“Then do as your mistress says.” the woman's breathy voice sharpened as the guards behind her inched closer, “Leave. Foreigners cannot step on hallowed Safranian ground.”
Reine coughed—forcing away a giggle.
Marceline clenched her jaw.
“Go on.” the waif said, bringing a hand to her gown.
Marceline exhaled, “I will be by the archway if you need me, Mademoiselle.”
Shoving her way past the waif and her guardswomen, Marceline left with a pinched expression darkening her face.
Reine smiled. The agent did not like to be bested.
The waif inclined her head towards Reine. Shooing her guardswomen towards the chapel entryway, she smiled before taking a seat at one of the pews.
The chapel's wooden doors moaned to a close.
Reine returned her grin.
The chapel made her feel safe. Though the chamber was small, she liked the cozy feel of it. The chilling breeze that haunted it made her feel as if the Fates were truly there, listening. Pondering her prayers.
Oftentimes, the eastwing chapel was empty save for a large statue of the three major Fates anchored to the center of the pastel painted chamber. Sky blue paintings of celestial beings, gods and goddess—the Fates and their creations, soared high above her head in a brilliant etching of sparkling painted light. If she closed her eyes and breathed—she could see the heavens. She could smell the infinite summer of the underworld.
Other times, she could hear voices. The dear songs of Duchess Mariett.
Reine took a seat at a pew opposite the waif, across a wide aisle strewn with red satin. She took to the floor, kneeling. Closing her eyes.
The back of her neck throbbed. She couldn't keep her head up even if she wanted to.
Did she deserve this?
Dear Mariett—the Council is ignoring your decree. The scaffold upon High Hill is being rebuilt—and it is grand. Monstrous. I see it in my dreams—I see it in my waking hours. I can no longer sleep...
Reine clasped her hands together tightly, her nails dug into skin.
Why is this happening? How has the chateau found out about your heir? I promise—I swear I've said nothing. Nothing at all to anyone. I have sworn to keep him safely out of the hands of the Council—and this I have done.
Why does the Council believe he is dead? To them—he does not even exist...!
“Mademoiselle?”
Reine caught her breath. Peeling her eyes away from the thick wood of the pew before her, Reine peeked at the waif across the aisle. Reine nodded, her voice stolen.
“Mademoiselle, excuse me for cutting your prayers short, but...” the waif brought her thin fingertips to her lips as she cocked her head. The thin white veil atop her silvery hair slid down. It covered her eyes, “...would you happen to be the courts...Odette?”
Despite the hollow of her cheeks and the fading pink of her cracked lips, Reine dared to imagine that she was still her old self—the beautiful woman she was before Duchess Mariett died. She imagined her hair hadn't been shedding like a dog's coat in winter. She imagined that the heavy bags beneath her eyes were no more.
If this woman could recognize her despite the muck and grime of a face in mourning, Reine believed that—perhaps she was still beautiful.
Maybe she was still someone. The court's Odette.
Reine allowed herself to smile. Her cheeks became rosy, “Yes I am. Madam...?”
The woman's gray eyes narrowed, “Ah,” she breathed before closing them. Turning to face the pew before her, she lowered her head. Clasped her hands together, “So it is you who has killed my sons.”
NINE
Marceline
Outside the chapel, Marceline did away with her heels.
The two guardswomen ripped their swords from the sheaths at their belts.
Marceline slipped a black stiletto from her rose bodice.
“You remember us, yes?” the blue eyed blond asked, the tip of her sword tapping the ground before her.
Marceline snorted. Rolled her eyes. Flung her stiletto to the ground. The weapon dropped with a clink.
Two blades of steel clattered to the ground, interrupting the prolonged silence.
“So, you'll come peacefully, then?” the two were twins, but it was easy for Marceline to tell who spoke.
“I never said that, Kafka.” Marceline murmured, frowning as she crossed her arms.
The verdant eyed Kafka mimicked Marceline's thin frown, her scarlet-stained lips curving. She tilted her head, “Remy.”
