Lady of the Crescent Moon

by Ingrid Hahn

  “Hmm?” There was a rustle. “Wait a moment. These things aren’t mine.”

  “I sent everything to be boiled.”

  He caught her infuriated intake of breath. “I don’t have nits.”

  At her haughty indignation, an old feeling, dangerously close to laughter, rose in his chest. “And boiling everything will ensure you remain that way.”

  The garments were less austere than what she’d arrived wearing, but only slightly. The simple bodice made no real nod to current fashion, but the front had been made to elongate the body, tricking the eye. The panel was wide up top, cutting a rather square above the cleavage, and quickly narrowed as it cut down the torso, ending only a few inches across. The skirts were heavy, the undergarments clean and serviceable.

  Nothing a woman born to her station should have worn even ten years ago, no matter how low the family had sunk.

  Although, in her case, the house of Cordumont hadn’t fallen. Sidonie had peeled herself away from her family. Shed the rights of her birth and shifted into something else. And the fault of the change rested entirely with him. If only he’d behaved with a measure of decorum. Technically, he hadn’t cast her aside. In the eyes of most people, it didn’t matter. He’d left her stained and without prospects.

  If it were in his power . . . No. He shook his head. “You’ll have to make do with what is there.”

  “They don’t fit properly.”

  “Neither did the other ones.” He turned. A lump formed in his throat at the sight her hair loose and long, in alluring disarray after the long night’s rest, she looked anything but respectable. The bodice was low across the shoulders, the straight line accentuating the collarbones. It was absurd in winter, something he’d not considered. But hell if it wasn’t devilishly becoming.

  Roland fought against noticing any more than he already had and went back a step in the conversation. “Well?”

  “Are you expecting my gratitude?” She finished tying the simple laces at the shoulders.

  “I want to protect you.”

  “Then allow me to see your mother as quickly as possible.”

  He shook his head. “As impossible today as it was yesterday.”

  “Maybe you should ask her what she wants.”

  “She’s too frail. And whatever it is you want from her, it won’t help you. It will only bring you to harm. Maybe even death.”

  Sidonie brushed a thick strand of glossy black hair from his face and tried to be as gentle as possible with her words. “I’m not afraid of Death. Sooner or later, he calls us all.”

  “There is such a thing as going to the grave prematurely.”

  “And how do you know my death would be premature? I’ve lived a long life. Many aren’t so fortunate. I’ve seen almost three complete decades.” She rubbed her finger over a crease in his shirt against his upper chest, the intimacy so easy it should have been terrifying. “But I’m not going to die.”

  From under his collar around his neck peeked a slim leather strip. Interesting. What would a man like Roland wear at the end of a strand such as that?

  He took a short time to respond. “You’re certain?”

  No, she wasn’t. Witches usually had a fairly good idea when they would slip to the other side. But having lost her second sight . . .

  If dying were required, she would surrender herself. Although she still didn’t believe it would come to that, she couldn’t give Roland the certainty he was looking for.

  “You’re a protector, Roland. If you want to protect me . . .” Her throat went dry. Her gaze flicked up to meet his and looked down again. This was more charged than were she to ask him to take her back to bed. “. . . then perhaps you should come with me.”

  He was silent. There was almost no chance he considered the offer with any degree of seriousness, but she pushed on. “It would be dangerous.”

  “I can’t go with you.” The whisper was rough, tone riddled with unspoken regrets. “The danger means nothing.”

  Her mouth twisted into a bitter smile. “I thought as much.”

  “Tell me how you knew about that old servants’ passageway, and how you knew it wasn’t as sealed as it ought to have been.”

  “Oh.” She absently re-assessed herself, tugging the bodice and trying to arrange the skirts to appear fuller. “I played there once as a child with another girl. Your cousin, wasn’t she, and your father’s ward? Antoinette, her name was. You must remember her too.”

  “Of course.” Roland softened. “Toinette is very dear to me.”

  Sidonie looked up, a smile on her lips that made Roland wish he were anyone but himself. “Toinette. A name I haven’t heard in thirteen years. But I’m reminded of her sometimes in—” Her gaze went distant. “After I left my father’s house, Jeanne took me in—she became like a mother to me, in her own way. She and Toinette aren’t much alike, but they do share that same . . . same unshakable certainty, I suppose I’d term it.”

  “Jeanne?”

  Sidonie looked away.

  She didn’t need to say that Jeanne must have been one of the people Sidonie had ventured back on her quest to save.

  A lump formed in Roland’s throat. He didn’t want to think about those people imprisoned in the depths of Paris as anything but abstractions. The comparison to Toinette hit close. Too close. “You remember Toinette well.”

  “Yes, well, I idolized her. My father didn’t like me playing with her, but he cared less for the village children who would have been her alternatives, and you, of course, were too high to want anything to do with a little girl.”

  Cordumont had stayed at Château Bramville a handful of times in Roland’s youth, never more than a few days. But Roland had no memory of him bringing either of his daughters when they were young. He wished he did, but said nothing.

  “How is she?”

