Page 161 of The Thirteenth Child
I froze, the magnitude of what I was about to do crashing over me like a wave.
I was about to make Leopold a king.
Without warning, Marnaigne’s candle changed, its flame flaring, a burst of heat exploding from it. The taper instantly melted, turning to a river of scalding wax that ran down my fingers, burning my hands. I cradled the fiery liquid, trying to salvage something of my candle, but it was impossible.
“Leo!” I didn’t know what I was asking of him, didn’t know how he could help.
But before he could reach me, the flame winked out, and the king was gone.
Chapter 56
Leopold and I stared downat my hands, aghast.
The candle was gone.
Marnaigne was gone.
A cry of pain bubbled up from within me, releasing in a sob. The palms of my hands were burned and blistered. I could feel the last of the flame’s heat embed itself within me. My fingers trembled,unable to open or shut. The spent wax had already begun to cool, hardening my hands into fists.
“He’s gone.” I gasped, tears falling down my face. Tears of pain, tears for Euphemia. So, so many tears.
“What happened?” Leopold asked.
“I don’t know. The last I saw of him, he was yelling at Margaux. He looked so mad.”
“He’s dead?” Leo’s voice was a mix of sorrow and anger, confusion and fear.
I wasn’t sure how the puddle of wax could mean anything else.
“That’s it?” Leopold stared at the blackened skim left behind, looking sick. “That’s how his life ends? I thought when he died itwould be…grand somehow. There would be a moment of importance, some sort of absolution or catharsis or…but he’s just…he’s just gone. He didn’t even know it was coming.”
“Very few people do,” I agreed, feeling small. I flexed my fingers, trying to break the cooled wax off my skin.
“How did it happen?”
I swept my eyes over the table, trying to find anything that would explain what went wrong.
I found Margaux’s candle quickly. Her hands were raised defensively against a squadron of guards. She held a knife, its tip red. A splotch of blood stained the front of her robes.
“She stabbed him,” I whispered. “He was calling the guards and she must have stabbed him.”
I couldn’t imagine how confusing the throne room was at that moment, how full of anger and rage and fear.
Somewhere, Calamité was smiling.
One of the guards darted forward, thrusting his halberd at Margaux.
The knife fell from her hands, clattering uselessly on the floor. A splash of entrails followed.
Margaux’s candle flared, its length melting with terrible speed until all that remained was a drifting waft of smoke. The last thing I saw was her staggering back, crashing atop the fallen king.
“She’s dead too,” Leopold said, putting everything together. “They’re both dead. Margaux and Papa…” He let out a shaking breath. “Papa’s candle is gone…. Euphemia’s going to die, isn’tshe?”
“I don’t know how to save her,” I admitted.
I wanted to. I truly did.
I didn’t want her to die.
