He was so quiet I nearly risked turning to see him.
Then, a small helpless noise.
“I…I didn’t tell you before, but…Bellatrice has left the palace.”
Relief rushed through me. “She got out?”
“I ran into her and Mathéo leaving the ball. She said Papa was after her, that Papa wanted her dead, and I didn’t believe it—I couldn’t—but then that god said the same thing, that Baudouin is her father. Do you think it’s true?”
“It is.”
Leopold sucked air through his teeth. “Papa will hurt Bells. If you allow him to live, he’ll kill her, won’t he?”
It hurt to answer. “Yes.”
“And then you. And then who knows how many others.”
Mutely, miserably, I nodded.
“What about Euphemia?” he continued. “Can she be saved?”
Tears began to fall. “I saw the deathshead on her too.”
His intake of breath was sharp. “It was there? You really saw it?”
I glanced back, confused. “Of course I did.”
Several versions of Leopold frowned, struggling to find their words, and I had to look away, feeling nauseous.
“I just wondered…With Margaux’s gift…her chaos, her confusion…She said she wanted me to drink that poison so you’d use your candle to save me. Couldn’t she be the one behind Euphemia’s deathshead? What if it’s not your gift you saw but hers?”
I froze, the possibility filling me with wonder. I’d never considered that the deathshead could have come from anyone but the Holy First.
My gaze fell upon the candles in front of me, and I caught glimpses of the strangers’ lives. None of them was the king, and with a sigh offrustration, I went down another aisle, my insides feeling squirmy with indecision.
Could Margaux have made me see a deathshead?
“I don’t know, honestly,” I admitted. “I don’t know how Margaux’s gift works, but…I want to believe she could. I can’t possibly understand why the Holy First would want me to kill Euphemia. It doesn’t make any sense.”
“It doesn’t.” Leopold jumped to agree. “So if it’s not a real deathshead, not one of the kind you usually see, you could save her, right? Euphemia could get better.”
I frowned. “In theory, yes, but she doesn’t have the Shivers, not the normal strain of it, and I don’t know if the black agar would work. Usually I see what the person needs—a cure, a treatment,something—but all I saw over her was the deathshead.”
“And she’s very sick,” Leopold said slowly.
I nodded, my heart aching as I remembered the dark Brilliance pouring from her lips as she writhed. “Very.”
“Papa was very sick too, when you gave him your candle, wasn’the?”
A wave of goose bumps broke over my skin. My words were colored with hesitation when I spoke, unsure of what Leopold was getting at, of what he was asking of me. “Yes, but…”
“Oh, Hazel,” Leopold said, his fingers dancing over the curve of my shoulder blade. “No. I didn’t mean that we should use your candle for Euphemia. That’s not— I would never— No! No. You’ve given far too much of yourself for our family already. I only meant…if your candle once saved Papa…and that candle is going to be put out…couldn’t we use his candle—your candle, truly—to save Euphemia?”
I hazarded a glance his way. Every one of the Leopolds looked so hopeful, so earnest.
It was an intriguing solution, one I wouldn’t have thought of.Coulda partially burnt candle be used to save another’s life? Marnaigne’s flame hadn’t been burning for even a year yet. There was plenty of wick and wax, plenty of time left for Euphemia. And if it hadn’t been a deathshead sent from the Holy First, if I had only seen some terrible vision that Margaux wanted me to see, then Euphemia didn’t need to be killed, she needed a cure. One the king’s candle would instantly offer her.
“We could try,” I began. “But there’s no guarantee it would work.”
