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I stare at her a moment, the fullness of her words not penetrating.
“A most tragic one,” I finally say.
“Indeed.”
* * *
I head directly for Gen’s chambers. Around me, everyone is busy readying the household to make the great trek to Paris for the coronation. I am glad that it appears to be proceeding as planned and wonder how the regent lost that battle.
When I reach Genevieve’s room, I knock, but there is no answer. There is no heartbeat, either. Puzzled, I open the door and slip inside. Her room is empty, the bed not slept in. I frown, remembering my last words to her to distract the king. Merde. I told her not to do anything other than distract him. But that was naïve of me. I have seen the guilt and remorse she drags behind her like a millstone. She would have done whatever it took. If she is not here, nor in the ladies’ solar, then there is only one place she could be.
And fortunately for me, the king is outside with the queen.
Using the small servants’ corridor, I count the doors until I reach the one that leads to the king’s private apartments. I put my ear to the door and hear only one heartbeat—too steady, strong, and familiar to be the king’s elderly valet. I silently lift the latch and peek into the room.
In the dim light I see a slim figure lying on the couch, covered in a blanket. While I do not like that the curtains have not been drawn back from the windows, I am glad she is at least on the couch and not in the king’s bed.
As I step fully into the room, Gen stirs and sits up, pushing her hair out of her eyes.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” I say cheerfully.
“Sybella?” She quickly grabs the corner of the blanket and pulls it close.
“?’Tis I. Come to thank you for distracting the king long enough that reason could prevail and”—my voice gentles—“to be certain you did not force yourself to cross any lines you did not wish to.”
“Of course not,” she says, appearing discomfited by my words.
“Well and good, then. He has declared Fremin’s death an accident, and the queen is back in his favor. If that was all thanks to you, it is no wonder you are still abed.”
Genevieve smiles, but it does not quite reach her eyes. “I am glad.” While there is no doubting the sincerity of her words, something is off. Something I cannot yet put my finger on.
I glance around at the sitting room that, for all of its opulence, feels dim and dour. “Why is he keeping you shut up in here?”
“He is the king. Does he need a reason?” Her answer furthers my unease. It was meant to be a jest.
“Is it because of your association with me?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
She sighs heavily, as if annoyed. Since it is a ploy I am well familiar with, I ignore it. “Because it suits him. He is . . . less than happy with me at the moment and finds it amusing to keep me under his thumb.”
I come farther into the room, examining her face closely, trying to discern what her words are hiding. “What did you do that has him so wroth with you?” And yet so at peace with the rest of the court. Including me.
She looks down to fiddle with the corner of the blanket. “It is a private matter. There is no need to discuss it. Now I have a question for you,” she says in a rush, blocking any attempt I might make at arguing. “How—what—did you do with your blood? What trick was that—to make souls disappear in such a way? Is that another of your gifts from Mortain?” Her voice holds a faint note of bitterness.
“That is a fair question—with a complicated answer.” I sigh. “In truth, we must have a long conversation about the convent and Mortain himself. But not here, where any approaching servant can hear us. And not until you have told me what is going on.”
“What if it is not any of your business?”
“Would you rather I ask the king?”
“You wouldn’t.”
I smile grimly. “You have no idea the things I would do. Shall we fight for it? Test our skills against each other? I win, you tell me. You win, you don’t.”
The look she sends me is so full of exasperation that it reminds me of Charlotte and nearly makes me laugh. “We both know that you would win any contest between the two of us.”
“I don’t know that.”
She shakes her head. “You will not like it any better than the king.”
My uneasiness returns, but I keep my voice light. “At least I cannot order you confined to my chambers.”
She looks to the window, then the fireplace, anywhere but at me before she finally speaks. “It’s about Monsieur Fremin. I . . . I may have confessed to killing him.”
Chapter 34
Her words are so unexpected that it feels as if she is speaking some strange language I have never heard. Except that with these inconceivable words, everything falls into place. Guilt and anger wash over me. “I asked you to distract the king, not confess to a crime you didn’t commit! That was not your sin to bear. You had nothing to do with it.” Indeed, my mind is still struggling to grasp the enormity her—of anyone—taking the blame and punishment for something I did.
“It was a sin I contributed to, no matter how unknowingly.” She tightens the blanket around her shoulders and leans forward. “It feels good to be able to do this.”