Fiery eyes simmered as they set themselves upon Marceline. Remy crouched. Set a foot forward and charged at Marceline like a berserk bison.
Marceline regretted throwing her stiletto to the ground.
Remy's shoulder connected with Marceline's side as she dashed to the right—narrowly avoiding the attack as Kafka looked on with cold eyes. Unperturbed.
“Why is the Bann here?” barked Kafka.
Grunting, Marceline ignored her question as Remy charged once more—learned Marceline's pattern. And as Marceline sidestepped, Remy twirled—the two colliding with a bony slap.
Marceline's vision exploded with stars.
As Remy scooped her up.
“Why come to Safrana? What do your solicitous masters hope to gain?”
Air escaped Marceline's lungs as she was thrown onto Remy's muscular padded shoulder. The woman moved beneath her, bobbing her up and down, as she began to jog towards the end of the white corridor. Kafka ran near, breathless as she heaved. The woman constantly spouting questions.
“Does the Bann know about us?”
Marceline struggled to suck in breath.
“Is it true that one of our own works with you?”
Remy shrugged beneath Marceline's weight. Marceline's jaw clenched.
“How? How did you get one of our own to turn tail?”
The corridor's end flew at her—making her dizzy.
Where were they taking her?
Why did they want her? Why not her charge?
Did it matter?
With a breath, she raised her hand and clapped it to Remy's ear. Lowering her head, she screeched into it. Her voice exploding like a broken tambourine dashed to the ground.
Remy pulled her head back—screaming as her knees buckled.
The jogging stopped. The world took a breath.
As Marceline dropped to the ground, catching herself on hands and knees. Gasping, she sprung to standing and twisted. Facing Remy, Marceline rammed her thumbs into Remy's eye sockets. Drawing blood.
A shriek erupted from Remy's face—before she lowered her head and thrust it into Marceline's chest.
Marceline gagged. Saw the whites of Remy's eyes as the woman bashed her in the jaw.
Flinging Marceline back onto her shoulder, Remy screamed. Clutched her tighter—heaving her up high as Kafka sprinted towards the towering window of stained glass at the end of the white corridor. Latching onto an armchair sitting at the right wall, she flung it into the window.
Glass crashed. It fell like glittering rain.
“Go on—get!” Kafka screamed.
Remy grunted—screamed—and picked up her pace. Sprinting, the white hallway becoming a blur of doors and golden sconces.
Marceline's breath became a whirlwind in her chest as she clawed at Remy's back—the woman suddenly unable to feel pain as blood and tears intermingled on her face.
They were determined—desperate.
But Marceline could not fail.
This was her duty—her charge needed her.
An icy wind stabbed at her back as Remy bounded towards the broken window—she was close. Too close.
As Marceline reared back her head and bit at the woman's earlobe. Ripping it off.
A bloody hole remained. Remy crumpled. Marceline tumbled to the ground—the broken window at her head. The surrounding city leagues below her.
Steel kissed her throat.
As Kafka slid an arm around Marceline's mi
dsection, “Perhaps I should clarify?” Kafka hissed. Pressing the knife to Marceline's throat, she pulled her to standing, “We have not come to kill you, agent. Come quietly.”
Marceline closed her eyes as Kafka forced her forward. Cold wind bit at her face. Whipped her hair around her head and ripped at her overdress.
Below, a city roared.
She opened her eyes.
Far below, a netting was spread taut in a grimy alleyway.
Kafka expected her to jump.
TEN
Marceline
Marceline let her weight fall on the blade.
Kafka's grip slackened. The knife fell, plummeting from a dizzying height.
Both women fell forward.
The netting far below seemed thin to her, yet strong enough to hold one person.
With their weight combined, the netting would break.
From this height, she'd crack her skull. Splinter every rib in her body.
She'd die—her assignment unfinished.
“C'est la vie.” she whispered as Kafka screeched in her ear, the woman's voice breaking. Crumbling like ancient castle walls.
Such is life.
At least she'd be free.
