She remembered the butterfly pin.
A horrifying thought took root in her.
No …
Letting go of Emeline’s face, the Vile bent down, her fingers plunging into ashy leaves until they found Sable’s blade. When she rose, she lifted the honed tip to Emeline’s heart, holding the hilt with both hands, ready to plunge it in.
“I know you’re his. You have his eyes. And his blood—I could smell it in that cellar. Just as I smell it now.” Her nose wrinkled in distaste. “And that song …” She bared her teeth. “Is that why you came to the manor—to finish what he started? To imprison me there for good?”
Emeline’s thoughts were spinning too fast.It can’t be.
It was too horrible.
She shook her head blindly as images of Rose Lark rose up: laughing with her head thrown back, eyes bright with joy; smiling adoringly up at Tom.
You can’t be her.
The trees began to hiss around them. The elm tree cage pressed into Emeline’s shoulder blades. She wrapped her hands around their thin trunks, leaning back, away from the knife, trying to stop the world from spinning.
She thought of the sycamore, delivering her over the wall. Thought of all the other times the trees had assisted her, giving her warnings or directions.
It reminded her of what Pa said the other night: he’d given an offering to the king on the day she was born, in exchange for the forest’s protection.
Was that why the trees were always helping her—they were trying to protect her?
She sent up a desperate plea to the woods.Help me again now—if you can.
The wind picked up, rattling through the brittle branches. That faintly beating pulse thrummed beneath the bark, pushing through to her.
A soft rustling sound broke the quiet as something swelled in the earth beneath her feet.
The Vile paused, listening. She lowered the knife as the ground shifted. Rising and dropping. As if something slithered under the newly fallen leaves.
The Vile turned, sensing danger.
Twisting white roots surged upwards, reaching like fingers to wrap around the Vile’s ankles and twine up her legs. As they did, the Vile stumbled, losing her balance. Fury flashed acrossher face. She righted herself, then turned to Emeline—who was still within striking distance.
Run!hissed the trees.
Before the blade lashed across her chest, Emeline ducked out of the way.
The Vile screamed.
Emeline ran—from the rage in that scream, from the edge of that sweeping blade, but most of all, from the realization slamming through her.
The Vile and Rose Lark were one and the same.
That monster is my mother.
THIRTY-THREE
SOMETHING FOLLOWED ON HERheels. Or rather,manysomethings.
Emeline heard them crash through the thorny brambles behind her. Shadow skins set loose by the Vile. The hooves of their captive ember mares pounded the earth in a furious tattoo, closing the gap.
She counted a dozen nightmares in the darkness.
Emeline waded quickly through the sighing river, its cold water filling her boots. Her legs burned. Her sliced heel throbbed. Her breath scratched her lungs.
