Thread of Ash and Fire

Ch. 6: Something Harder

Camille sat on the piano bench, her knees tucked into her chest.

Light glinted off the chandelier. Dust scurried across the floor, dashing beneath a wilting plant. Ryne and Anna had stormed past several minutes ago, although neither had noticed her. It was one of her greatest gifts, Camille thought; she could make herself almost invisible. Little ghost, as Isaac used to say.

The door swung open.

Isaac slipped into the alcove. He looked tired, Camille thought; his cheekbones were sunken hollows, and the black jacket — which had once strained at his shoulders — hung loosely from his frame. His grey eyes were gunmetal waves.

Camille hugged her knees tighter. "How did it go?"

"Well," Isaac said, "nobody's dead."

He ran a hand through his cropped hair. Camille rested her chin on her knees. "Did Ryne decide what to do?"

Isaac shook his head. "He's speaking with Anna."

Ah, Camille thought. That explained why Anna had looked ready to cut Ryne into tiny pieces and feed him to the carnivorous fish that lived in the moat. She stretched out her legs, wiggling her toes in the white satin slippers. Isaac looked at her bare ankles, swallowed, and then looked away.

"You should have been there." His voice was quiet.

Camille folded her hands in her lap. "You had it under control."

Isaac's mouth tightened. "That's not what I meant."

"I know," she said.

Isaac shifted his weight from foot to foot. He had never been very good at standing still, Camille recalled; imprisonment seemed to only have exacerbated that. "You're not her, Cami. She wore your face for a time, but you're not her. Everyone knows that."

Camille looked away.

She thought of that night in Libertas, how Penny had jumped and spun with the knife. She thought of children scattering in the street, of shopkeepers eyeing her suspiciously, of the way a man had spat on her boots when she'd been walking by the docks. I wish you'd died, he'd said. A crushing hollowness filled her.

Camile rose. "Come on."

Isaac's brow furrowed. "Where?"

"I want to show you something," Camille said.

Isaac glanced at the double doors. "I can't just leave them. I—"

"Isaac," Camille said. "Please."

She stretched out a hand. Isaac looked at it, and a shadow skittered across his face. Then he blinked, and it was gone. "Alright. Lead the way."

Camille led him up the stairs. She took a series of wrong turns — the servants' quarters were infinitely more confusing than the rest of the castle — and they had to retrace their steps twice, ducking under low-hanging ceilings. By the time they reached what Camille hoped was the correct door, a knot had lodged in her throat.

She pushed the door open.

The room was cramped. A narrow cot was wedged against the far wall, leaving about a foot of space to stand in. There were no windows, although someone had cut out paper stars and strung them along the ceiling. Several items — a pack of playing cards, a one-eyed plush toy, and a dragon figurine — littered the bed. Camille touched the sheets; they were rumpled and warm, as if someone had recently slept in them, although she knew that couldn't have been the case.

"What is this place?" Isaac asked.

He was half-stooped under the narrow ceiling, his gray eyes sweeping the room. A few paper stars dangled over his forehead like a crown.