Page 89

Ofelia

The Shadow King’s castle loomed over us upon the silvery cliff face. Mother and I entered and wove through the palace’s dark hallways, where amber-colored crystals glowed on the black walls and strange small sparks drifted through the air like fireflies.

Le Château was light and sunshine and gold. This place was its inverse. The walls of this castle seemed to close in on me like I was trapped in a cave. Even so, I was mesmerized by the lights floating through the corridors, little stars in a world made of the night sky.

There were no chandeliers, no paintings, no tapestries. There were no servants, either, but sometimes in the little halos of light formed by the sconces, there’d be a flicker of movement—a Shadow slipping down the hallway.

The corridor gradually sloped upward, a long, winding ramp that was sometimes missing its walls altogether. Ilooked to my right as the wall broke to see that false moon once more, shining brilliantly over sparkling water.

We climbed higher and higher until we stood on a massive balcony. In one corner was a large pane of glass, like a dark mirror. Very faintly behind the glass was another room, with stone walls and ceilings and silver candelabras. The other side of the Hall of Illusions, I supposed. There were stone benches along the railed perimeter of the balcony, and across from the mirror was a tall, white door. It soared to the ceiling of the palace, easily the height of four men.

My hands trembled. I squeezed them tight against the fabric of my gown to try to calm myself. Then I knocked upon the door.

“Enter,” came a voice, slithering and gentle, but somehow loud enough that Mother and I both leapt in alarm.

I slipped into the room with Mother following behind me.

It was nothing like I imagined. The room was surprisingly bright, with marble floors and towering walls that were covered not in plaster or wood but thousands and thousands of books—not a blank inch of wall to be found. There was a black chaise longue decorated with fluffy white bundles, like clouds. There were three tables with various items meticulously set out and sorted. Gold rings, gold coins, a locket, a book, a small, skinny bone. A sword, sheet music, a pair of golden dancing shoes, a pomegranate. Dozens of strange items with no common theme to them.

At the far end of the circular chamber, the Shadow King sat at an enormous desk white as bone, sifting through papers as though he were a clerk or barrister and not a dark god. He lifted his head, his white eyes flaring like flickering candles at the sight of us. Mother curtsied and I followed suit.

“Marisol,” he said slowly. “Ofelia. I did not call for you.”

“No, sire,” I replied, standing tall, calling on the confidence that Lope would have wanted me to have. “I wished to have an audience with you.” With a glance at Mother, with a scheme and worry in my heart, I said, “Alone.”

Mother’s eyes widened, but the Shadow King said, “Very well. Marisol, wait outside while I speak with Ofelia.”

She whirled toward the king. “Sire, please—”

“Ofelia has made her choice.” The king nodded toward my mother. “She will return to you soon.”

I squeezed Mother’s hand. “It’s all right,” I promised her at a whisper. “I need to do this on my own.”

She sighed, shot me one of her “we’ll talk about this later” glares, and she then exited the king’s chamber.

My glass shoes clicked against the white marble as I crossed toward the chaise longue and what appeared to be the small clouds covering it. I placed my hand against one, and it was just as soft as it looked, a bit like the white fur stole Mother wore in the winter.

“Do you like them?”

I gasped at the suddenness of the voice to my right. TheShadow King stood at the far end of the room, watching me carefully.

Cradling one of the clouds, I held it to my chest to help suppress my galloping heartbeat. “They’re—they’re very pretty. What are they, exactly?”

The little white sparks of its eyes dimmed somewhat. “Pillows, I thought they were called.”

Pillows.In such a place, in the palace of a king of darkness, why would he wantpillows?

“Oh!” I said. “Well, they do seem a bit like pillows. But they... need to be covered by a bit of fabric.” I held the white mass in my hands again, inspecting it. “It looks more like a cloud than anything.”

“A cloud,” he repeated. When I glanced at him again, he was holding a black stick and touched it to a long white scroll. “Tell me what a cloud is.”

Every time I attempted to look at him, my stomach roiled. In my mind, I could only see him unhinging his jaw and snuffing out my life like all the other monsters would have done.

“I—I—A cloud looks very similar to this,” I said, holding the ball of fluff with my head bowed. “But they hang in the sky, high above.”

There was a gentle scratching sound as his pen poked at the scroll. “I see,” he said. “Can you release that cloud, then?”

I drew back my hands. Slowly, it floated into the air, as didthe other ones, lifting up to the domed, white ceiling of the room. It was so strange and marvelous that it gave me an odd comfort. I forgot, just for a moment, that I was in a monster’s library.