I feel my mouth snap shut. “Good to take the blame for someone else’s killing?”
“No.” She huffs in frustration, then looks over at the sideboard. “Do you remember the jars of toad livers Sister Serafina kept in the poisons room?”
I blink at this change of subject. “The ones that stank like rotten feet? How could I forget.”
“When I was finally allowed to begin helping at the convent, I was sent to her workroom. But on my third day there, I accidentally dropped the crock full of toad livers.” Her gaze shifts from the crystal goblets on the sideboard back to me. “She did not yell or get mad. Nor even punish me with quiet satisfaction like some of the other nuns did. She simply told me to collect the broken pieces of crockery and bring them to the table. When I had, she plunked down a pot of glue and a brush, then told me to take whatever time I needed to put it back together.
“Sybella, she allowed me to fix it. To take the pieces of what I had broken and make them whole again.” The sheer wonder in her voice makes me realize how rare a thing that is—to be given such an opportunity. I can so clearly see the nine-year-old she must have been, bent over all the broken pieces, painstakingly working to fit them together. “Doing this feels as if I am being given that chance again. The king will not hurt or punish me. Not over this. And if he does—”
“I will not let him.”
She gives an emphatic shake of her head. “He won’t. Oh, he’s posturing and strutting and will bark at me for a while, but he is not a cruel man. Not like General Cassel or Pierre. He is—” She waves her hand as she searches for the right word, the blanket slipping down her shoulder.
A glint of silver shines at her throat. I scowl. “Why has the king given you an expensive bauble if you just confessed to murder?”
She pulls the blanket back into place, making sure to cover her neck. “I told you, he wouldn’t punish me as he would you.”
“A generous gift is no one’s definition of punishment.”
She looks away. “It is a power game he plays. Nothing more.”
“If it is nothing more, then let me see it.”
“No,” she says mulishly. “You will only grow jealous.”
I laugh outright at that, then stride over to the couch and yank the blanket from her. She stares up at me, both startled and dismayed. Three coils of thick silver links are wrapped around her slender neck and drape gracefully down her chest. And while it is a necklace, one in the style favored by the Germans and the English, it also bears remarkable resemblance to—
“A chain? I thought you said he was not cruel.”
She shrugs the blanket back into place. “He’s not. But he is feeling threatened
—”
“By you?”
“By everyone. He feels harried on all sides. He is tired of having his authority questioned by the regent and of the pressure from his spiritual advisors, and afraid any kindnesses to the queen will be perceived as weaknesses by his council, especially Cassel. Every time the king learns something he didn’t know before, it is like rubbing salt into a festering wound.”
I stare at her in silence, weighing her words. Remembering the carefully decorated reception at the wedding, the extreme kindness he shows occasionally. His belief in honor and chivalry. How hard the regent works to keep her hand unseen as she stirs the pot. It all fits exactly as Gen says.
“Perhaps,” I concede grudgingly. “But forcing you to wear a chain comes dangerously close to cruel.”
“It is as much to punish himself for being weak enough to want me, even though we have not shared a bed except that one time. But since then he has begun to talk to me in a way that he doesn’t let himself talk to others. Reveals to me, often without knowing it, parts of himself that he can’t share with anyone else.”
“That is charming,” I say dryly, “but you are not his confessor, nor his prisoner, or even a willing favorite. You don’t owe him or the convent or even me this servitude you are performing for him.”
“You are right. This is something I want to give, rather than what is owed. This chain around my neck makes him feel as if I have no power. It is not true, and I suspect even he knows it on some level. But it allows him to feel as if he has punished me and granted me mercy. Or as if in wearing it, I have agreed to the terms of the punishment. Which I have.” She grins at me. “For the time being.”
That mollifies me somewhat. “Does he intend to chain you to something?”
She shakes her head. “Only if I step out of line.” Her face creases. “Will you explain it to the queen? In case she notices the necklace. I don’t want her to think I am acting as his favorite for baubles.”
“I will, but I do not like any of this, and I will be watching him carefully. If I feel he has gone too far, or you are in any danger, I will intervene.”
She smiles at me, a jaunty curve of her lips. “Since when do I report to you?”
“I am your older sister, and that grants me a certain authority over you, whether you like it or not.”
Chapter 35
Genevieve
