Meadow Faeoria's Arc

Chapter 8 of 12

Meadow lay under the willow with her cheek on her arm. The field was dark now. Her disguise had slipped off an hour ago and she had not noticed. Her wand's star was down to a green pinprick. Somewhere far off, a clock began to strike. She pressed the wand to her mouth. "Zagreus. Now." The pressure on her hand came back hard. He was already moving. Through the bond she felt the shape of a ballroom, warm bodies, music, and one small point of cold near the stairs — the blonde girl with the bottle, standing where Meadow had aimed her. Then she felt her brother reach for Cinder and stop. Cinder was on the floor with the Prince. Their hands were together. Zagreus could not push through the Prince's grip without knocking Cinder down in front of a hundred people. He waited a beat too long. The clock struck again. Four. Five. Meadow sat up. "Move her," she said into the wand. "Break the dance. I don't care how it looks." Zagreus put his cold on the back of Cinder's neck. Meadow felt Cinder turn. Meadow felt Cinder see the blonde girl at the edge of the floor, apron and bottle, mouthing the words Meadow had drilled into her. Run. Gown goes. Carriage goes. Shoes stay. Don't look at the coachman. Cinder ran. Meadow felt it through the bond — a bare foot on marble, then a slipper caught on a stair and left behind, then the second slipper still on. The gown tore off her in blue rags on the palace steps. The carriage came apart in the drive. The coachman with her father's face went out like a candle. The clock finished. Twelve. Meadow slumped forward. The green in the star died. Zagreus's presence pulled back to a whisper. The bond had done what it could do. Cinder was on foot, in her shift and one glass shoe, with no ride and no direction, and the stepfamily's house was the only place her feet knew. Meadow forced her head up. There was one person left in the field who could catch a running girl in the dark. Little Red stood at the edge of the willow's shadow, basket on her arm, as if she had been called. She had not been called. She simply came when there was blood in the air. "You look worse," Little Red said. "There's a girl running from the palace," Meadow said. "White shift. One glass shoe. She'll head for her stepmother's house because she doesn't know anywhere else. I need her not to." "Where should she go instead." Meadow pointed across the field, where a small iron cottage glowed between the trees like a lit lantern. "There. Anywhere but home. Ride her out." Little Red looked at the cottage. Then at Meadow. "I can find her," she said. "I can't promise she gets in the basket." "Try," Meadow said. Little Red went.