Rachelle shrugged, embararssed for reasons she couldn’t fathom. “Armand Vareilles,” she mumbled.

Amélie’s brush stopped moving. She stared at her a moment, then let out a wild snort of laughter.

“What?” Rachelle demanded.

Amélie rolled her eyes. “You’re to guard the living martyr himself. And you say, ‘Oh, Armand Vareilles,’ as if he were last week’s laundry.”

“I’d rather guard the laundry,” Rachelle muttered.

Amélie’s forehead creased slightly. “Why?”

He’s an arrogant fraud, Rachelle nearly said, but she didn’t know how Amélie felt about Armand Vareilles. They had never discussed him—or Bishop Guillaume, or the unrest in the city, or anything that had to do with what it meant for Rachelle to be bloodbound.

“Every time I turn around, there are people bowing at his feet,” she said finally. “It’s very inconvenient.”

With another strange lurch of embarrassment, she remembered Armand’s face as he said, I’d rather burn.

“Hm,” said Amélie, leaning forward again. Her brush made tiny, feather-light strokes over Rachelle’s face. Then she sat back and studied her, pursing her lips. “Done,” she said finally.

“Anyway,” said Rachelle, “I don’t know when I’ll see you again, so—”

“I’m coming with you,” said Amélie.

“What?” Rachelle stared at her.

“I’m coming with you.” Amélie grinned. “You don’t get to look in the mirror till you say yes.”

“I don’t care about the mirror,” said Rachelle. “But what do you think you’ll do at the Château? You aren’t a bodyguard.”

“And you are, but you know you’ll still have to dance,” said Amélie. “Or at least stand in a corner at one of those grand parties, and that means you’ll have to wear a pretty dress, and you know you’ll look ridiculous if you don’t have someone apply cosmetics and do it well, and you couldn’t hire someone good if your life depended on it, so I, because I am your loyal friend, will help you.”

She crossed her arms and nodded. Rachelle was about to tell her that no bodyguard who hoped to be effective would ever wear an elaborate court gown—but then she realized there was a nervous edge to Amélie’s grin. And she couldn’t bear to shatter it.

“All right, I probably will have to dance,” she said, and realized it was true: Erec would find it hilarious, so he would make it happen. “But you don’t have to come help.”

She wanted Amélie there with her. She was only this instant realizing how much she wanted to spend her last days with the only person who looked at her with simple, undemanding affection. But they could be the last days of the whole daylight world. If Rachelle failed, Amélie would die alone, far away from her mother and surrounded by strangers. Rachelle might watch her die.

She couldn’t let her do it.

“I want to,” Amélie said softly, her smile melting away. “It’s my only chance. To do—this”—she waved at Rachelle’s face—“and have anyone see it.” Her voice grew even softer. “My mother could spare me for a week or two, but not . . . not longer. You know.”

Rachelle knew. That was why Amélie had never practiced applying cosmetics on anyone but Rachelle: because after her husband died, Madame Guignon had taken over his business of making medicines as single-mindedly as if she meant to save all the sick people in the world, though there was no saving half of them, and Amélie had taken it upon herself to help her mother, though her mother’s quest would never be done.

Two days ago, giving Amélie this chance would have been all Rachelle wanted in the world.

“I can’t let you,” she said. “It’s too dangerous.”

Amélie tilted her head. “Why?” she asked. “What do you expect? A palace coup? Open rebellion?”

“Not if I have anything to say about it, but—”

“Famine? Plague? Lightning from heaven?” Amélie leaned forward. “Or ravening woodspawn in the street? Because I might remind you, Château de Lune is the one place that doesn’t happen.”

Rachelle’s hands slammed on the table. “I can’t tell you, it doesn’t matter, you just need to stay safe.”

Amélie sat back in her chair, eyes wide and startled. She was probably wondering why her friend was going mad. Rachelle wished she had never come.

“You’re really worried, aren’t you?” said Amélie. “That means it’s serious. But you’re not going to tell me why.”

“No,” Rachelle whispered.

“Well, I can’t let you go alone into danger,” said Amélie.

“I go into danger all the time,” said Rachelle.

“I’m in danger all the time, too, and worse every day.” Amélie’s voice dropped lower. “You know the light is dying. My mother won’t admit it. But you know.”

The look she gave Rachelle was worried and solemn and Rachelle would have given anything to wipe it off her face. But there was no changing what was happening to the world, and now that she had failed to protect Amélie from knowing, there was no way to change that, either.

“I don’t understand what’s happening with the darkness,” said Amélie. “But I don’t want to let you go alone. And I want to have this chance, whatever happens after. Please.”

If Amélie was by her side, then Rachelle could protect her. That wasn’t too selfish, was it? And she could send her back in just a few weeks, before the solstice. There was hardly any chance the Devourer would return before then.

“All right,” she said. “We’ll go together.”

Amélie’s smile was as bright and beautiful as the sun. “Then you’re allowed to see your face,” she said, and held up the little hand mirror.

A lady stared back at Rachelle.

She had Rachelle’s black hair—slightly messed from the wind—her dark eyes, her narrow face. But this lady had no freckles; she had pale, flawless skin just half a shade lighter than could possibly be natural. Her cheeks flushed in two perfect triangles, and her lips glistened with rouge. One little round black beauty mark sat beneath her left eye.