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CHAPTER 6
It’s almost noon when I wake. My eyes water from the pain of the deep bruises across my stomach as I dress in a clean working skirt. The skin, too, is raw and scraped, and protests every touch and movement. The injuries remind me how lucky I am to be alive, but I can’t shake what I heard and saw in my head while falling. Part of me still believesIwas the one who died last night.
Even with boots on, I tread carefully through the dim workroom. The front shutters are still down, but I’m glad for the darkness. It feels wrong that the Blessed Sun should shine so brightly when everything in our lives is turned inside out and hanging by a thread.
My mood changes a bit when I see the young man sitting at the kitchen table. He looks up and grins. In the last six months, his face finally seems to have grown enough to fit his giant nose, and his upper lip now has a substantial black mustache rather than just the beginnings of one. When he stands to greet me, I see he’s also several inches taller.
“Light of Day, Remi!” I gasp, flinging myself into his arms. “It’s good to see you.”
The rumble of laughter in his chest resonates into mine as hehugs me back. Before I can sink too deeply into the embrace, I suddenly remember how we’d parted last fall. Does he?
I lean back, feeling awkward. Remi’s rough hands come up to either side of my face and hold me there as deep green eyes study mine. I pull my lips between my teeth as he does the same. Oh yes, he remembers.
He wrinkles his brow. “Your eyes look different.”
“Nonsense,” says Mistress la Fontaine from the counter on the other side of the kitchen. Everything I see and smell tells me she’s preparing all of her son’s favorite dishes.
“No, truly.” Remi cocks his head to the side. “They used to be darker, and now the outer edges are… more distinct.”
My eyes are hazel, a mix of blue and brown. That he knows their color so well—or thought he did—says much.
“It’s just the light.” The housekeeper slams two cast-iron pots together loud enough to make us jump apart. She obviously doesn’t like what she sees between us, which is… Well, I’m not sure what it is.
When he left for further study in Lutecia, Remi kissed my cheek like a brother bidding a sister goodbye, saying things would be different when he returned. I’d assumed he was referring to the fact that, Sun willing, he’d have tested out of his apprenticeship. Then he’d called me Catrin—which was unusual—and kissed me again. On the mouth. In a verynotbrother-like way.
It hadn’t been unpleasant, but it didn’t give me the thrill I’d expected from a first kiss, either. Maybe I was just surprised.
Remi sits back down and kicks a chair out for me like nothing strange had ever passed between us. I drop into the seat, asking, “When did you arrive?”
He glances at his mother. “Early this morning.”
“You must have stopped just outside of town last night,” I say. “Why not come all the way in?”
“And cause a fuss right before bed? Mum needs all the beauty sleep she can get.” Mistress la Fontaine scowls at him over her shoulder, but Remi only smiles. “Though I heard she was up anyway with all the excitement last night.”
My appetite immediately vanishes. “Excitement is not the word I’d choose.”
“That reminds me,” says the housekeeper. “The venatre was here earlier. He wanted to speak with you, but I told him you were asleep and intended to call on him as agreed.”
Remi shakes his head in disbelief. “I still can’t believe there’s an official investigation for Perrete.”
“Oudin Montcuir admitted to being with her last night,” I say. “And dozens of people heard him say so.”
Mistress la Fontaine’s shoulders stiffen, but Remi leans forward, focused on me. “The comte’s son is suspect?”
“I think the investigation is mostly to clear him,” I answer. “It’s also why the venatre isn’t the comte or his other son.”
“Who is he?”
“Someone called Simon of Mesanus. I think he’s a relative of the Montcuirs.”
Remi sits back again. “Keeping it in the family, then.”
“Do you know where Mesanus is? I’ve never heard of it.” I study the plate of muffins between us, not sure I can stomach one.
“Prezia, I think,” Remi says. “Near the coast.”
That’s several days to the north, outside Gallia. They speak a different language, but Simon didn’t have an accent like other Prezians I’ve met.
