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Tears sprang to Blanchette’s eyes—but, for once, they were tears of joy.
Her governess was dressed like she always had dressed and looked as Blanchette had always remembered her—a high-necked black dress, matching wimple, her face as sharp as an axe, and an ornate silver cross hanging from her neck. Blanchette charged forward, bursting past Edrick, and threw her arms around Governess Agnes’s slight body.
“Oh, my dear girl,” her governess said as she frantically smoothed down Blanchette’s curls. “My dear, dear girl… sweet, sweet, Blanchette…” Blanchette returned the affection. Tears spilled from her eyes, and she gripped Agnes Belfort tighter as if the gesture might prevent her from being stolen again. “Good Lord, thank you… thank you… I had hoped and prayed… I had prayed for you, for this, Blanchette… that you still lived…”
“I survived. Whether I’m living… well, that’s questionable. How-how did you make it through everything? I was so sure you were dead,” Blanchette said.
“I was sure I was going to be dead,” she replied in her regal French accent. “I hid in the chapel during the battle. God be good, no one thought to look there.”
“The Black Wolf’s men wouldn’t think of the chapel,” she murmured, looking hard at Edrick. He was trying to eclipse the moment—to steal the breath of happiness from this reunion. She saw it in every sinew of his body and how he’d partially drawn his sword.
He couldn’t steal this from her, though. And Blanchette took pleasure in that fact. She turned back to Governess Agnes. She studied her governess—her gaunt skin and the heavy shadows under her eyes. A new fragility seemed to press down upon her. A terrible thought took hold. “Agnes… have—have you been in the chapel this whole time? Since the siege?”
Governess Agnes pursed her lips and gave a sharp nod. “God proved sustenance enough for me. The Black Wolf himself found me just this morning.”
Rowan's visit to the chapel struck her as strange.
Blanchette glanced about the long, dim hallway, then up at Edrick. She grasped Governess Agnes’s thin forearm and guided her inside the bedchamber. Quickly, she shut the door and heard the muffled roar of Edrick’s heavy footsteps as he stormed off.
Good, she thought. Take your anger with you and ride off a cliff.
Governess Agnes lowered onto the edge of the mattress, and they both seated themselves.
She traced the scar on Blanchette’s cheek with the whisper of a touch. “Who did this to you, Blanchette?”
Bile rose in her throat. Once again, she found herself back in her grandmother’s privy, Thomas chasing her… his dagger ruthlessly raining down again and again.
“Thomas. I’ve known since I was a babe. He—God, he?—”
“Yes, I remember him well.” Governess Agnes seized Blanchette’s hands and squeezed them affectionately.
Blanchette studied her governess’s pale hands. Paper-thin flesh stretched over her skin like butter spread too thin over bread. She imagined her hands withering away… the flesh shriveled like rotten peel, leaving behind frail bones that would soon turn to dust.
She couldn’t bear losing Governess Agnes.
Not after everything she’d endured.
“He got what he deserved. I made sure of it.”
Blanchette felt Governess Agnes’s stare as if she was digging for something hidden behind her faint smile. “If you want to talk about it… discuss that night, I am here, Princess. You can unburden yourself.”
Blanchette scoffed, the bitterness rising within. “Princess… am I, truly?”
“No,” Governess Agnes replied, her thin lips set into a line. “You are the queen.”
Blanchette bit back a sudden laugh, then swatted at her tears. “I suppose I should be. Did he harm you in any way?”
“Edrick was rough and unkind, but no, he didn’t harm me.”
“No, I mean Ro—the Black Wolf.”
Governess Agnes hesitated. “He was cordial. Even gentle.” She pursed her lips again as if the words had left a foul aftertaste.
Blanchette gazed out the window. The world continued to unravel before her, a ball of yarn loosening, loosening, loosening. She heard the faint din of sparring swords clinking and Rowan’s spirited commands. The sunset was in full effect now, blazing across Norland’s sky in tones of pink and blood orange.
“I could barely stand,” Governess Agnes said, “when he came to the chapel. I shrank against the wall and prayed to God with my face hidden in my hands. I couldn’t bear to look at the man who’d destroyed your home.” Her voice sounded feeble; its spirit was stolen not from physical deprivation but spiritual. Blanchette studied Governess Agnes’s tightly drawn features and swallowed against the knot in her throat.
“What happened?”
