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“In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life, I commit this soul’s body to the ground; earth to earth; ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless him and keep him, the Lord make his face to shine upon him and be gracious unto him and give him peace. Amen.”
Rowan bowed his head once more—not in prayer, but in shameful regret.
Twenty
Someone had killed all the birds. Blanchette had made for the rookery after going over the coffers, meaning to send Isadora another letter.
Now, Blanchette walked through the halls, a candlestick in a silver dish clasped in her hand.
A dark premonition tightened around her gut.
The castle was quiet and still, much like a slumbering beast. Her grandmother’s red cloak draped her shoulders and helped cut through the drafts that penetrated the walls. Spring had come, yet the chill never had melted away.
Blanchette pressed on the chapel’s iron-studded door and entered the circular room. It was nearly black as pitch. Only her wavering candle and a stream of moonlight illuminated the space.
She stepped inside, and her heart jumped as the door cracked shut.
The tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood. Gooseflesh broke out across her bare arm.
She began her prayer in the softest of whispers. She could barely hear herself speak. She stepped in farther, toward the center altar. The ring of light from her candle skirted across the stone ground and crept into the far corner of the room.
There she saw it.
A figure against the far wall, its back resting against the stones so it appeared to sit.
Blanchette rushed over; she felt the cloak billow from her shoulders. She fell beside that figure, which the light showed as Governess Agnes.
The silver tray clattered like bones as she fought to hold her hand still.
“No…” Blanchette whispered into that darkness, her gaze drifting over her beloved governess’s wrinkled, pale skin… the deep gash that ran across her throat and spilled her life’s blood down the robe she’d worn and loved so well.
Her pale eyes were open… but what did they see?
Who would have committed such a vile act?
Blanchette’s sobs came once the shock ebbed away. She squinted through her water-filled eyes and pressed her forehead against Governess Agnes’s still chest. She was hard and cold. Death had chased away everything warm and soft about her.
No.
No.
No.
Her thoughts lapsed into memory, and she summoned an image of her and Isadora wading into the creek, Governess Agnes on their heels and lashing at them with her tongue…
That memory brought the tears again; tears for Governess Agnes, for her sister Isadora… whom she’d written to not so long ago… whom she might never see or laugh with again.
Instead, she had these icy walls—and a wolf who guarded them.
But he was not to blame. The Rowan she knew would tear apart the man who committed such an atrocity.
“You deserved better.” Blanchette sniffled into her governess’s motionless chest. She held her body tight and rocked her back and forth, her cries becoming torn sobs. “We all did. Oh, God… no… no…” With trembling hands, she unclasped the cross from her governess’s neck and gripped the ornate metal in her palm.
Her memory lapsed again, this time to her grandmother.
She would keep her promise—and she had a wolf who’d help see it done.
* * *
