The Stepsister Scheme

it can’t be redone?” Charlotte asked. “They severed Armand’s ties to Stacia. They can’t use magic to make him love her again. And they can’t risk letting him love you, or else your curse might be broken. If you lose the baby, they’ll have to give him to me. They’ll have to! Don’t you understand?”
    “You don’t need to take my son,” Danielle said. “Can’t you just let me go?”
    “I’m sorry.” Charlotte sniffed and turned away. “I truly am. But you’ve seen what Stacia’s become. Do you know what Rose would do to me if I helped you escape?”
    “We could both escape,” Danielle said. “I’ll protect you. Once we’re back home—”
    “There are worse things than darklings in the Duchess’ cavern,” Charlotte said. Her shoulders shook.
    “Drink.”
    “I’ll tell Stacia,” Danielle said through clenched teeth. She tried and failed to stop her arms from lifting the pot to her mouth.
    “Then I’ll cut out your tongue.”
    The pot touched her lower lip. The glazed clay was smooth as glass, and the smell seared her nostrils.
    The smell. As her hands tilted the pot, she inhaled, deliberately filling her lungs with the putrid smell. She felt ill, but it wasn’t the stomach-knotting pains of nausea. She exhaled and breathed in again, willing herself to throw up. She began to weep. Even the smell of soap had been enough to trigger her vomiting. But that was before Stacia’s darklings had aged her baby, rushing Danielle along in her pregnancy. Her body still ached as it tried to adjust, but the nausea had passed. In her impatience, Stacia might have doomed the baby.
    Mother, please help me. Don’t let this filth pass my lips.
    “It’s the only way,” Charlotte said. “They’ll have to give Armand back to me.”
    Danielle’s hand twitched. A few drops spilled onto her tongue. The taste of mint and camphor filled her mouth.
    “You’re still fighting it,” Charlotte said. She sounded impressed. She wiped tears from Danielle’s face. “Maybe Stacia’s curse isn’t as strong as she thought.” She reached for the cup, presumably to dump the contents down Danielle’s throat. She was so close Danielle could see every scar on her face, every stain on her shirt where she must have splashed some of this very potion.
    Those stains. Stacia had ordered Danielle to clean, to perform the same duties she had done for her stepmother. The longer those stains remained, the harder it would be to remove them. That shirt needed to be rinsed under cool water and washed as soon as possible. To ignore them would be to disobey Stacia’s command.
    Danielle’s fingers moved. The pot slipped from her grip as she reached for Charlotte’s shirt. Charlotte made a desperate grab, but missed. The pot shattered on the floor.
    Charlotte slapped her, knocking her back. “What are you doing?”
    “Your shirt was dirty,” Danielle said.
    “You stubborn, spiteful girl.” Charlotte grabbed Danielle by the shirt. “Why do you have to ruin every single thing?”
    Danielle could do nothing as Charlotte flung her against the wall. Her head hit hard enough to make her vision blur.
    Rage turned Charlotte’s expression monstrous. She had been pushed too far, and now she meant to finish what she had started back at the palace. She was going to murder Danielle. Stacia would kill her, but that no longer mattered. Charlotte was too far gone to reason with, even if Danielle had been free to speak.
    As Danielle lay in the pool of spilled tea, she spotted movement by the door. The old, tailless rat stood on his hind legs and sniffed the air. Had he heard Danielle’s silent pleas for help?
    The oil lamp , Danielle begged. Quickly.

The rat raced up the wardrobe, then sprang through the air. Tiny paws clung to the chain hanging from the oil lamp. The links rattled, but Charlotte was too furious to notice.
    Charlotte stepped away, reaching for the sword above her bed. “If you won’t drink, I’ll cut the damned child out of you myself. Don’t move. This will be over quickly.”
    Please hurry . The rat was running along the edge of the pipe now. He stopped at one of the wicks. This one needed to be replaced. Only a faint spot of flame still burned. Heedless of his own safety, the rat patted out the flame with his paws, then tugged the wick as high as he could. When it would move no more, he began to gnaw at the base.
    “I saw what this cursed sword did to my sister,” Charlotte muttered. She grabbed one