  “Toinette?” A godsend, that was what she was. Roland’s mother had doted on the girl, the daughter she’d always wanted but never had. “She’s well. She’s a widow, but her late husband provided for her handsomely. She’s settled but an hour’s walk from here. Motherhood agrees with her.”

  A brief flash of yearning crossed Sidonie’s features. Roland didn’t need to scrutinize to understand, but said nothing. He didn’t want to tell this woman she could still have children someday. Doing so put another man in Roland’s place. His rightful place. The place he burned to claim.

  Sidonie saved the conversation from a dangerous turn. “How did you explain needing to have women’s clothing washed?”

  “I’ve never explained myself to a servant in my life.” Least of all to the few who remained, loyal to him with a ferocity no amount of gold could ever buy.

  Sidonie scoffed, twisting her hair and casting a glance around, presumably for a bit of ribbon to tie the locks back. “Forgive me, my lord. How quickly I’ve forgotten what you must take for granted.”

  Inside, Roland cringed. The château was a dilapidated heap, but he’d still managed to sound pompous.

  He plucked a strand of light-blue ribbon from where he’d placed it on the mantle, having selected it for her himself. “I shaped the direction of your life. In some ways, you might say it was me who brought you to this pass.”

  He offered the wisp of silk. Regret slashed his heart. He was a guardian through and through, always wanting to protect those around him, even creatures like Sidonie whose need for protection was arguable at best, at least under normal circumstances. Nobody should have to do what Sidonie was going to do, not without the support of others. But he couldn’t. No matter how much he yearned for it to be otherwise, it could never be.

  Her face went impassive. “Please don’t.”

  She took the ribbon and she bent her head to secure her hair, then found the lappet cap and placed it over her he
ad.

  “You should have been a nobleman’s wife.”

  “If I’d become one, it doesn’t look as though I would have lived a life of distinction.”

  He came up behind her as she finished securing the knot. He was strong enough to expose a vulnerability, but still needed to pause and collect himself before he spoke. “We would have been together.”

  She turned and cupped his face tenderly. “You’re not responsible for anything you think I’ve become, however you feel about it.”

  They were close enough to kiss. If he brought her into his arms now, he would break when he was forced to part with her again. No matter how much he wanted to keep her, protect her, cherish her, love her, his duty was here with his brother.

  “But I must. I must bear responsibility, for if I’d taken responsibility to begin with, I wouldn’t have driven you to this. Instead, I ran away.”

  His greatest shame. Learning the secret of his true parentage had thrown him into turmoil. He’d questioned everything. Everyone. Especially himself.

  “Why did you?” Her voice was soft.

  Because the truth had brought out the weakness in him. A weakness he fought to purge each and every day of his life.

  Which he couldn’t very well explain to her, could he? How could he make her understand? “You must be hungry. Let me call for something. Then you’ll have some hot water to wash.”

  And he would not be the one scrubbing her, even if he’d only meant she could wash the streaks of dirt from her face. The part of his mind her nearness had inflamed with wickedness readily supplied a far more lascivious picture.

  When he brushed past her, she caught his arm. His whole body lurched with longing. Her gaze tangled with his, her vivid blue irises arresting any possibility of his avoiding her plea. “Please tell me. Whatever the truth might be, I can bear it.”

  “Yesterday you hadn’t the first inclination to hear me out.”

  “Forgive me?”

  “I don’t need your pity.”

  “You shall never have it.” Her expression remained unchanged.

  He withdrew from her grasp and her hand fell gently away. Every nerve running through him screamed for him to stay close to her. To take comfort from her.

  Too dangerous. One thing might lead to another and he could well end up demanding the liberty of a kiss. And if she let him, what else might she allow?

  “Very well.” Roland leveled his chin. His throat tightened. He owed her this, at least. “What I have to say, I don’t offer as any excuse for my behavior toward you. There are no excuses. Reasons, perhaps, but, well, you’ll have to judge for yourself.”

  She drew a deep breath and gave a solemn nod. Her clothing might have made her look a servant, but her movements, even down to the seemingly least significant, betrayed what she really was.

  Roland hesitated. He’d never before said the words aloud, not to anyone. Telling Sidonie first seemed natural . . . and terrifying. “My father did not sire me.”

  Chapter 6

  There. It was out. An explanation, as much for her as for himself.

  Instead of finding a measure of absolution in the admission, however, Roland remained mired in sticky regrets.

  The concern etched on her face bled to disbelief. Whatever she’d been expecting to hear, it couldn’t have been this, the truth of his parentage. Which meant she couldn’t have known. If there were any satisfaction to be drawn from her reaction, it was in knowing the d’Ambroisin secrets remained safe.

  At the same moment, the rising sun broke over the horizon, pouring into the window, and bathing Sidonie in light. She squinted against the incursion. “You are sure?”

  “I am sure. He told me.”

  “And by he you mean your . . .” She looked at him expectantly for him to supply the correct person.

  “My father, not my sire, whoever he might have been.”

  “You make a distinction between father and sire?”

