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“Simon,” answers Oudin. “He came up the stairs rather than down.”
I duck back from the window, my heart pounding. No. Not, this.
“Is Simon injured somehow?” asks the comte.
“Not that I saw,” Lambert answers. “But there has to be a logical explanation.”
“You know exactly what it is, Brother,” says Oudin. “Simon hasn’t found the killer because heisthe killer.”
I bite my bandaged hand to keep from screaming.No, no, no, no, NO!
Shadows flicker as Lambert paces across the room. “That’s not possible.”
“It’s theonlypossibility,” Oudin snaps back. “That hair belongs to the little sister and you know it.”
“Explain this to me,” their father says. “Now.”
Lambert doesn’t answer. Oudin’s shadow raises an arm, probably holding up the braid. “The killer always took the victim’s hair and left at least part of it with the body of the next woman. That’s how Simon knew they were all connected. The only person who could have this hair is the one who killed the prioress and the sister.”
“The sister didn’t die,” Lambert says feebly.
There’s a long pause. “There were also no deaths while he was in Mesanus,” says the comte slowly.
“Simon isn’t like that!” Lambert insists.
Oudin snorts. “Simon has spent his whole life surrounded by insane people, why is it so hard to believe that he didn’t become one of them?”
The comte’s shadow rises from its chair. “Do either of you have proof he didn’t commit any of the murders?”
Another endless silence before Lambert answers, “No, Father.” I can feel the pain being honest gives him.
“It’s settled then,” says the comte. “Call for the guard, Lambert.”
“I won’t.”
“You always were a disappointment,” Montcuir says flatly. “Oudin, go. Bring them back here. Quickly. Quietly.”
“What about Juliane?” Oudin asks.
“She’s dead.” The comte moves closer to the window, and I back away. “She died in her sleep. That’s all anyone needs to know.”
“Yes, Father.”
Oudin leaves the room. The moonstone is already back in my pocket, and I’m halfway up the wall, using both hands thoughit causes my wounds to bleed anew. I peer into Juliane’s room before raising my head fully above the sill. A single candle lights the space. Simon sits in a chair near the door with his face in his hands. He looks up, startled, as I pull myself over the window ledge as quietly as possible.
“Cat?” he whispers, coming to his feet. “What are you doing here? Why didn’t you go home?”
I rush to his side. “Simon, the comte is going to have you arrested.”
His pale eyes drift to the body of his cousin on the bed. “Maybe he should.”
“No!” I grab his shoulders and shake him. “Listen to me! They found Marguerite’s braid in the kitchen. They’re going to arrest you for the murder of all those women!”
Simon looks back to me, numb. “Does it even matter anymore?”
“It will matter when he kills again!”
“Just leave, Cat. Don’t worry about me. My arrest will free the architect.”
