“Let us in!” She pounded on the door. “You have to let us in!”
She paced up and down the front stairs. She leaned over the bridge railing, looking for another entrance, but the ravine plunged on both sides. The only way to reach the abbey was from the bridge. Somehow, she and Little Beau had to get inside. If she froze to death, where would the rest of the beasties be? Trapped forever in animal form. She forced her stiff fingers to hunt through her pockets until she found Rennar’s mirror, and she pulled it out, breathed on it, and cleaned it with her sleeve. In the faint light reflecting off the snow, she could just make out three cages. The cat. The wolf. The mouse. Rennar, that salaud! Why hadn’t he changed Luc from a mouse as he’d promised? Surely Viggo and the Goblins had moved into their captive luxury at Castle Ides by now.
She shivered, and the mirror slipped from her hand into the snow, landing next to the jar of seeds. Anouk considered her situation. Her options were bleak. She’d sooner kiss a Snow Child than summon Rennar for help. There was no other way into the Cottage except the front door. There was a stained-glass window above it, but it had to be fifteen feet up.
She squinted into the door lock. Cricket had taught her a lock-picking spell, but it was finicky. Without knowing if the door was deadbolted, chain-locked, or barricaded, she might end up casting the wrong spell and seal her own mouth shut instead. Little Beau shook off his pelt of snow and went to the door, whining. He looked plaintively back at Anouk.
“I know. I know.”
She squinted up into the snow. The front of the abbey was made of massive stone bricks worn smooth from wind and rain. She tried to climb them, but her frostbitten fingers slipped right off. Still, that window was her only option.
She dropped to her knees, shoved the mirror back in her pocket, and grabbed the jar holding the seeds. They were flat and brown, each as big as her thumb. Mada Vittora used these seeds when she wanted to summon a vine strong enough to string up a Goblin by the ankles.
Clutching the jar, she crawled to the base of the abbey and dug through the snow until she hit frozen soil. She chipped away at it until her fingernails were torn and bloody and she had a hole just large enough for one of the seeds. She buried it beneath the ground. She placed another on her tongue along with the wilted mint and a few strands of hair from her own scalp. The sweet taste of mint took her back to summertime, to warmth and Luc’s garden, and she swallowed the life-essence with a handful of snow and whispered: “Jermis-s-s . . .”
Her teeth chattered so violently that she couldn’t get the whisper out. She cupped her hands over her lips, puffed warm air into them.
“Jermis!”
A spark of magic flared to life in her throat, spreading a ripple of warmth through her lips. The soil beneath her hands trembled and parted. A sprout rose so fast that Anouk had to jerk back to avoid being smacked in the face by a leaf. The vine rose two feet, then four, then six, and kept going. It was as thick around as her wrist and forked into alternate branches every foot or so, branches that found weaknesses in the grout and fastened themselves on. Anouk grabbed the hairy vine and tugged it as hard as she could to test its strength. It could have been hammered in with nails. It climbed all the way to the roof and might have kept going—she couldn’t see that far with the snowstorm.
She shrugged off her fur coat and twisted the sleeves into a makeshift sling that she slid around her shoulder. Beneath it she wore the Faustine jacket over a few layers of sweaters. Snow caught in the beautiful colored threads. “Come on, Little Beau. You’ll have to climb on my back.”
It wasn’t easy to get a hundred-pound dog on her back. After some shuffling, she hoisted his wet paws onto her shoulders and secured him there in the sling. His panting was strained. He was shivering uncontrollably.
She began to climb.
It was slow going, but she made it up inch by inch. Before, the only ladder she’d climbed had been the one that led from Mada Vittora’s attic to the rooftop. How long ago had she and Beau climbed to the roof and marveled at the beauty of Paris? The glittering lights of Paris were far away now.
Don’t look down, she told herself. The vine rose straight up the abbey face; if she slipped and the wind caught her, she might fall beyond the bridge into the ravine.
Little Beau hunkered down against her back, not moving a muscle, as though he knew how precariously he was tied to her. His nose was tucked into the fold of her jacket collar. How high up were they now? Ten feet? Warm, flickering light came from the other side of the window. She pictured herself and Beau curled up by a hearth, drinking hot tea. It gave her the strength to climb the rest of the way, and, muscles burning, she hauled them both onto the wide window ledge. She paused to catch her breath. Little Beau whined softly. From somewhere, she caught a whiff of fresh bread, and her stomach ached.
She twisted the window latch, but it didn’t give. Frozen shut. “Zut alors!”
She gritted her teeth and shoved again. Something squeaked. Then groaned. Without warning, the latch gave way and the window swung inward. Before she knew it, she was falling forward. No! She tried to grab the vine, but it slipped out of her grasp. With Beau still strapped to her back, she plunged down into the abbey. A fifteen-foot fall. She glimpsed church-style lanterns hanging from the ceiling. A cavernous room. A fire roaring in an enormous fireplace at the far end. And then—
“Ow!” She smacked into the floor hard enough to rattle her bones. Little Beau scrambled, his limbs tangled in the makeshift fur-coat sling. His paw collided with her head. She clamped a hand over her temple. Every one of her muscles screamed. If she hadn’t broken anything, it would be a miracle.
She cursed and rubbed her backside.
Little Beau managed to get himself onto all fours. She hoped he hadn’t broken anything either.
Slowly, she became aware of their company.
They’d fallen into what appeared to be a great hall, though, judging by the stained-glass window and high ceilings, it could once have been the nave of a church. There were no pews or altars or pulpits now. There was only the massive fire roaring at the far end and two long wooden tables flanking it.
A few girls sat at either table, each curled over a bowl of something steaming, a glass of water, and a small hunk of bread. All their eyes were on her. The girls seemed just as surprised to see Anouk falling through their window as Anouk was to see them.
“I’ve . . . come to . . . study under . . . Duke Karolinge.” Her teeth were chattering so hard, she wasn’t sure they could understand her. “I’m sorry about . . . the window. The . . . door was locked.”
A girl who looked to be around twenty years old, with black skin and hair cropped close to her scalp, stood from the bench. Like all of the girls, she was wearing a plain gray muslin dress with a white smock apron and a rope belt.
“That’s because we locked it.” She had a British accent. Her tone was blunt but not without kindness. “We didn’t let you in for a reason. The Duke isn’t taking new acolytes.” Well, merde.
Anouk’s muscles gave out. She fell back to the floor and stared at the ceiling. She’d come all this way. Her friends were depending on her. “He’ll make an exception for me.”
One of the other girls snorted. “Not likely.”
Anouk took a deep breath.
Then she sat up and prepared to do whatever it took to remain within those four walls.