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At last she lifts one shoulder. “I have heard worse.” Although her words are begrudging, they feel like a rousing approval.
I return my attention to the coverlet. “What are we looking for?”
“Any signs that Monsieur Fremin’s men were in here.”
“You think that they were?”
A chilling smile plays about her lips. “I know they were. This is where I killed them.”
I do not think she means the explanation to be a threat, but it feels like one, all the same.
Chapter 4
I leave Sybella’s room and begin walking. I have no idea where to go, wishing only to ward off the howling blizzard of regret and recrimination that threaten to engulf me. I had not expected the king to act so swiftly on the information I had given him, or that he would so easily identify Sybella. He would not have if she had not come to my room this morning. Had not tried to reach out to me. More than ever, I am beginning to fear there is truly no way to fix this disaster, or even lessen its impact.
I am halfway to the servants’ chapel before I realize that is where I’m headed. I need the world to stand still for a moment. To quit shifting and changing so rapidly that I cannot catch my breath. Once, when I was but five years old, the tavernkeeper Sanson took me and my mother to visit the sea. It was a warm day, and they let me play in the water. Until a giant wave sucked the sand from beneath my feet and cast me backwards, end over end, so that I could no longer tell where the water ended and the sky began.
That is how I feel now, only Sanson’s strong, sturdy arm is not there to lift me from the current that threatens to sweep me away.
Fortunately, the chapel is empty, its simple stone walls and small votives far more comforting than the grandeur of the palace’s main chapel. My backside has barely settled onto the plain wooden bench when a voice behind me says, “So you are our missing assassin.”
I leap up, my hand moving toward the knife hidden amongst my skirts. An old priest with fluffy white hair stands there, and while he looks kind enough, I cannot help but remember the vitriol in the eyes of the priests in the council room this morning. “Forgive me, Father, but I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”
He shrugs. “I have seen you pray.”
My lip curls in derision. “And that makes you think I’m an assassin?”
He tilts his head, his eyes considering. “There is something about the way you daughters of Mortain bow your heads. Not as lowly penitents, but as a dedicant ready to serve a beloved lord.”
For all his fluffy hair and pink cheeks, he is no fool.
“What is a hedge priest doing at the court of France?”
“No mere hedge priest, my child, but a follower of Saint Salonius.”
“The patron saint of mistakes?” My laugh echoes harshly in the small chapel. “Then I have certainly come to the right place.”
“If you have made a mistake, then perhaps you have.”
“What I have made is to a mistake as a mountain is to an anthill.” The desolation rises up once more.
“You have spoken with Lady Sybella, I presume?”
“Oh, we’ve spoken.”
“She has been looking for you for some time. I know she will be glad for your presence.”
While his words are meant as comfort, they cut like broken glass. “I do not think she would agree with you,” I mutter.
He cocks his head to the side, watching me like some little bird patiently waiting for a plump worm to emerge from the ground.
I do not know if his kind regard coaxes the next words from me or if my own self-loathing forces them out. “Let us just say my arrival did not go as planned.”
“Or perhaps”—he spreads his hands in a beneficent gesture—“you are tasked with a different plan. One the gods have not seen fit to share with you.”
His words are so close to the misguided reasoning that got me into this mess that I nearly snap his head off. “I do not want to hear of the gods or saints or any of their rutting plans.”
My outburst does not deter him in the least. “Then what would you like to talk about?”
I am quiet for a moment, thinking. “The sisters Sybella mentioned. Who are they?”
“They are not of Mortain, but born into the family that raised Sybella. She has taken them under her wing in an effort to keep them from the wickedness of their own family.”
“The d’Albrets?”
His nod is a simple gesture, but conveys a deep regret. “Yes.”
This time, I truly fear I will retch. I had thought I understood the nature of the disaster I have wrought, but in this moment realize my valiant plan to save the convent has put two innocent girls in immediate danger. Not to mention all of those at the convent once the ripples of my revelations begin to reach them.
“My child, are you well?” The priest lays his hand on my arm, his touch as light as a moth’s wing.
