I did what I had to do.”
Her words and tone reminded me so much of Viktor, I felt sick, the room swimming before me with a queasy ache.
“More water?” she asked, and I nodded.
“How long have I been asleep?” I asked after several shallow sips.
“Almost a day. The healer said you broke your wrist and cracked two ribs, but she was able to set everything. It will take time, obviously, but you’ll recover.”
“Where…where are they all? The…bodies.”
“They were taken to the crypt. Beneath Chauntilalie. I don’t fully understand the People of the Petals’ traditions for burial, but I’m told the Sisters of the Ardor are handling all of the necessary arrangements. Everything will be properly done.”
“And Alex—does he know all this? Is he…awake?”
She nodded.
“Can I see him?”
She hesitated. “I don’t know how we’d get you to his room.”
“There’s no shortage of wheelchairs in this manor,” I offered, trying to smile.
Her lips rose in a half-hearted echo. “He’s not in the best of shape right now, Verity. He needs lots of rest. As do you.”
“I know. I’m sure of that, but…I need to see him.”
She smoothed out the cotton duvet covering me, running her fingers over the embroidered vines stitched across its hem. “You really love him, then?”
I nodded.
“I wasn’t sure, when I first received the wedding notice. I wondered if it was some sort of arrangement.”
“It started that way, as far as his parents were concerned. But…I love him. And he loves me. So, so fiercely. He’s a good person. I know we’ll both take care of one another, make each other so happy.”
Camille mulled this over. “I thought perhaps you were trying to punish me, trying to show you didn’t need my approval, my input.” She let out a slow sigh. “I’m so sorry for how I acted before you left…how I’ve been acting, for years. I don’t know if I will ever be able to fully explain it, if I’ll ever be able to make you see…I truly was doing it all for you, Verity. I wanted to protect you. I wanted to keep you safe.”
I lifted my hand, indicating the cast. “It does appear that you had good reasoning to worry. This isn’t exactly how I dreamed my first trip from home would go.”
Her smile was small but there. “Will you forgive me?”
I stared at her for a long moment, taking in the dark circles beneath her eyes, the lines of worry pinching at her face. “Will you forgive me? Running off in the middle of the night—all those things I said to you before I left…I didn’t…I just didn’t know how else to do it. To take hold of my life.”
“I’m sorry I made you feel as though that was the only option out.”
Tears bit at my eyes. “I was mad at first. So mad. But then…scared.” I took a deep breath. “I’d play out all these conversations in my head… I’d start and stop so many letters to you. I was so scared I’d broken something between us. Really, truly shattered it. I knew you hated me and I knew you were right to do so.”
She pressed a careful kiss to the top of my forehead. “You’re my sister, you goose. Even on our worst days, I could never hate you. I’ll never not love you. Never,” she repeated firmly.
“I love you.”
She studied me for a long moment. “You really want to go see Alexander?”
I nodded fervently, even though it made my head feel strange and disjointed.
Camille squeezed my hand before pushing herself off the bed. “I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
Alex’s room was just down the hall from mine, but as Camille slowly pushed me there in a borrowed wheelchair, the journey felt miles long.
My heart ached as I spotted a familiar figure approach us, shuffling in and out of visibility.
“I thought I heard something,” Constance whispered, caught in another of her loops, unaware of anything but the past. “I think someone’s following us.”
She flickered out of sight, only to reappear at the end of the corridor, retracing her steps.
“I thought I heard something…”
“When the Sisters of the Ardor come,” I mentioned, reaching my hand up to still Camille, “you need to make sure they put seeds on the rose mounds. Their sacred seeds. At the side of the manor. It’s very important.”
“…I think someone’s following us.”
Camille followed my gaze as I watched Constance play out her final night again. I knew she couldn’t see her but noticed the hairs on my sister’s arms rise, her flesh goose bumped.
“I will,” she promised. “Verity…” She eyed the empty corridor uneasily. “Are you ready to see Alexander?”
I nodded and she opened the door.
“Verity?” he murmured as we entered the darkened room and approached the bed.
The only source of light was a single taper candle on the far side of the room—its wax blessedly a soft shade of amber. I could barely make out his huddled form within all of the sheets and pillows. The healers had warned of his injuries before allowing me to visit, saying they thought it better to be well prepared.
The list was long and painful—a shattered nose, scorched flesh on both his hands and across his neck. Several of his wounds required stitches and the black thread made his face resemble a gruesome patchwork quilt. There’d been damage to his eyes and though I didn’t understand everything they spoke of—iris distortions and corneal abrasions—I knew he needed to remain in a safe, dark environment if they were to heal.
“I’m here,” I said as Camille pushed the chair alongside his bed for me. She gave my arm a sympathetic squeeze before slipping from the room and closing the door behind her.