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Now Blanchette relaxed by the hearth. She held a book open across her lap. Her eyes ran over the words, though they hardly made it into her mind.
“Begin by choosing the appropriate time to gather herbs, typically when they are in full bloom or have reached their peak potency. Use a sharp knife to cut or pluck the parts of the plant you require, such as leaves, roots, or flowers. Offer a silent prayer for guidance and protection as you harvest…”
Her gaze fell away from the jumble of letters and focused on her barred window. Just outside the walls of the castle, the encampment fires glowed like embers. Rowan’s army seemed to grow daily—every time she glanced out the window. She could no longer say whether that was a blessing or a curse.
In her mind’s eye, she saw her father riding up on one of his fine horses, a column of men behind him, kennel hounds baying and rushing toward the castle grounds. Even Willem surged forward on his white pony as he chattered with the other noble children. They were returning from a hunt.
And a slaughtered black wolf hung off the back of a wagon, fledged with arrows.
You were born to rule.
Except that wasn’t true.
Willem had been born to rule.
“Your Grace?” Rowan’s smooth, deep voice pulled her back into the moment. My God, he moved with an impressive grace for a man his size. Smoke was at his side, of course, his golden eyes shining like stars.
“My Lord,” she returned as she clumsily popped up from the chair and onto her feet. For a moment, his presence seemed to fill the space. Her gaze slowly traveled across his broad shoulders, his leather jerkin, and the long length of his well-muscled legs. Governess Agnes had set down the needles and rose from the chair at his entry.
But Rowan only had eyes for Blanchette. He stared at her intently, and she felt her skin prickle at his forwardness. “Rowan. What brings you here at this early hour?”
He stepped into the chamber and placed his large hands on his hips. His right fingers grazed his sword’s wolf pommel and caressed the metal. He’d polished it to a shine, the wolf’s mouth snarling beneath his long fingertips. “I hope you’re feeling more comfortable in your own chambers.”
Blanchette met his gaze with the same intensity. “Yes, well. This is my home. Now and always.”
“Now and always,” he confirmed with a nod.
Governess Agnes moved past the Black Wolf and gave a curtsy. Before she left the chamber, she tossed Blanchette a rather sly grin over her shoulder.
Once she was gone, Rowan’s head fell forward, and his voice softened to an intimate whisper. “It was your brother’s home, as well, Blanchette, and it still is.”
Blanchette felt tears sting the corners of her eyes.
“Come with me. I have something for you.”
Without another word, Blanchette threw on her red riding cloak and followed Rowan from her chamber and into her halls.
* * *
Rowan, Blanchette, and Smoke came to a dead halt in front of a rusted iron gate next to the postern entry. Somewhere in the wood beyond, a wolf’s cry echoed. She met Rowan’s eyes and saw that somber note reflected in their depths.
“My family’s crypt.”
He truly knows this castle well. Unsettlingly so.
Strangely, that made her feel safer.
Rowan switched the lantern into his other hand, then gently held her arm. She allowed him to lead her forward, though she scarcely felt her feet move. He lifted the wooden latch, and the gate screeched as Rowan pulled it away from the castle’s stones.
A deep darkness lay ahead.
The lantern’s light chased away that darkness as they walked down the narrow, winding tunnel. She felt Smoke’s sleek body as he slid past her, his eyes glowing in the black. His dark fur blended into the surroundings and swallowed him whole. A chill rushed up the stone stairs and engulfed Blanchette. She grasped the red cloak tighter around her body while Rowan led the way with his lantern. It swayed in midair, causing shadows to pace up and down the stone walls and ceiling. It was a comforting dance of light and shadow. A delicate ballet of hope against despair. As they traversed the winding tunnel, Blanchette’s fingertips brushed against Smoke’s sleek fur, a touch as velvety as the night itself. She found solace in the fiery embers that flickered within his eyes, like two beacons in an obsidian sea.
As they wandered deeper, silence took hold. Any clamor of swordplay faded away. That quiet seemed to mute the world entirely.
As silent as the grave, she mused with a touch of irony.
That stillness was no mere absence of sound. It was a palpable presence, an ancient force that held dominion over the catacombs and settled like a weight upon her shoulders.
