“Do you know how they go on?”

Amélie made a face. “More or less. There’s going to be a chambermaid to help, so I’m sure we’ll work it out.” She paused, then said, “So Monsieur Vareilles is here?”

Rachelle sighed. “In the next room.”

“You still don’t like him?” Amélie’s voice was soft; she didn’t quite look at Rachelle, as if she knew this question might be difficult.

“I never said—” Rachelle began.

“You don’t like him.” Amélie picked up a dress and shook it out. Her voice was calm and matter-of-fact. “I’m not angry. I just wonder why.”

There were a hundred reasons, and only one that really mattered: Armand pretended that the most terrible day of her life had been a joke. That the forestborn had never really been able to threaten her, because there had been some other way out. That if she’d just been clever enough, or brave enough, or holy enough, she could have defied the Great Forest itself and survived.

Rachelle had no illusions. She had chosen wrongly. But she knew beyond all doubt that there had been only two choices.

She could never say that to Amélie. Because Amélie had never, even once, said anything about what Rachelle had done. She had never looked at her as if she were anything evil or inhuman. From the night they met, Amélie had been hard at work pretending—as skillful a deception as she had ever painted with her brush—that Rachelle was just another girl who deserved to be alive.

“He wants everyone to know he’s a saint,” Rachelle said finally.

“Hm.” Amélie started to fold the dress. “Well, they say he has reason.”

Rachelle snorted. “There are plenty of beggars with missing hands who don’t even have silver ones to replace them, but nobody calls them saints.”

“Bishop Guillaume says that many a beggar is holier than an abbot, and we should strive to see the Dayspring in all the unfortunate,” Amélie said piously. Rachelle had never been able to decipher if she was being sarcastic or sincere when she used that voice, but she had always laughed at it anyway.

This time she didn’t laugh. Her body had gone cold. She couldn’t stop herself from saying, “I didn’t know you liked his sermons.”

Amélie went still. After a moment she said slowly, “I don’t like all his sermons. But sometimes he speaks kindly. And he’s done marvelous things for the hospital. I’ve seen him—” She paused. “He’s not afraid of the sick, the way some people are.”

Because he’s not afraid of anything, Rachelle wanted to shout at her. He’s not even afraid that God will judge him for using his sermons to gain power.

But Amélie might not believe her. If Rachelle tried to make her pick which one to trust, her or the Bishop—she didn’t want to know what Amélie would do.

She had no right to ask for more. Amélie had foolishly chosen to trust Rachelle; she couldn’t complain if she trusted the Bishop just as foolishly.

IN THE DARKEST SHADOWS OF THE WOOD stands a house.

Yes. Though the sun rides high in the world outside, in the heart of the Great Forest, that house is standing still. It is carved of wood most skillfully; from every post and lintel leap a profusion of leaves, flowers, wolves, birds, and little writhing men. And mouths. And teeth.

The walls are caulked with blood. The roof is thatched with bones.

Within that bloody house lived Old Mother Hunger, the first and eldest of all forestborn. Her fingers were slender and white as bone; her hair was long and dark as night. She had danced before the Devourer when she was but a human girl, and she so delighted him that he adopted her for his own. She had helped him to swallow the sun and moon, and so bring all the world to darkness. And now it was her part to train the children of men who would become forestborn, and those who would become the Devourer’s living vessel.

If Tyr was to become a fitting vessel for the Devourer, a bridge between that vast black hunger and the world, then he must forget his name. So they placed him in the deepest cellar of the house, within a little cage of bone, and they told him he was dead. Every time they brought him food, before he could eat, he must first sing a song to them:

“My mother, she killed me

My father, he ate me.

I once had a name,

But now I have none.”

If Zisa was to become a true forestborn, she must destroy the human heart within her. So she was the one who brought him his food and demanded the song of him. But every time Old Mother Hunger slept, Zisa slipped down to the cellar again, and in the darkness she whispered to him that his name was Tyr and she was his sister.

Tyr’s spirit wandered far away into darkness and dreaming, and for a long time he would not speak, however Zisa implored him. She studied the arts of the forestborn, until at last she crept down to Tyr’s cellar and sang him a song that commanded dreams, and Tyr turned his face to her, though his eyes remained shut.

“Brother, what holds you asleep?” she asked.

He answered: “Sister, I am dreaming of the Devourer. He is a wolf, and he gnaws me until there is nothing left but bones. And that is good.”

“How can that be good?” asked Zisa.

Tyr whispered, “Only the leavings of the wolf can kill the wolf.”

The next time that Zisa brought Tyr his food, he sang to her,

“My sister, she killed me.

My master, he ate me.

I am but the leavings

And thus I shall slay him.”

Zisa reached through the bars of the cage and wrapped her hands around his.

“It will not come to that,” she said.

7

Rachelle managed to slip away that afternoon to hunt for the door, but she found nothing. All the search gained her were a lot of curious glances from the bustling crowds, and Amélie’s worried wrath when she got back to her room too late to be dressed up for the night’s reception.

“I’m not a guest,” Rachelle protested.

“You would be once I finished dressing you,” Amélie muttered.

The reception was held in the Salon du Mars—a vast, domed, hexagonal room that was considered one of the wonders of Château de Lune. Personally, Rachelle couldn’t see the appeal. For one, it had no suns or moons anywhere, which made it useless to her. For another, it looked like someone had vomited artwork over every available surface. The six walls were practically paneled in gold-framed paintings of every shape and size. The ceiling was just one mural, but it was such a writhing mess of billowing fabric and twisting limbs that she couldn’t tell what it depicted. Around the edges of the room were alternating black and white marble statues, all of them contorted into feverishly passionate poses.