Manford is only entitled to one thing. The truth. “Did you know she came here on that night all those years ago to kill you?”

His mouth opens as if he’s going to speak, but he doesn’t. He clenches his jaw tightly and closes his eyes, drawing a long breath. He sweeps in, reaching his hand behind my back and twirling me around. I struggle to keep my footing as he leads me in a soundless waltz.

“You think you can hurt me with your words? I had hoped you’d be smarter than that. At least make this little game a challenge.” He grips my hand. “I will take what I want from you and leave your corpse to rot in a ditch like your pathetic friend, like so many of the wretched girls of Lille.” Émile’s words flood my mind. He is feeding on the girls of Lille like a monster. I picture him prowling the countryside, leaving a trail of corpses in his wake.

As he leans in, I wrench my arm free, rearing back and striking him with my open palm. He stops but does not let go. I look him in the eye. I know my voice will waver if I don’t measure my words, but I want to be clear in what will undoubtedly be the last moments of my short life.

“If you are going to kill me, do it, and spare me your insufferable rantings.”

“You can pretend to be brave, but I see right through you. You are racked with fear.” He leans in close and breathes me in. “I can smell it on you.”

I jerk my body to the side and manage to break his grip. I stumble back, and he grabs my dress. It splits up the side, and I watch in awe as it mends itself before my eyes. The king lets go. He grins, grabs my arm, and pulls me close, crushing me to him. I claw at his face as he presses his forehead against mine.

He opens his mouth wide and presses his lips over mine. I scream but the sound is muffled. I taste his rancid breath and feel his damp skin, his fingers like knives at my back. Then, everything becomes still. A light hovers between us, a cloud of translucent fog that seems to be coming out of me.

I can’t move, can’t speak.

I fight to keep my eyes open. A rush of cold ripples across every inch of my skin. I catch a glimpse of my dagger tucked into his belt. I reach for it, but he bats my hand away.

I’m dying. I feel the life being pulled out of me in long, rasping draws. A fire ignites in my chest, burning away any feelings of hope or love or happiness. Something tugs hard at my waist, and suddenly I’m sliding backward across the ballroom floor. I lie still for a moment as my senses flicker on and off. My vision blurs, and a high-pitched ringing fills my ears. I am exhausted, like I haven’t slept in days, and a crushing sadness hangs over me. My side aches. I roll over and blink.

A familiar figure stands in the middle of the room.

36

“You meddling wench!” the king screams.

My vision clears enough for me to see Constance standing with her dagger drawn and her eyes narrowed, a large book tucked under her arm.

“Stay away from her,” Constance says.

Manford’s face seems to shift as he glares at Constance, like his skin is too loose over his bones. “Put that dagger away, you stupid girl. It will do you no good here.”

Constance glances at me. “Sophia, I—”

The double doors leading into the ballroom groan as they open. My vision is still hazy, but I recognize Amina’s squat frame as she enters the room. She’s shed her pretend exterior and marches up to the king. A rush of relief washes over me.

“Please,” Amina says to him. “Please remember what we discussed before.”

I’m still dazed, but even in my haze her words don’t make sense. “Before?”

The king looks at me and then back to her. He bursts into a fit of wicked laughter. “You didn’t tell her? She couldn’t figure it out?”

“Figure what out?” I demand, climbing to my feet. My ribs throb with each heartbeat.

Amina flashes me a tight smile, but her eyes show me nothing but sadness. “I lied to you, Sophia. I had to do it.”

The king waltzes over and plants a kiss on the top of Amina’s head. “Oh, Mother, you never were a very good liar.”

Mother.

No.

It can’t be true.

“You—you said he saved you from the pyre,” I stammer. “That he came looking for your assistance.”

A maniacal grin spreads across Manford’s face. “Is that the story you’ve been telling?” He turns to Amina. “I like that one very much. It’s almost the truth.”

My gaze returns to the portraits. Yes, they are all Manford, but they are also the boy from the painting hanging by the hearth in Amina’s home in White Wood.

“You lying witch,” Constance says through gritted teeth. She opens the book she’s clutching and tosses it onto the floor. It’s the grimoire. Amina glances up at her.

“Oh, but you, Constance, you had some inkling, didn’t you?” Amina grins, and the subtle similarities between her and Manford stare out at me, taunting me. “When?”

Constance grips her dagger. “I knew the little boy in the painting looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him. It gnawed at me.” Constance trembles as she speaks. “When you left for the cotillion, I looked at the necromancy spell again.” She points to the book. The pages containing the necromancy spell lie open.

“You don’t have a good reason for still being alive after all this time,” Constance says. “Manford should have killed you if you knew his secret. But now it makes sense. You’re bound to him by blood, by love, by magic. He cannot exist without you. I didn’t want to believe it. I was blinded by my hatred for him.” She shoots a pointed look at Manford.

He cocks his head to the side. “You poor girl. What have I done to make you hate me so?” His tone is mocking, cruel.

“I have plenty of reasons,” Constance says angrily. “You have been hunting my family for generations.”

Manford is taken aback. He stares at Constance. “Mother, you should have told me we were among such honored guests. You look very much like Gabrielle. Pity.”

The horrible realization dawns on me. I turn to Amina. “You brought him back yourself?” I remember the broken seal in her grimoire, Manford’s cold skin, his stiffened body. He’s a walking corpse. Amina is bound to him and he to her, just like the spell says. Only she has the power to destroy him because she’s the one who cast the spell that brought him back from the dead.

Amina claps her hands. “Well done, my dear. Well done. It’s true that he saved me from the pyre, but I was only on it because the people in my village found out what I’d done. Necromancy tends to scare the faint of heart.”

“You’ve been working with him the entire time,” Constance says.

“I didn’t have to do much,” Amina says. “You were already planning to come back to Lille. I just gave you a little push.” She turns to Manford. “I must admit the things you said to me when you came to visit stung a little.”

He puts his hand over his heart. “My temper got the better of me. I’m sorry about that, Mother, truly.”

He doesn’t sound sorry at all, but he smiles at her like he adores her, and my stomach turns over. All this time, I thought her hesitancy was because she was ashamed, fearful. But it was a lie. Like the Cinderella story. Like the ball. Like everything.