Page 16 of A Court of Sugar and Spice
Louisa exhales, and her breathing slows.
“Good girl,” says the Prince. “Keep holding my hand, Louisa. I’ll take your hand as well, Clara. There now. You two help me walk on these curse-addled legs of mine, and I’ll guide you.”
Slowly we begin to move. My shoes are low-heeled, thank goodness, but it’s still difficult to walk across such ground—chunky gemstones and intertwined roots. I nearly turn my ankle a few times.
“Quickly now. As quickly as you can.” The Nutcracker’s voice is taut with concern. “The hunter will soon figure out that we went through the portal. He’ll be after us before we—”
“Clara! Louisa!” A commanding shout from behind us. “Don’t go with him. He’s not what he seems. You don’t know who they are, what they do—”
“Open your eyes,” urges the Nutcracker. “We must run!”
I open them, just a little. Just enough to see what’s in front of me. But my heart is pounding, because our guardian voiced the very doubts Louisa mentioned back in the weapons room.
We’re running now, as best we can, hobbling and hopping away from the portal. I risk a glance backward, and there’s Godfather Drosselmeyer. He lifts something—a kind of clockwork crossbow—and aims it at the Nutcracker.
“Down!” I scream, flinging myself flat and dragging the Nutcracker with me. The missile whines right over his head, knocking his hat askew.
“Stop!” shouts Drosselmeyer. “Stop, you idiot girls! You’ll ruin everything!”
A moment ago I might have considered going back, at least to talk. But I don’t fancy being called “idiot girl” and having someone shoot so close to me.
Louisa must be thinking the same thing—she’s on her feet again, helping me get the Nutcracker to his feet. “Faster!” she cries, but I see her look up, eyes wide—and I look, too. I let the glory of Faerie back in.
Its radiance is dizzying. I try to run, but all I want to do is stand still and absorb the countless textures, multihued shadows, and astonishing patterns. Everything is painfully sharp, agonizingly detailed.
Another bolt whizzes by, between the Nutcracker’s head and Louisa’s. Dimly I hear Drosselmeyer shouting curses, or words in another language, perhaps. The words of a spell.
“Shut your eyes,” begs the Nutcracker. His words register slowly, like molasses dripping into my brain.
I think I should obey.
But before I can, eight tall figures in dark robes emerge from between the lavender and gold trunks of the trees.
The sight of them is as incongruous as it is startling. They’re so brutally hideous in contrast to everything else that my mind snaps into balance at once.
They’re tall and slim, like the Nutcracker. But they wear long black robes, spiked pauldrons crafted from some unfamiliar metal, and collars of coarse fur. Some carry swords, others thorny-looking clubs. But the thing they all have in common, the thing that makes my palms sweat and my spine tingle with horror—each of them has the head of an enormous white rat. Their beady black eyes gleam with maleficence, and each rat’s head wears a wide smile laced with rows and rows of serrated black teeth. A miasma of rank shadows seems to form around them, dulling the color of the world and fouling the air.
I scream.
“Fuck,” whispers the Nutcracker.
Louisa draws her dagger, the one she used to threaten the Prince. She braces herself, legs apart.
Frantically I follow her example, dragging my bone-knives out of their small sheaths. When I buckled them around my waist before entering the study, they seemed over-large and unwieldy. Now they look much too small in my hands. Too small to protect me, or my sister, or anyone else.
With an awkward, wooden jerk, the Nutcracker draws his sword too.
The rat-headed soldiers approach us, brandishing their own swords and clubs.
I look over my shoulder, back to where Godfather Drosselmeyer stands aghast, staring at the oncoming monsters.
“Help us!” I scream.
He grips his crossbow. Takes a step forward.
The rats snarl in anticipation, a guttural, unearthly hiss.
Drosselmeyer turns and charges back through the ring of woven branches. He disappears.
