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Oudin pales as the park comes into view. “Lambert brought Lady Genevieve here after the bonding ceremony,” he says. “It was my idea.”
“I doubt anyone will be promenading here for a long time,” Juliane murmurs as we approach the crowd that’s gathered on the street. City watchmen stand at intervals to keep people out, and Lambert paces behind them like a restless lion in a menagerie. As soon as he sees us, he waves for us to come to his way.
A chain hanging from short posts is meant to keep peoplefrom entering the park except via the paths, but Oudin steps over it, then helps Juliane do the same. Though I’m also wearing a skirt, it’s several inches shorter than hers, and I don’t need assistance. Lambert rushes up, however, so I let him hold my elbow as I half-step, half-hop over the barrier.
“Simon is waiting for you over there.” He points to a grove of trees in the middle of the park. Before Oudin can take a step in that direction, Lambert catches his arm. “Not us, Brother. We’re to observe the crowd, noting anyone who seems overly interested.”
Oudin leans around Lambert, searching the area where Simon stands with some distress. “But Ysabel—”
“Has already been taken away,” says Lambert, not unkindly. “This is what Simon needs us to do.”
Oudin’s mouth twists into an ugly scowl as he shrugs his brother off. “Well, if that’s what the venatre needs.” With one last glare in Simon’s direction, he turns away.
Lambert sighs and frowns at his sister and me. “I don’t know why he insists on involving the two of you in this vile business.” He follows Oudin, shaking his head.
Juliane and I cross the low-cropped lawn. Goats scatter out of our way as we approach Simon, who stands under an oak tree, gazing at the ground.
The body is gone, as Lambert said. Only a wide area of dirt matted with dark crimson blood remains. Morbidly, I wonder if the trees’ roots will drink the wetness like rainwater and what that will do to their leaves.
“I had her removed as soon as possible,” says Simon quietly. “There were… certain elements I felt neither of you needed to see.”
“You’ll have to tell us what was done to her if we’re going to help,” Juliane points out. I agree, but part of me is relieved. The drawings later will be bad enough.
“She was on her back.” Simon gestures with his hands to show the direction she lay in. “The same as Perrete.”
“Was she stabbed, too?” I ask.
“No, but her throat was cut.” He points to a patch of ground so soaked it’s black. “She was positioned so she would bleed directly on the ground when he did it. He’s learned. Perrete’s murder was too messy. Probably got blood all over himself that night and had to dispose of everything he was wearing.”
Juliane cocks her head to the side. “You’re certain this was the same killer? Were there other similarities?”
Simon nods. “This woman’s eyes were removed with a little more expertise. Then her face was crushed by a single blow from a heavy object.”
“I remember you saying it meant he didn’t want to be looked at,” says Juliane, and I nod. Though I don’t possess her perfect memory, it’s not something I’ll ever forget.
“And the improved technique could mean this murder was to correct what went wrong in the alley,” he continues. “It would explain why he struck again so soon.”
I feel like he’s leaving something out. “Was anything else consistent with last time?”
Simon looks up. His eyes are guarded and his posture stiff, so unlike last night—at least until the end. “Yes,” he says quietly.
Before I can ask what, he suddenly tilts his head to look behind me. Without thinking, I turn to follow his line of sight. A goat placidly munches on grass several yards away, a dark, stringy gruff swinging from its chin as it moves in a continuous circular motion. I blink. Has someone braided the goat’s beard?
Simon sprints past me, and I expect he would have tackled the animal if it didn’t bleat and drop what it was chewing on before fleeing. Simon snatches up a long braid of what can only be human hair.
“Catrin,” he gasps. “Perrete’s hair was black, wasn’t it?”
“Not naturally, but yes,” I answer.
The braid is stiff with dried blood, but the color isn’t in question. Simon turns it over in his hand. “Ysabel was blond. The killer either dropped this or left it on purpose. Either way, this definitively connects the two.”
“Did you have any doubts?”
He shakes his head. “No. There are too many similarities.” Simon clenches the hair in his fist. “Curse it! And now she’s buried.”
“Who?” I ask. “This victim? Already?” That’s only ever done after sunset.
“No, Perrete,” Simon explains. “Madame Emeline found a small braid of hair tucked in her dress. We didn’t know whose it was, but it felt safe to assume it was a keepsake of some kind, so I let them bury it with her. What if… Cat, what if it was actually from someone he’d killed before?”
