Thread of Darkness

Ch. 40: this may hurt a little

She took off her blue ring. A shiver went down Camille's spine, and she took an instinctive step backward as Brigid raised the ring, but the dowager queen merely placed it against the back of her necklace.

"This may hurt a little," Brigid said.

There was a click. Something prickled along her collarbones, like needled teeth digging into her skin. Her skin was hot. Her skin was ice cold. The necklace slithered to the floor, crumpling into a pile at her feet.

Camille stared.

The silver chain was coiled, like a cat curled before a fireplace, and the dull blue gemstone gazed up at her. It looked so innocuous, she thought. So harmless. Camille touched her neck; it felt oddly vulnerable, raw and exposed as the root of a tooth.

She turned to face Brigid. "Was it painless?"

Brigid slid back on the ring. "I don't understand the question."

"When you killed my mother." Her voice was low. "Was it painless?"

The dowager queen paused. Her ring was halfway on her finger, squatting on her knuckle like an ugly toad. Something terrible was building in Camille's chest, an iron hammer forged in flame. She wanted to kick over the chair. She wanted to break the mirror.

She looked at the necklace on the floor. Then she looked at Brigid.

And Camille smiled.

Brigid's dark eyes were blank. "I have no idea what you're—"

"Don't." She took a step closer. "Do not lie to me. Not after everything you've done."

"Camille..."

"I went to the cottage." Her voice was ragged. "I saw it."

There was a long pause. Brigid turned to the sideboard, sliding her ring into place. She poured a glass of champagne with steady hands.

"I put them to sleep first," Brigid said. "I gave them beautiful dreams of a countryside mansion, and a loving family, and a farm with three chickens and a dog. Then I injected poison into their veins." She turned. "They died painlessly."

Her heart hammered in her chest. "Were they even my real parents?"

Brigid exhaled. "Camille—"

"Answer the question," Camille said.

There was a knock on the door.

Both women turned as John slipped in, accompanied by his usual clipboard and quill. He was dressed in his finery today — polished boots, a golden waistcoat, and a jacket with several shiny pins and badges — and his greying hair was slicked back. He was also, Camille noted, walking just a little too quickly.

John scanned the room. Then he turned for the door.

"Sorry to disturb you, ladies," he said.

Brigid set down her champagne glass. "What are you looking for?"

John paused. "An umbrella."

Brigid raised an eyebrow. "An umbrella?"

"Mmm. Just in case."

Camille looked out the window. The sky stretched out for miles, an endless sea of azure blue; gold and red leaves tumbled to the ground in a fiery cascade. Somewhere, a songbird was singing. No sign of rain.

"John." Brigid took a step forward. "Where is my son?"

"Truthfully?" John's knuckles were white on the clipboard. "I don't know."