“I still am.” She takes a step closer, but I take one too, thrusting the dull blade at her. Luckily, she seems wary enough to lurch back, even if it is just a butter knife. “Just please let me take you home. You’ll be safe there.”
I shake my head. “I can’t believe a word that comes out of your mouth. You say you’re my friend, that you came here to save me from the Huntsman, but then you try to take me back to my stepmother. To the very woman who wants me dead.”
She opens her mouth but only manages a groan. “I wish I could tell you, but I can’t. Just come with me and she’ll explain everything.”
“There’s no explanation that will justify my father’s death.”
Renewed tears stream down Marybeth’s cheeks again. “I know,” she whispers. “He didn’t deserve to die.”
Her words send an ache to my heart. Not out of sympathy for her, but because she’s right. He didn’t deserve to die. A darker truth lurks just beneath that, one I don’t want to face. I seek the rage I felt in the arena, if only to burn this new sensation away, but the sinister emotion wends its way through my blood and bones, filling me with a hollow ache. A dark void.
It’s grief.
Memories flood my mind, of Father’s slack face crisscrossed with black veins of poison. Then I recall the argument we had, how I shouted that he didn’t care about me. I close my eyes against his wounded expression, but the vision is replaced by ones far more painful. Of happy moments. Of his smiling eyes and jovial voice. How he laughed when my rescued squirrel wreaked havoc on his studio and nibbled his tubes of paint. How I used to stand by his side while he worked on his portraits. How he’d affectionately pat me on the head whenever I shared my secret insights regarding his patrons’ most cherished qualities. How he lifted me from the shore of my cruel mother’s lake, halted my incessant cries as he wrapped me in the softest pelt and promised to love and care for me for the rest of his life.
He kept that promise, but I…
I killed him.
The poison was meant for me.
Forme.
It should have been me.
My chest heaves with a jagged sob, one so violent it takes my breath away. My lungs feel too tight. My heart too sharp, too torn, too raw and exposed. I feel as if every ounce of sorrow I’ve avoided feeling since my father’s death has struck me at once. It’s a grief I can’t bear to feel, for if I let it swallow me, I don’t think I’ll ever make my way out.
Do I deserve to come out of it?
Do I have any right to escape my stepmother’s wrath?
The poison was meant forme.
It’s something I’ve known from the start, just like I knew Tris had been behind the poisoning. But now the weight of having all my suspicions confirmed crushes me down. Down. It’s too heavy. Far too heavy.
Another sob wracks through me, steeling my resolve. There’s only one thing I can do.
I shove my hand into my trouser pocket. No sooner than I extract my tincture does the glass bottle leave my fingers. I blink through the haze of my tears and find Marybeth darting away from me, my vial in hand.
“Put the knife down, and I’ll give you this back,” she says.
Finally, the rage I’d sought returns, smoothing out the harshest edges of my grief. It gives me the courage to charge Marybeth, thrusting out with my pathetic knife. With a squeal, she leaps back. Then her shout pierces the air. “I’ll throw it!”
I freeze.
She holds out her hand to the side. “I’ll throw this and smash it on the ground if you don’t put down that knife and come with me.”
My eyes lock on the vial, and panic crawls up my throat. I can’t let her smash it. It’s the only one I have left, and I still haven’t figured out how to get more. And there’s no way I’m going back to the Spring Court with her to get the ingredients I need to make it myself.
Marybeth’s voice turns placating. “Come with me and you’ll have access to all the Crimson Malus you want. You’ll never have to feel pain again.” I take a step forward, but she lifts her hand higher. “Drop the knife.”
I open my palm, and my makeshift weapon clatters to the ground at my feet. Marybeth’s shoulders slump with relief. She starts toward me, but my eyes remain firmly fixed on my tincture. I may have no intention of going with her, but I’m also not letting her smash my vial. I’ll fight her if I need to. I’ll hit her, claw her, do whatever I can—
The light she blinded me with in the arena returns. My stomach bottoms out. The glow must be a sign that the device is active. If she touches me, she’ll take me with her. There’s no way I’ll be able to steal back my vial now. I can’t even see where she is anymore.
The sound of shattering wood pierces the air. I startle and whirl toward it. The light from the Chariot quickly goes out, revealing Torben standing in the doorway, one of the wooden doors hanging from its hinges. His clothing is still bloodied from his fight with Helody, making him an image of pure rage as he strides into the room, chest heaving, fingers curled into fists at his sides.
“Are you hurt?” His eyes are locked on Marybeth, but I know his question is for me.
