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CHAPTER 41
I tilt my face up as soon as I’m outside, letting the soft rain wash away the evidence of my tears. Oudin sags against the wall next to the side door, looking relieved to have escaped the gaol without being discovered by Simon. I wonder just how much trouble he and his brother could have gotten into for helping me.
“Catrin?” I spin around, clutching my chest. Lambert’s russet eyes are anxious. “Were you able to see him?”
I nod, wiping my face on my sleeve again. “I can’t thank you enough, Sir.”
Oudin rolls his eyes. “I did all the work.”
Lambert ignores his brother and waits as I pull myself back together piece by piece. “I think, given time, Simon’s anger will fade,” he says. “I can try to smooth it over for you. Perhaps get him to let you rejoin the inquiry.”
Oudin stands straight. “Or maybe you should leave it alone before someone else gets hurt, Brother. It’s obvious the prioress and that sister were attacked because they were connected to Catrin.”
Lambert glances back at him dismissively. “Yes, I heard your rant this morning.”
“If this madman would go after women like them to hurt her, do you think he’d hesitate to target Juliane?” Oudin demands.
“She never goes out alone,” counters Lambert. “Simon isn’t worried about her safety.”
Oudin folds his arms across his chest. “He should be. He is the one that got her involved in the first place.”
“I’m not going to argue about this in the middle of the street, Brother, and certainly not in front of Miss Catrin, given what she’s been through.” Lambert turns his attention on me. “Would you allow me to escort you to the Sanctum? I’m sure you’re eager to get back to work.”
I don’t think “eager” is the right word, but Remi had asked me not to linger. “Thank you, Sir, I would be grateful for your company.”
Oudin scowls as I take Lambert’s offered arm. As we set off, he calls to my back, “You’re welcome, Kitten.”
For a second I’d felt guilty for not acknowledging his role in sneaking me in to see Magister Thomas, but when he called me by that detestable name the feeling vanished.
Lambert and I take a slightly longer route to avoid the Montcuir home and the possibility of running into Simon, one which gives us a beautiful view of the Sanctum. The clouds hang low enough today that the tops of the square towers disappear into them, which in some ways makes the building look more holy than when the Sun shines on it, at least in my opinion.
Our lives are as short and fleeting as phases of the moon, the architect had said.Nothing is more important than to give people a place of hope and beauty and meaning.
The Sanctum will outlive him, outlive us all. Magister Thomas sacrificed his family to contribute to that ideal. His life’s work was, to quote Mother Agnes, the cage he chose for himself, a concept the prioress was undoubtedly familiar with. After a lifetimeof moving from cage to cage—for marriageisa cage of sorts, even when willingly entered—she, too, had opted for one of her own choosing.
And this killer, who keeps his internal monster caged when necessary, what outer cage constrains him?
I stop in my tracks. The killer and the monster exist within the same cage.
Lambert is forced to halt when I do. “Is something wrong, Miss?”
My mind races. That’s the essence of Simon’s method—he’s observing what constrains the monster and trying to match it to a person.
But the methods have changed. The targets have changed.
The killer wants something he can’t get.
Does he want something different, or is he just going after the same thing in a new way?
“Catrin?”
I jump at Lambert’s face right in front of mine. “Are you well?” he asks, all concern.
“Yes.” I shake my head. “Yes, I’m fine. I was just thinking.”
“You do know Simon is making every effort to delay the magister’s trial,” says Lambert, and I notice he avoids adding anything about execution. “He told my father this morning that no one as smart as the architect would have left something so easily traceable to him. He considers it false evidence.”
Simon is saying that? Not just for my sake—or Magister Thomas’s, I’m certain. For the victims who are yet to come. And because it’s true. But perhaps the hammer wasn’t left behind just to throw suspicion on someone else. What if the architect—or possibly what he represents—stands between the killer and what he wants?
