Serpent & Dove

by Shelby Mahurin

  We kept our distance.

  “Make this quick,” she grumbled.

  The Archbishop inclined his head. “Step forward, both of you, and join hands.”

  We stared at each other. Neither moved. “Oh, hurry up.” Jean Luc shoved me roughly from behind, and I surrendered a step. Watched in silent fury as she refused to bridge the remaining distance. Waited.

  After several long seconds, she rolled her eyes and stepped forward. When I extended my hands, she stared at them as if they were spotted with leprosy.

  One.

  I forced myself to breathe. In through my nose. Out through my mouth.

  Two.

  Her brows furrowed. She watched me with a bemused expression—obviously questioning my mental capacity.

  Three.

  Four.

  She took my hands. Grimaced as if in pain.

  Five.

  I realized a second too late she was in physical pain. I immediately loosened my grip on her broken fingers.

  Six.

  The Archbishop cleared his throat. “Let us begin.” He turned to me. “Will thou, Reid Florin Diggory, have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Will thou love her, comfort her, honor and keep her, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as you both shall live?”

  My vision narrowed to a speck of white amidst the pigeons—a dove. My head spun. They all stared at me, waiting for me to speak, but my throat constricted. Choking me.

  I couldn’t marry this woman. I couldn’t. Once acknowledged, the thought latched deep, sinking its claws into every fiber of my being. There had to be another way—any other way—

  Small, warm fingers squeezed my own. My eyes darted up and met piercing blue-green. No—more blue than green now. Steely. Reflecting the iron water of the Doleur behind her. She swallowed and nodded almost imperceptibly.

  In that brief movement, I understood. The doubt, the hesitation, the mourning of a future I’d never have—it belonged to her as well. Gone was the spitting hellcat. Now, there was only a woman. And she was small. And she was frightened. And she was strong.

  And she was asking me to be the same.

  I didn’t know why I did it. She was a thief, a criminal, and I owed her nothing. She’d ruined my life when she dragged me on that stage. If I agreed, I was certain she’d do her best to continue doing so.

  But I returned the pressure anyway. Felt the two small words rise to my lips, unbidden. “I will.”

  The Archbishop turned to her. I maintained the pressure between our hands, careful of her broken fingers. “What’s your name?” he asked abruptly. “Your full name?”

  “Louise Margaux Larue.”

  I frowned. Larue. It was a common enough surname among the criminals in East End, but usually a pseudonym. It literally meant the streets.

  “Larue?” The Archbishop eyed her suspiciously, echoing my own doubts. “You should know if this name proves false, your marriage to Captain Diggory will be annulled. I need not remind you of your fate should this happen.”

  “I know the law.”

  “Fine.” He waved a hand. “Will thou, Louise Margaux Larue, have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony? Will thou obey him, and serve him, love, honor and keep him, in sickness and in health, and, forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as you both shall live?”

  I could see the snort rising to her face, but she resisted, kicking a clump of sand at the birds instead. They scattered with cries of alarm. A lump rose in my throat as the dove took flight.

  “I will.”

  The Archbishop continued without pausing. “By the power vested in me, I pronounce you husband and wife in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.” He paused, and every muscle in my body tensed, waiting for the next line. As if reading my thoughts, he cast me a scathing look. My cheeks flamed once more.

  “For as the Lord God says”—he clasped his hands and bowed his head—“‘two are better than one . . . For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow. But woe to him who is alone when he falleth, for he hath not another to help him up. And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him. A threefold cord is not quickly broken.’”

  He straightened with a grim smile. “It is done. What therefore God hath joined together, let no man put asunder. We shall sign the certificate of marriage upon our return, and the matter shall be settled.”

  He moved toward the waiting carriage but stopped short, turning to scowl at me. “Of course, the marriage must be consummated to be legally binding.”

  She stiffened beside me, staring resolutely at the Archbishop—her mouth tight, her eyes tense. Heat washed over me. Hotter and fiercer than before. “Yes, Your Eminence.”

  He nodded, satisfied, and stepped into the carriage. Jean Luc climbed in after him, winking. If possible, my humiliation fanned and spread.

  “Good.” The Archbishop snapped the carriage door shut. “See that it’s executed quickly. A witness shall visit your room later to confirm.”

  My stomach plummeted as he disappeared down the street.

  Part II

  Petit à petit, l’oiseau fait son nid.

  Little by little, the bird makes its nest.

  —French proverb

  Consummation

  Lou

  Cathédral Saint-Cécile d’Cesarine rose up before me, a sinister specter of spires and towers and flying buttresses. Jewel-toned windows leered in the sunlight. Rosewood doors—carved and embedded in white stone—gaped open as we climbed the steps, and a handful of Chasseurs spilled out.

  “Behave yourself,” my new husband muttered. I smirked but said nothing.

  A Chasseur stopped in front of me. “Identification.”

  “Er—”

  My husband dipped his head stiffly. “This is my wife, Louise.”

  I stared at him, amazed the words had managed to escape through his clenched teeth. As usual, he ignored me.

  The Chasseur in front of me blinked. Blinked again. “Your—your wife, Captain Diggory?”

  He offered a barely perceptible nod, and I truly feared for his poor teeth. They’d surely chip if he kept gnashing them together. “Yes.”

  The Chasseur risked a glance at me. “This is . . . highly unusual. Is the Archbishop aware—”

  “He’s expecting us.”