“No.” The bleak word escapes before I can catch it, as if the old priest has some power to call such weaknesses from me. I have destroyed the convent’s trust in me and am so far out of the king’s favor I may as well be in the Low Countries. Even if I see him again, he will not listen to any explanations or exhortations I can make. “I have ruined everything,” I whisper.
“You’d be surprised at how resilient the world—and yourself—can be.”
Again, he is offering comfort. Comfort that is not warranted. “It is not simply my own life I have ruined, but others.” So many others.
He is quiet a long moment. “Then perhaps you have come to make your confession.”
I open my mouth to correct him, then stop. I am desperate to thrust some of this dark, hot misery from me. To find some way to divest myself of this guilt and shame. Perhaps this kind stranger whose eyes seem to hold three lifetimes of wisdom is the one to hear of it. “Mayhap I have, Father.”
Chapter 5
Sybella
Once Genevieve is gone, I lean against my door, grateful for the solid wood at my back as I fight down the sour taste of panic.
What has she done?
Even though I am furious with her, I must acknowledge the part my own hand played in this. If I had not evicted Lady Katerine from the king’s bed, he may not have resumed his interest in Genevieve. If I had approached her in the chapel or followed her once I guessed who she was . . . but I was consumed by my own worries and obsessions.
And what part does Count Angoulême play in all this? In spite of my anger, my heart aches for Genevieve. For the journey she has set herself on. A journey that I can only pray will lead her through her own anger and bitterness. A journey I recognize all too clearly, having made a similar one myself. I do not envy her trying to put this aright.
But the sympathy I should feel for Genevieve is overpowered by my fear of what may come of her actions. She has only the faintest inkling of what she has set in motion. Of whom she has endangered.
My sisters are gone from here, I reassure myself. Beyond Fremin’s greedy grasp, beyond the king’s reach, and the regent’s machinations. Beast, Aeva, and the entire queen’s guard are with them and have sworn by the Nine to keep them safe.
But it won’t be enough, not if the king decides to act on the information Genevieve has shared with him. There is a very good chance that all of them—Annith, Ismae, the older nuns, and the youngest novitiates—could be in harm’s way. I would pray for them all, but who, now, do I pray to?
I shove away from the door, cross the room to my small trunklet, and open the lid. The holly berry still appears bright red, and the leaves a vibrant green—until I bring it closer. Then I see the edges have begun to brown. Why? Why now? Is it simply the miracle of Mortain fading, much like he himself eventually will? Or is it a reflection of my own wilting faith?
Afraid I will break the sprig in its new fragile state, I place it carefully in the trunk. As I do, my fingers brush against the black pebble Yannic gave me. Bewildered, I touch it again. It is not my imagination. The p
ebble feels warm, as if it has been out in the sun.
I had thought it blessed by Mortain, but Yannic had indicated I was wrong. Blessed by whom, then?
It is as smooth as polished glass, and I close my fingers around it, letting the warmth comfort me. It speaks of mysteries that still exist in this world. The mysteries that have come to me before and may yet again.
I move to put the pebble back in the trunk, then pause, deciding to slip it into the pocket at my waist, savoring its gentle heat against my leg through the silk of my skirts. I will need every bit of comfort I can muster for the conversation I must have with the queen.
* * *
It is too late to disturb the queen—she has already retired for the night. I am too restless to go back to my chamber. My thoughts keep circling back to Beast and the girls, even though I know he will get them safely to the convent. But saints, I miss him already—and it has only been three days. I told Beast the girls were my heart, but that was only partly true. He is my heart as well, and it feels as if I have carved off a piece and dared rabid wolves to feast upon it.
He would be greatly insulted by my worrying. And in truth, it galls me somewhat, even though I can no more stop it than I can halt the blood flowing in my veins.
I am not surprised when I find myself standing outside the servants’ chapel. There is only one person with whom I can share this disaster. Only one sworn to silence by virtue of his priest’s robes.
Father Effram looks up from the brace of fresh candles he is lighting, smiling as if he’s been expecting me. I head directly for the confessional booth. He slips into the other side.
