Page 19 of A Court of Sugar and Spice
Then a storm of rustling skirts and wild fury hits the rat, and I feel him roll off me.
“Get away from her!” screams Clara.
Never in my life have I heard my sister use that tone, not even during one of our many fights.
There’s a repeated, squelching rasp—I think it’s a blade jabbing through flesh, over and over.
Groggily, clutching my bruised face, I manage to sit up.
Clara, my cautious, sober Clara—my quiet, artistic sister—she’s plunging a knife into the body of the rat, again and again. Tears glitter on her cheeks, and her hair has completely fallen out of its updo.
I crawl over to her and touch her shoulder. “He’s dead, Clara. You can stop.”
She pulls her knife out. Throws it aside. Then she turns into me and collapses against my shoulder, sobbing.
Patting her back, I glance to my left, where the Nutcracker has just succeeded in running his opponent through the chest. Some distance beyond, the third rat is snarling, his hand pinned to a tree by Clara’s other knife. Wearily the Nutcracker stalks over and stabs him through the heart as well.
The beautiful forest is quiet, except for Clara’s hitching breaths and a trickle of birdsong.
The Nutcracker limps toward us, blood dripping down his blade. “We were lucky they had aura magic, not focused magic.”
“What do you mean?”
“They were using their Unseelie magic in aura form, to spoil the air and befoul the earth. Had they been using it in focused form, they would have overcome us much more quickly. My magic is still inaccessible to me, and daggers are of no use against spells.”
“You’re also fortunate we decided to come with you,” I tell him. “Otherwise you’d be dead.”
“Yes, most likely my head would be on its way to the Rat King. Are you all right? Your face—” He bends stiffly, reaching toward my bruised cheek.
I pull back. “I’ll be fine.”
“That soldier… that is, I should have gotten to you sooner. I was trying...” He looks pained. “I wouldn’t have let him—I—”
“It’s all right. Clara got to me first.”
My sister pulls back, wiping her eyes. “I should be comfortingyou, Louisa. I’m sorry. I’m all right now.”
She’s used to apologizing for tears. So am I. Our father despised crying—said that tears were a woman’s tool to manipulate men. Clara and I learned long ago that we should only shed them in secret.
“Don’t apologize,” I tell her. “Papa isn’t here to fuss at you.”
“No. He’s not here. And our godfather, our guardian—he left us.” She looks at me, her lashes still wet. “Drosselmeyer left us to die.”
I nod. “He’s a cowardly asshole.”
“Louisa, we can’t go back now. The portal is gone, and Drosselmeyer—who knows what he would do to us, for helping the Nutcracker escape? And that means we—we’re stuck—”
“Don’t,” I say, frantic, gripping her arm. “Don’t say it. Not yet. We only have to think about the next step, no farther.”
I can’t bear to think what it means that the portal is gone, that we’ve burned the bridge with our guardian. I can’t face that reality yet.
I climb to my feet and help Clara up, too.
“I think we can safely assume that the Unseelie have overtaken your realm,” I say to the Nutcracker. “Those were Unseelie Fae, yes?”
“Servants of the Rat King.” He gives me a dejected nod. “It is as I feared. And those eight were merely a scouting party. There will be more, many more. We cannot stay here, and we cannot fight another group like that by ourselves. We need help.”
“Surely you have servants, soldiers, allies?” suggests Clara.
