“Cold. And he stinks of piss.”
I smothered a giggle. Cherie’s prissiness and disdain were back, but I’d never heard her utter a single curse word. Perhaps they hadn’t destroyed her spirit after all.
The dragged bodies left slug trails of blood from the grand, soaring ballroom to the smaller laboratory. When Vale began pulling down the paintings and piling them on top of the men, I wordlessly went to work with him, knocking them down with a broom when they were too high up. Men and art were soon piled too high to reach the top, and my shoulders ached by the time we were done.
“Is there anything else here we need?” Vale asked Cherie.
She shook her head primly. “Everything should burn.”
I reached for her hands, careful of the places where her talons had broken off. “If Lenoir used the same magic on you and the girls here that he used on me, you should all go back to normal once the paintings have been destroyed.”
Cherie’s beautiful eyes went faraway and hard. “We will never be normal again.”
Vale picked her up like a child and carried her to the door. I went to a sconce bolted to the wall and used the flame within to light one of Lenoir’s expensive brushes. The oil-soaked bristles went up so quickly that I singed my fingers, and I tossed it onto the pile of paintings with a grim smile. Brush after brush, I stuck the soft hair into the fire and held them to tuxedos, to frames, to raw canvas, to the prince’s curly-toed boots. The flames crackled and caught and spread until sweat soaked my chemise and I choked on oily smoke.
I had saved Cherie’s painting for last, and I selected a long-handled brush to paint it with flame. The portrait was nearly complete, and the surface flared into a blaze of blue, the corners curling as it burned. I had just thrown the brush on top of the pyre and turned to run when someone burst through the door: Bea, with Mel right behind her.
“Bea, love, no! This place is going up quick. We must run.” Mel tugged at Bea’s arm, unintentionally tearing her shirt to reveal blue skin splattered with blood. But Bea shook her head and stumbled past me, past the pyre of paintings and into a corner of cabinets that I’d ignored, assuming it was just a collection of paints and turps or possibly horrible instruments that I certainly didn’t want to see up close, much less touch.
The smoke was thick and getting thicker, and Bea’s mostly silent cough was one of the saddest sounds I’d ever heard. Ignoring us, ignoring the flames, ignoring every shouted warning, she ripped open the cabinet and began knocking its contents to the ground. The first jar that broke carried the stink of Monsieur Charmant and his magic, and the brief snatches I could see through the smoke showed me the same sort of dark ingredients and talismans I had seen in the daimon’s Darkside shop. Soon I couldn’t see what was happening, could only hear the crashes and clanks of Bea’s bizarre desperation.
“Seriously, Bea. This place is about to explode. We have to go!” I shouted. Mel tried to run around me and make a break for Bea, but I caught her around the waist and put my mouth to her ear. “She can’t last much longer in this smoke, and you can’t go over there. It’s too dangerous.”
“I have to get her!” Mel’s voice was part cough, part sob, part scream as she thrashed in my arms.
“No, you don’t.”
The voice was husky and rich and utterly unfamiliar. Every hair on my body rose as Bea fought through the smoke and into Mel’s embrace.
“I am here, my Melissande,” she said, and for the first time, we heard her sob with joy.
Mel danced her around in an ecstatic hug, and I couldn’t resist putting a hand on Bea’s back, hoping she could feel the insane amounts of comfort and happiness I was experiencing, knowing that she had found and reclaimed her voice.
Something exploded in the corner where Bea had been tossing the cabinet, and I caught them both by their sleeves, pulling them toward the door.
Bea grinned at us. “Let’s go,” she said, and I knew I would never get tired of that beautiful, magical voice of hers.
In a confused jumble of hugs and coughs, we dragged one another out the door. I slammed it behind me, twisting the submarine-like wheel to lock it. Vale waited by the curtain, Cherie’s slender arms around his neck and her face held away from his skin as if he smelled like wet dog.
“Is it done?” he asked.
“Completely,” Bea said, and Vale’s face lit up.
Taking Mel’s hand, Bea darted through the curtains and into the catacombs. The amount of joy in the last five minutes had put wings on the girl’s feet, and I couldn’t wait to hear her sing. But I had to get topside, first.