“Maybe?” Slate roars.
I grip on to the gray T-shirt he must’ve slept in because it’s wrinkled.
“Get the leaf away from her!” he thunders.
Gaëlle yanks her hand away, and the leaf arcs through the air, hits the thick plexiglass frame enclosing the ancient parchment scroll on the wall, then clinks against the buffed veined marble floor. The sound is deafening in the dreadful silence.
Although livid, Slate gently peels my fingers off his shirt and sidesteps me to reach the girl. I find myself staring at Bastian and Adrien who are standing rigidly side by side next to the wall of shelves.
“Gaëlle, get the leaf,” Papa orders.
Her boots squeak.
“She doesn’t have a fucking pulse, De Morel!” Slate’s voice cracks like a whip, makes Bastian and Adrien flinch. I’m half expecting the strength of his fury to obliterate the glass desk.
“Maybe if I make her touch the leaf again . . . or lay it on her heart?” Gaëlle’s suggestion goes unanswered.
Papa’s staring down at Emilie, whose blonde hair is fanned around her pale motionless face like rays of sunshine.
“Rainier?” Gaëlle’s hand shakes around the leaf.
“When I touched it, it stopped the curse from progressing instantly,” Papa says.
Slate’s hunched over Emilie, obscuring most of her body. “Try, Gaëlle! At least try.”
“Okay. Back up. Please. I don’t want—I don’t want it to . . .”
Slate stands and takes a miniature step back. Gaëlle kneels beside Emilie, pulls up her unicorn pajama top, and presses the leaf against her ribcage.
I wait for Emilie’s lips to flutter.
They don’t.
Gaëlle picks up the girl’s limp wrist and places her stubby fingers on the gleaming metal.
Nothing.
“Fuck this!” Slate growls.
Gaëlle bounces away from the little girl just as he drops to his knees and begins chest compressions.
“Come on, kiddo.”
I don’t know how long we wait. Perhaps it lasts all of a minute, or perhaps a half hour goes by. By the time Gaëlle deposits the leaf back inside the safe, I feel rooted to the marble. I can’t even move I’m so . . . shocked . . . revolted . . . disappointed . . . despondent. All of these things and more.
I want to destroy the Quatrefoil and vanquish magic once and for all. I think of Maman, and although I don’t remember her, it feels like I’m looking down at her body. It feels like I’ve lost her all over again.
Papa shuts the door of the safe with a clank, and still no one says anything.
Growling his anger, Slate stops the useless compressions and sits back on his heels, hands locked in fists on his thighs. He stares at the cursed child. Just stares, and then his fingers move to her forehead, and he brushes away a lock of hair before delicately lowering her puffy lids.
The silence in the room is deafening.
“Aveline needs to be told—” Adrien starts.
Papa interrupts him. “That her daughter’s run away.”
“She’s six, Rainier. Was six.” Adrien shudders. “Six-year-olds with happy home lives don’t run away.”
