Page 153 of Stealing Infinity (Stolen Beauty)

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I remember watching theMarie Antoinettemovie with Mason, and how we both swooned over the abundance of glamour and opulence—the wild parties; the bottomless glasses of champagne; the towers of tiny, sweet cakes; the piles of shoes and sparkling jewels; her ridiculous birdcage hairdo.

But never once, during all those multiple viewings, did it ever occur to me that I might end up like her—captured at Versailles and bound for the guillotine.

Though, now that I think about it, I probably have a better chance of being drawn and quartered, hung before a crowd of bloodthirsty onlookers, or maybe even burned at the stake, since I’m not sure they used the guillotine as early as 1745.

Either way, it’s just details. Because the fact is, I won’t even exist long enough for any of that to happen. I’ll be annihilated well before then.

It reminds me of what Oliver said about preferring to lose his head than being locked away in one of these bleak, hopeless boxes. And it makes me wonder if he ever found himself in a situation like this. Or am I the only one who’s managed to fail so spectacularly?

And I have failed, in every possible way.

The guard has taken possession of the sun, and Killian de Luce is still out there somewhere, sipping champagne and enjoying the party. While I’m locked in this nightmare of a prison, gagging on the scent of shit, piss, vomit, despair, and other foul things I’d prefer not to identify. All the while keeping a steady eye on my cellmate—a fat, filthy rat with beady red eyes that’s greedily feasting on a much smaller rat, a fraction of her size. Going by the smaller rat’s lack of fur and pink-toned flesh, I’m guessing it’s a baby. Which means the mama rat is cannibalizing one of her pups. I remember reading once that rats are prone to that sort of thing when faced with a shortage of food.

As I watch her make a meal of her offspring, hoping she doesn’t try to venture anywhere near me, I’m caught by the irony of how my mom essentially sentenced me to a similar fate. By signing me away to ensure her own survival, I eventually ended up here, trapped in this hell until the clock on the portal runs down.

A fresh wave of nausea rolls through me. An involuntary cry of anguish swells in my chest, robbing me of breath and causing my knees to falter, my legs to give out from under me, as I slump to the ground in a heap of sopping wet finery—voluminous rich silks and exquisite lace trim turned into a soggy, drooping mess—the once jaunty bows now a collection of wilted clumps.

Still, none of this regalia matters anymore.

Even in its glorious state, it wouldn’t have spared me from becoming yet another nameless, faceless woman abused, discarded, and forgotten by time.

I wonder if Braxton will miss me.

I wonder if anyone will suspect Elodie.

I knew she could be cruel, but this—this is a whole other level.

Never in my life have I felt so alone. So utterly helpless and lost.

I remember back at Arcana, how arrogant I was when I laughed before my own tombstone.

When I picture my grave marker now, this is what it says:

Here lies Natasha Antoinette Clarke

Disappointing daughter – Worse friend

She died as she lived:

an unconnected, untitled,

unknown girl of absolutely no consequence

She was lost in a place and time

in which she did not belong

And ultimately faded into oblivion

Never mind that the grave will be empty.

There will be no storybook ending.

No dashing knight astride a shiny steed coming to save me.

No handsome corporate raider to whisk me away in a white limousine.