But something pulled at her—tugged at her—wouldn't let her go and Kafka slid from her back—screaming. Screeching. Her arms rapidly clutching at nothing but air.
Marceline's scalp burned. Someone latched onto her hair—a feeble grip clutched at her mid-flight and yanked her head backward. Her back slammed into the chateau's wall and she slapped her hand behind her. Jagged glass bit through her fingers as she turned around. Slapping her other palm to the window pane, she faced the corridor completely and stared at the dirtied tail of a gown.
Sun-spun hair tumbled from slender shoulders. The gossamer gown hissed.
Reine kneeled, “Take my hand.”
Marceline blinked.
“I—,” Reine huffed, “come, now. Before the other one gets up!”
Marceline took it. Pressed her feet into the wall of the chateau and threw herself onto the floor of the corridor.
She met Reine's eye, “You're...alright?”
“Madam Couture wouldn't hurt me,” Reine shrugged. Smiled, “not publicly. She lacks the will. Now, her guardswomen...”
Those women weren't contracted to Madam Couture.
“Merci.”
“No, no. I should apologize...”
Marceline ignored her. Brought her gaze to the woman writhing in pain on the floor.
“Would you like to follow your sister?” Marceline murmured, hovering over her.
Remy made no move to respond. She simply whimpered. A deep and ghostly wail.
“Mademoiselle, the matter between her and I is...private.” Marceline pressed the sole of her boot into Remy's midsection. She twisted her heel. Earned a whimper, “I ask that you call your handmaidens and return to your quarters.”
Reine barked a laugh, “That's it? A simple merci for saving your life—and a command?” she laughed again, throwing back her head, “Your life is mine, agent. Whatever business you have...”
“It is not a command, Mademoiselle.” Marceline met her eyes, “It is a plea.”
ELEVEN
Dimitri
Her thin frame blended in with the gossamer laced canopy. She was a waif, thin and ghostly.
Or, perhaps a wraith.
Rain pelted his forehead. With a multitude of thoughts whirling in his mind like a howling hurricane, he forgot to throw a cloak over his shoulders to combat the rain. And as he waited upon the cobblestone byway of High Hill Tower, fog crept over his soaked boots as rain drenched his outer-garments. A chilling wind bit through his clothing, as a somber gray sky stared down at him.
From his right, he could see the completed scaffold. A twisted nub of rope hung from its thick base, snaking across the raised platform like a worm rushing from the rain.
His brother would hang there on the morrow.
Dimitri blamed himself.
He stood there in the rain with his hands clasped behind his back, waiting.
Five days ago, his mother spoke of the slayer...
“Dunstan Riche,” she recalled with a callous smile, “of course I know that name, child. You'd do well not to utter it twice more.”
“And what will happen if I do?”
His mother cocked her head of silvery hair, “Curses stack up, darling. They double and triple. Djinns are naughty creatures who should only be called upon once.”
“But will you tell me more—,”
“I shan't utter his name again. Just know...” she leaned in from her large bed. Pulling apart the translucent canopy, she met Dimitri's eye, “...he is on our side...for now.”
Her words brought icy winds.
Before the crumbling black brick of High Hill Tower, Dimitri shivered. Behind him, heels clicked over slimy cobbles. Rainwater splashed.
A gloved hand brushed his shoulder.
The door to the tower loomed. Its dark exterior challenging. The door stark before the fog. Bold and intense.
“I am ready,” his companion said, her voice a breathy whisper, “he has been kept waiting long enough.”
THE TOWER WARDEN STOOD from his wooden seat. Black leather merged with the humid darkness of the tower as he kneeled before Dimitri's companion.
He took her hand. Kissed it, “Madam Couture,” the man breathed, his grizzled voice a pained whisper, “Have you come...?”
“My son,” Dimitri's mother breathed, “is he allowed fresh air?”
The burly man nodded, stiff on one knee.
“Then bring him to the top of the tower. My youngest and I,” she looked to Dimitri, gray eyes dancing, “would like a private audience before he...”