  Roland sailed over the details and cut to the heart of the matter, clinging to the truth as he wove threads of, well, not a lie precisely, but delicate omissions. “I wouldn’t in all cases. Even in the most scandalous iterations on this theme, one is more or less necessarily bound to the other. In this instance, however, I won’t for a moment allow even a hint that the man I knew as my father wasn’t my true father, regardless of anything else.”

  This was tricky territory. The truth was simple enough. Roland’s father had wanted to raise another d’Ambroisin son, but he didn’t want his second son to carry a single drop of d’Ambroisin blood. A male to carry on the name and line without the burden that they shared.

  Though his father had acted for good reasons—rather, compelled his wife’s act for good reasons—the result had been to essentially cut Roland out of his own family. In fact, though not in truth, alienating him. To the world, he was one of them. Roland was the son and heir who would—and did—inherit everything after the family colluded to make the world believe Jacques was dead.

  In the end, it had all been for naught.

  “I should have told you. Instead, I ran away. For that, I will be forever sorry.”

  All the old shame came flooding back, like poison burning through the vessels of his body.

  And then he left.

  ~ ~ ~

  Sidonie was alone. Jumbled, incoherent thoughts at the back of her mind tested the pieces of Roland’s story as the thoughts at the front of her mind—the rational thoughts, rulers in the realm of practicality, at least on better days—shouted at her to take advantage of his absence.

  Gnawing hunger made her head light and limbs heavy. Last night’s meal had vanished quickly.

  Thinking of food reminded her to check her second sight. She cleared her mind, taking calming breaths. Second sight required letting go of the reliance upon the solid world and to find what was all about them for those who knew the trick of how to look.

  Her mind found the folds in time. They had the same depths and sensations of light, but were inexplicably different. They simply were what they were. Sidonie tried mentally lifting the veils. And peered forward.

  Nothing.

  She set her disappointment aside. She couldn’t tarry. The waves of heat pouring from the blaze in the monstrous hearth served as poignant reminder of her friends’ possible fate. If Sidonie weren’t on the road by nightfall, the cause would be lost.

  But everything he’d said . . . He hadn’t been telling the full story. There hadn’t been holes, not precisely—more like the sense of skimming the surface of a pool where a thousand secrets swam.

  Without the time to squander on useless musings, she shut her thoughts against further consideration and peered from the large center window.

  Below, massive cut stones from a fallen wall littered the ground. If she didn’t need to save every drop of strength, she wouldn’t hesitate to leap. She could maintain incorporeal form long enough to survive. But what if the window were her only means of escape? Not fleeing last night when she’d had the chance of landing in a soft patch had been a monumental mistake.

  The true mark of her kind was being able to act and act rightly under the most extreme pressure.

  As Sidonie worried her lip bloody debating the risk, the black cat from last night jumped into view on one of the jagged ruins below, stared directly at her and gaped its jaws to call for Sidonie’s attention. The sound of the meow didn’t pass through the panes of glass. But it didn’t need to.

  “Is there any other way?”

  The cat meowed again, eyes closed, throwing so much force behind sounding an alarmed cry, the slim body practically levitated from the effort.

  Sidonie huffed her annoyance, but knew better than to ignore the warning. “Have it your way, then.” She turned to survey her prison. Roland
’s room.

  Her gaze fell to the bed.

  Last night she’d been so overcome with weariness, she been unaware of where he’d brought her. Waking swaddled in his bed, surrounded by the scent of him . . . what a cruel reminder of what she couldn’t have.

  Buried under everything was an odd sort of compliment. What he hadn’t said, but what he’d meant, in a way, was that she was too good to marry a man who was in truth illegitimate.

  But she was no closer to understanding his actions. It was a strange code of honor indeed to disavow marriage on such a pretense.

  Such strong feelings against illegitimacy could only mean he wouldn’t dare risk sowing a bastard of his own. Which meant he wouldn’t toss her skirts and work out the energy between them up against a wall.

  Pity.

  What better farewell than coupling with a man for whom she’d never stopped yearning?

  No. No more distractions. She’d come to speak with Roland’s mother and that was what she must do.

  A pair of silver candlesticks rested on the mantle above the fireplace. She picked away years of hard wax drippings, and closed her hand around the base. Sidonie caught sight of herself in the semi-tarnished surface and froze. A witch had no use for reflections. Mirrors were dangerous. Full of power and dark magic.

  But it proved too much of a temptation. She needed to know what Roland saw, so she squinted and peered. The face staring back at hers was nothing like the girl she’d once been. She was lean, worn, and spent. The last week had etched a year upon her skin.

  Frowning, she looked away. It hurt somewhat, seeing what time and circumstance had taken from her, but she didn’t have the luxury of caring. Besides, it wasn’t of any matter. If her life after leaving Cordumont had taught her anything, it was the absolute dearth of value inherent to appearances.

  Gripping the cold metal of the candelabra to use as a weapon if necessary, she eyed her surroundings. The door by which Roland had gone couldn’t be the only passage to and from the room, even if this section of the structure dated later than the fortress tower.