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“Unless she doesn’t make it that long.” I point out the likelier scenario. “And we will never be sure. Even if the components react a certain way in that vial, there is no telling what it will do in the human body. You know that as well as I do.” My voice is rising, in spite of myself.
“That’s not a risk I’m willing to take,” he yells right back.
I think about what I said about Madame liking to make this his fault, think about what it must have been like to feel responsible for the suffering of those you were meant to protect, every single day for seventeen years. It’s unimaginable.
But he’s also wrong this time.
“I know you don’t want to be the one responsible for their suffering,” I try for a gentler tone that is so at odds with everything in my nature, and I’m not sure I succeed. “But you aren’t looking at this objectively.”
He narrows his eyes, his spine stiffening. “You don’t get to come into this situation two decades after the fact and judge --”
“Enough!” Sigrid’s weak yell turns immediately into a cough, and we both rush to her side, helping her into a sitting position.
Wordlessly, she fixes Einar with one of her stubborn looks, and then me. Finally, she holds out her hand, palm up, a reminder that this choice does not belong to either of us.
We exchange a guarded look, and I see the moment he relents. Reluctantly, he uncorks the small glass bottle and places it in her shaking hand, steadying it with his own.
“Are you certain?” he asks her, trepidation tightening his voice.
Her coughs subside long enough for her to give him a definitive nod. Before she can start up again, he helps her get the vial to her beak. She drinks it down in a single gulp, visibly working to calm her lungs before she is forced to spit it back out.
We wait a few moments, and nothing happens. Einar’s hunched shoulders relax a fraction of a millimeter. I study Sigrid’s face for any sign of a change, but there is nothing.
Then, the screaming starts.
Chapter Forty-One
Einar
Sigrid’s tortured wails pierce into every guilt-ridden part of my soul. I wrap my arms around her, eyes burning as I watch her writhe in pain. Damn her for taking that vial. And damn Zaina for convincing her.
Now, she will die in agony, and there’s nothing I can do besides hold her through the end.
Zaina moves closer before I stop her.
“Get out,” I say through gritted teeth.
She looks shocked, confused. As angry as I am at her, at Sigrid, at the entire world, there is a part of me that knows it isn’t her fault...but that part is diminished by the sound of Sigrid’s choking gasps for air between screams.
Khijhana paces anxiously. In spite of Zaina’s calm features, I know that she is worried as well. She hasn’t moved from where she is staring at Sigrid, her eyes wide with disbelief.
“Einar,” she starts and stops again before I interrupt her.
“Someone will be in any moment, Zaina. Take Khijhana and go through the passageway behind the wardrobe. Now.” I force each word out in each small silence in between Sigrid’s cries.
“Einar, look!” Zaina practically shouts and points at Sigrid’s hands.
The black feathers are falling from her skin, leaving raw puffs of bleeding skin behind. Slowly, the blood stops flowing, and the wounds begin to close.
Just like Zaina’s burns at the Springs.
Zaina’s golden eyes are wide with awe, watching as Sigrid’s body heals itself.
The door flies open. I open my mouth to tell Zaina to hide, but she’s already gone.
It’s Leif and Lord Orlan, one of the longest-standing members of my court. Their features are panic stricken, but morph to something else when they look at Sigrid and the bloody feathers on her bed.
“What--” Leif begins, rushing to her side. “What is this?” His voice is strained.