The warden stood quickly, “Of course Madam, Monsieur,” tired eyes cut to Dimitri, “of course. It is...raining, Madam. You...you know this...”
“Fresh air is fresh air, Monsieur.”
The warden inclined his head, “Yes, Madam.” the man froze. Hesitated, “I stake my career on the safety of your son, Madam Couture. My head even.”
Dimitri's mother gave him her back, “He will die tomorrow—can I not get a moment alone with my son, Monsieur?”
“The top of the tower is a dangerous place for a man with nothing left to lose.”
The mosaic brick of the tower foyer seemed to strangle Dimitri. Scanning around the humid room, Dimitri pressed his lips together.
His mother was becoming impatient.
“He has yet to be charged, Monsieur.” she sighed, raising her chin, “Or, perhaps you are judge and jury? Do you know if my son has done what the ruling council charges him with? Do you, Monsieur?” she spun on her heel, the damp tail of her blue gown swirled, “Do you call my noble son a murderer?”
The warden clamped up—unprepared for a verbal battle.
Dimitri's mother frowned, “Bring him, Monsieur. He is my son. He will not die on my watch.”
THE WARDEN GAVE THEM half an hour.
A tumult poured from on high. A drenching shower of pelting rain.
Loris was a shrunken shell of the man he once was. He hugged himself as he climbed the steps to the tower's top. Dimitri watched as the warden's men brought the disheveled man towards their mother before leaving the way they came. White breath escaped Loris's cracked lips as he shivered, skulked past their mother as if she were a ghost, and shoved past Dimitri.
Loris stood at the tower's edge, looking down. His eyes glued to the scaffold five stories below.
“I'm to hang...” he swallowed, “...on that.”
Dimitri approached him—a hand raised. Loris shrunk into himself as he hugged his brown blanket tight.
“No—not yet,” Dimitri started, grasping his brother's shoulder, “father is working tirelessly to clear your name...” and mother has contacted a Djinn.
Dimitri pressed his lips together.
Loris shivered, “Duke Loris Couture...that was to be my name. Duke Loris Cout
ure—,” Loris snapped his gaze to Dimitri, “—but father lies, little brother.”
“How are you so...” Dimitri shook his head—they had no time for frivolous questions. Though Loris requested his presence, their mother came for a single purpose, “...is it true?” he whispered conspiratorially, “They've upped the charges to murder, Loris. Did you truly...?”
Loris threw his hands into the air before turning on his heel. Grinding his teeth, he paced in the rain. His threadbare slippers slapped violently in puddle after puddle, “My—my own brother does not believe in my innocence—ha!” his grin was mad—twisted, “No wonder I'm set to hang on the morrow. If you—if you of all people do not believe I never laid a hand upon that child...!”
Dimitri met his brother's eye for a moment.
Loris froze, “If you—of all people...” he couldn't find the words. A clenching pain welled up in the back of Dimitri's throat as he watched his brother fall apart. His scar burned.
Loris dropped, his limbs boneless. His spine gone.
“Of all people!” he cried out, his shoulders racking. “I'm going to die—I'm going to hang! All because...”
Closing the distance between them, Dimitri kneeled beside his brother. Placed his hand upon his back, “I believe you.” his voice wavered. He looked to their mother who stood upon the opposite edge of the tower face. She watched with vacant eyes, her long arms beneath her gray cloak.
Her eyes told him to press. To get more information.
“Because...?” Dimitri hissed into Loris's ear.
Loris's head dropped into his hands. The blanket fell away, “I—I offered her a favor, Dimitri! Help! The Odette requested help in exchange for...damn it all, Dimitri! She—she wanted...”
Dimitri met his mother's eye. She approached slowly, like water trailing upon the ground.
“She wanted what, Loris?”
“This city would have stolen his soul. You—you don't understand. You haven't lived in this damned chateau your entire life, Dimitri! You—you don't know what it's like! This city—the power—the glass throne—it would have stolen his soul!”
Their mother stood behind Dimitri, her form a shadow.
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