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“I only learned of your existence two months ago,” she says at last. “When I was assigned to accompany the duchess to France.”
While her words bear the weight of truth, I also sense there is more to it than that. Frustration hums through my veins. “There are others at the convent besides yourself. Why not send someone sooner?”
Just as the convent taught us, she pivots, going on the offense. “Why?” she demands. “Are you indulging in a fit of temper, or has something happened to make timing of the essence?”
Because everything inside me wishes to avoid her question, I lean forward instead, not caring that it brings my dagger out into the open. “If you want to come back into my life after five years of nothing, you’ll have to start with some explanations. Something far more satisfactory than ‘we were busy.’”
She does not so much as spare my weapon a glance, but inclines her head, imbuing the movement with feline grace. “Very well. You are owed that at least.” For some reason, the sympathy in her voice infuriates me. She knows why we were left to molder.
“The abbess who sent you and Margot to France was an impostor.” Although she speaks clearly enough, the words scarcely make sense. “She was not a daughter of Mortain. Was not sired by the god of death. The person controlling all of our lives was not interested in the well-being of his daughters. Only her own.”
Her words hit me like a blow, and I struggle to grasp the enormity of what she claims. “How could such a thing happen?”
For the first time, she looks away, toward the window. “Sometimes the sheer scope and daring of a plan make it impossible to see it for the lie that it is.” Her gaze shifts back to me. “I am sorry that you were abandoned. Sorry that even now, you feel you must protect yourself with that knife.”
The sincerity of her words permeates my fog of anger, and for a moment, I want to throw myself into the comfort she is offering. Until I remember that she would never offer such comfort if she knew what I have done. Would possibly kill me on the spot.
“Many of the decisions the abbess made were designed to keep her own secrets.” The note of bitterness in her voice is personal, hiding closely held pain. She, too, has been hurt by this woman.
“Is the abbess going to be punished for what she’s done?”
The woman studies me a moment before answering. “A convocation of the Nine was called. She was put on trial, stripped of her position, and is now serving the crones of Dea Matrona, making amends for those she should have mothered but failed.”
I nod, but it is not enough. Not for the enormity of what her crimes have cost me. Cost Margot. Will have cost this entire convent when the truth of what I have done is laid bare. “When did that happen?”
“The abbess was removed nearly two months ago.”
“What day precisely?” Two months was before Angoulême claimed to have received the fateful letter, but letters take time to reach their destination. Could she have sent it, or was it truly a deception on Angoulême’s part?
“The convocation was called on the eighteenth of November. The abbess was relieved of her duties two days prior to that.”
This answer is as helpful as a knife made of sheep’s wool. It is possible that the abbess sent the letter.
“That does not explain where you have been for the last two months.” Margot was still alive two months ago. Not that this woman could have saved her, but the red, angry part of my soul does not care.
“The convent records were woefully inadequate and provided nothing to help us find you.”
“But I have been in Plessis for four days!” If she had found me even a single day earlier, I would not have exposed the convent to the king.
“It is a big palace with a large number of retainers. With my duties to the queen, I do not always know the moment a new person arrives. Especially if they are not formally announced.” She grows still, her head cocking to one side as she studies me anew. I can practically see the rash of questions she is forming.
Since I’ve no wish to answer any of them, I toss another one of my own at her. “How did you learn I was here?”
“I came upon you praying in the chapel. It wasn’t until you placed an offering in one of the niches on the wall that I guessed.” She opens her hand. The bright red of my holly berry makes her skin look unnaturally white. “I couldn’t see what it was, nor understand the significance of it, until you had already left. And then there were pressing matters I had to attend to.” A cold, hard look flashes briefly across her face. A look that sends goose bumps down my spine and warns me that she would not hesitate to shove a knife in my back if my actions warranted it.
But even that knowledge doesn’t temper the anger lapping along my skin like flames. Pressing matters. But for a hand span of hours, I would not have ruined everything. “You should have come sooner.” The words are empty, those of a desperate child, but I utter them nonetheless, as if by repeating them often enough, I can make the fault hers, not mine.
“I came last night, as soon as I was certain. You weren’t here. Where were you?”
“I was at dinner, with the rest of the court.”
“It was later than that. When everyone else was abed.”
As I consider what to tell her, the silence between us lengthens. Her fingers are drifting to the edge of her sleeve when a sharp rap on the door stills her hand.
“Demoiselle Genevieve?” a voice calls out.
Relief surges through me. “Coming!” I hop from the bed and straighten my skirts and bodice.
“Why are you being summoned?” The question is as sharp as I imagine her knives to be.
“We shall find out,” I snap, shoving my hair into some semblance of order. When I reach the door, I am surprised to find the steward standing in the hallway. I curtsy. “My lord, how may I serve?”
“I am sorry to disturb you, demoiselle, but the king is looking for Lady Sybella. One of the other ladies said she thought she saw her heading toward your chambers.”
Sybella. I roll the name across my tongue. Grateful for this reprieve, for a chance to digest what little she has told me, I turn to her. “Apparently, you are the one being summoned.”
Chapter 2
Sybella
As I step out of Genevieve’s room into the hallway, I wonder if she knows just how much she owes the king’s steward. I was within a hair’s breadth of grabbing her by the shoulders, giving her a hard shake, and ordering her to pull herself together. There are far larger problems than hurt feelings and wounded pride to deal with right now.
Perhaps that is the darkness in me—once embraced, it continues to push and prod until I do its infernal bidding. Or perhaps it is simply that between the regent’s plotting, the king’s indifference, my sisters’ danger, and the queen’s illness, I have no patience for such indulgences.
“This way, my lady.” As the steward steps in front of me, I hear Genevieve slip into the hallway behind us. Not her footsteps, for they are as light as any assassin’s should be. It is her heart I hear, beating the slightly too rapid rhythm it has had since she first discovered me in her room.
For so long I’ve held out hope of finding one of the convent’s elusive moles, but instead of gaining an ally, I have found an angry and sullen girl. One who is hiding something. But what—and why—elude me. Why is nothing in this benighted court ever simple?
I resist the urge to scowl in annoyance, and keep my face carefully blank. Why does the king wish to see me? I can think of no good reason for the request—and many disastrous ones. My mind sorts through possible plans and explanations, devising lies I can tell convincingly, and truths I can share without exposing myself.
When the steward speaks to the sentries at the king’s door, I fall back beside Genevieve. “Where is Margot?” I ask, my attention firmly fixed on the steward. “I fear we may need her shortly.” Because of Genevieve’s evasiveness, I am no longer certain she can be trusted.
“Margot will not be coming.”
At the note of finality in her voice, I tear my gaze from the steward. “Why not?”
She meets my eyes coolly. “Because she is dead.”
Her words barely have time to register before the steward announces me to the king. “The Lady Sybella, Your Majesty. As you requested.” With my mind still reeling from Genevieve’s news, I am ushered into the room. There is a faint rustle of silk as Genevieve slips in behind me and drifts—as silent and unobtrusive as a ghost—to stand among the other courtiers at the fringes of the room.
But I can spare her no more thought. The king sits on his throne with a cluster of military men and bishops behind him. Something about his manner has shifted since yesterday, although I cannot put my finger on it. The queen is not present, but the regent stands to his right. It is not until she steps away from the man she is speaking with—my brother’s lawyer, Monsieur Fremin—that my worst fears are awakened.
I force a placid, bemused smile upon my face. When Fremin sees me, he takes three steps forward. Only the formality of our surroundings keeps him from launching himself at me. “What have you done with my men?”
I halt, recoiling slightly, as if his abrasive behavior is threatening to me.
