“Of course,” she says, though the muscles in her jaw tighten. “I can dress and leave the chambers, if you’d like privacy.”
I draw myself up and nod in a way that I hope is regal, a little imposing. “Yes, that would be best,” I tell her. I watch her long, slim throat contract with a hard swallow, and something deep inside me rails against every step I take out of the bath.
Nyatrix does not offer to carry me up the stairs again, though she stays beside me, matching me stride-for-stride, her hand on my elbow. When we reach the top, she takes my cane from its resting place and hands it to me before pulling a large blanket from a stone bench, shoving her feet into her boots, and disappearing into the darkness waiting beyond the chamber.
My heart does a peculiar thing as she leaves. I resist the urge to clutch at my chest and instead step behind an old, moth-eatensilk screen embroidered with a rising sun and its glimmering rays to dry and clothe myself in the woolen dress I left Lumendei wearing. I try to settle myself, prepare my mind to speak to Renault. How angry he must be. How disappointed. Lines from the Catechisma about a wife’s obedience appear in my mind, but instead of belief or devotion or even a sense of calm, the only thing those words summon in me is a dark simmering, close to a boil. Anger, perhaps, if Nyatrix is correct.
My teeth clenched, I stand for a long moment behind the screen, dressed but unable to move. The version of Lumendei I saw from her arms during that desperate early morning flight haunts me the most, if I’m honest. That sword called to her, the Lupa Nox said. Could it not be that all I saw was some terrible Sepulchyre goetia, awoken for the first time in a thousand anni? What if this city all around us is just a wicked illusion, too?
By the time I step out from behind the screen, I do not believe myself—though part of me wants to, desperate for everything to return to what it once was. That’s the reason I still walk toward Renault, I think.
Nyatrix placed him on the long stone bench that lines the walls, which seems a kindness. But with his hands tied behind his back, it must certainly be designed to inflict discomfort.
“Renault, it’s me,” I whisper, coming to stand before him. I should take off his blindfold, I know, but I do not know if I can bear to face his gaze. I brace myself for what’s to come.
“Ophelia,” Renault murmurs, head turning blindly to seek me. “Ophelia, are you all right? I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I couldn’t get to you before she took you.”
Shock ricochets through me. “You . . . you do not blame me?” I ask hoarsely.
He shakes his head vigorously. “No, no. Of course not. How could I? Are you all right?” Renault speaks in a rushed tone—passionate, almost. “Would you . . . Will she let you remove myblindfold? I just want to make sure you’re unharmed. Saints, I’ve been so worried.”
I stand there, frozen, struggling to understand. Shame sweeps through me, near-crippling. Did I completely misunderstand Renault? Did I, so riddled with sin, so tempted by the enemy, falsely equate him with Sergio as a way to dismiss my own failings? I choke back a sob. My stomach twists and I reach out, lifting his blindfold onto his sweat-matted hair.
His eyes sweep my body, like he’s searching for injuries, before returning to my face. “Oh, thank Him,” Renault gasps. “You’re all right, then?”
“More or less,” I manage. I find that I still keep myself a few steps away from him, my body refusing to move closer. “You?”
“More or less,” he echoes with an arch laugh, a sound I know so well. Then his gaze sweeps the chamber, alert as a hunting dog. “Where is she?”
“Gone, for now,” I answer, steadying myself on my cane.
“Can you untie me?” Renault asks, fear creasing his expression. “Don’t—not if you’re risking making her angry with you, though.”
I hesitate, half-expecting him to snap at me for it, for that gleam to enter his eyes again and make me think of Sergio. But he just waits patiently. Then, finally, I nod and move forward, beginning to work on the knots at his wrists. He twists himself toward me, trying to make the task easier.
“I’ll get you out of here, Ophelia,” Renault promises, so sincere it makes my knees weak. “And don’t worry about anything. All of our problems are gone. Sergio is dead. I know I can convince at least a few of the Holy Guard to testify to his obsession with you now that he’s out of the way. And I can handle the High Ecclesia, too. You were bewitched by goetia, spelled beyond recognition.”
The hope of it all surges through me, hope for everything to truly go back to the way it was. For my return to paradise to be paved—back to the gardens and Carina and the candlelit splendor of the Spine. Oh, Carina.
“Ophelia,” Renault breathes, twisting to look at me over his shoulder. “It’s not your fault.”
Tears spill out of my eyes, dripping down onto the stone bench below. I finally manage to free Renault’s wrists, which he shakes out, and then he pulls me into a tight hug. He smells of dust and blood and sweat, none of the teak and fine soap I remember. I want to fall into his embrace, to find comfort in the arms of my friend, and yet my body goes stiff as a board. He releases me, pressing a kiss to my forehead, and then pulls his legs up onto the bench to untie his ankles.
“Will it truly . . . Will it really all be okay now?” I ask in trembling syllables.
“If we can slip out of here before she comes back,” Renault replies, looking up from the knots, gaze anxiously sweeping the corridor. “Then yes. And even if we can’t... we’ll find a way. Just like we always have.”
Relief rushes through my mind at the same time my intestines tie themselves into another knot. I do not understand the incongruence, but I suppose it’s hardly of import.
Renault finishes the last knot and pulls the rope free. Carefully, he gets to his feet, creeping toward where his armor is piled against a wall. I watch him, unmoving, as he pulls chainmail over his head and lashes the sword belt around his waist.
Then he turns, beckons to me, one hand outstretched. “Come, Ophelia,” he whispers. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”
I want to go to him, I think—to take those few steps across the ancient tiled floor and put my hand in his. Of course I do. Butmy body refuses to move. My limbs are resolute, indomitable, in their protest.
“I-I . . .” comes the useless stammer from my mouth.
“I know you’re afraid,” Renault murmurs, checking over his shoulder, as if the Lupa Nox is about to materialize out of the darkness and cleave his head from his body. “Of course you’re afraid. But it’s going to be all right.”