  “Of course.” The Chasseur turned to the pageboy who’d just appeared. “Inform the Archbishop that Captain Diggory and his . . . wife have arrived.” He cast another furtive glance in my direction as the boy scurried away. I winked back at him. My husband made an impatient noise and seized my arm, steering me forcefully toward the door.

  I tugged my arm away. “There’s no need to cripple me.”

  “I told you to behave.”

  “Oh, please. I winked. It’s not like I stripped and sang ‘Big Titty Liddy’—”

  A commotion rose behind us, and we turned as one. More Chasseurs marched up the street, carrying what looked like a body between them. Though they’d wrapped it in cloth for propriety’s sake, there was no mistaking the hand that dangled below the sheet.

  Or the vines that had grown between its fingers. Or the bark that dappled its skin.

  I leaned closer—despite my husband yanking me back—and inhaled the familiar sweetness emanating from the body. Interesting.

  One of the Chasseurs hastened to conceal the hand. “We found him just outside the city, Captain.”

  My husband jerked his head toward the alley beside the church without a word, and the Chasseurs hurried away.

  Though my husband led me inside, I craned my neck to watch them go. “What was that about?”

  “Never you mind.”

  “Where are they taking him?”

  “I said never you—”

  “Enough.” The Archbishop strode into the foyer, eyeing the mud and
water pooling at my feet in distaste. He’d already changed into fresh choral robes, of course, and washed the flecks of mud and sand from his face. I resisted the urge to fidget with my torn dress or finger-comb my matted hair. It didn’t matter what I looked like. The Archbishop could piss off. “The marriage certificate is waiting in my study. From where should we retrieve your possessions?”

  Feigning disinterest, I wrung out my soaking hair. “I have none.”

  “You . . . have none,” he repeated slowly, looking me over with disapproval.

  “That’s what I said, yes—unless you and your cronies would like to ransack Soleil et Lune’s attic. I’ve been borrowing costumes for years now.”

  He scowled. “I expected little else. We shall, however, endeavor to find you more presentable garments. I won’t dishonor Reid by having his bride appear a heathen, even if she is one.”

  “How dare you?” I clutched the front of my ruined dress in mock affront. “I am a God-fearing Christian woman now—”

  My husband hauled me away before I could utter another word.

  I swore I heard one of his teeth crack.

  After hastily signing the marriage certificate in the study, my husband steered me down a narrow, dusty corridor, clearly trying to avoid the crowded foyer. God forbid anyone saw his new wife. Rumors were probably already circulating the Tower about the scandal.

  A spiral staircase tucked in the back of the corridor caught my attention. Unlike the archaic rosewood staircases nestled throughout the cathedral, this one was metal and clearly built after the original construction. And there was something there . . . in the air of the stairwell . . . I tugged on his arm and inhaled covertly. “Where does that staircase lead?”

  He turned, following my gaze, before shaking his head curtly. “Nowhere you’ll be visiting. Access beyond the dormitories is restricted. Only approved personnel are allowed on the upper floors.”

  Well, then. Count me in.

  I said nothing more, however, allowing him to lead me up several different flights of stairs to a plain wooden door. He pushed it open without looking back at me. I paused outside, staring at the words inscribed above the doorway:

  THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER A WITCH TO LIVE.

  I shivered. So this was the infamous Chasseur Tower. Though no visible changes marked the corridor beyond, there was something . . . austere about the place. It lacked warmth, benevolence—the atmosphere as bleak and rigid as the men who resided within.

  My husband poked his head back through the door a second later, glancing between the terrifying inscription and me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” I hurried after him, ignoring the cold trickle of dread down my spine as I crossed the threshold. There was no going back now. I was in the belly of the beast.

  Soon to be in the bed of the beast.

  Like hell.

  He led me down the hall, careful not to touch me. “Through here.” He gestured to one of the many doors lining the corridor, and I brushed past him into the room—and stopped short.

  It was a matchbox. A painfully simple, miserably drab little matchbox with no defining characteristics whatsoever. The walls were white, the floorboards dark. Only a bed and desk filled the space. Worse, he had no personal effects whatsoever. No trinkets. No books. Not even a basket for dirty laundry. When I spotted the narrow window—too high on the wall to watch the sunset—I truly died a little inside.

  My husband must’ve been the most insipid person ever born.

  The door clicked shut behind me. It sounded final—like a jail cell clanging shut.

  He moved in my periphery, and I whirled, but he only lifted his hands slowly, as if placating a feral cat. “I’m just taking off my jacket.” He shrugged out of his sodden coat and draped it across the desk before starting to unbuckle his bandolier.

  “You can stop right there,” I said. “No—no more clothes coming off.”

  His jaw tightened. “I’m not going to force myself on you”—his nose wrinkled in disgust—“Louise.”

  “It’s Lou.” He twitched visibly at the name. “Is my name offensive to you?”

  “Everything about you is offensive to me.” He pulled the chair from the desk and sat down, heaving a great sigh. “You’re a criminal.”

  “There’s no need to sound so self-righteous, Chass. You’re here because of you, not me.”

  He scowled. “This is your fault.”

  Shrugging, I moved to sit on his immaculately made bed. He cringed when my wet dress soiled the quilt. “You should’ve let me go at the theater.”

  “I didn’t know you were going to—that you were going to frame me—”

  “I’m a criminal,” I reasoned, not bothering to correct him. It didn’t matter now, anyway. “I behaved criminally. You should’ve known better.”

  He gestured angrily to my bruised face and broken fingers. “And how has behaving criminally treated you?”

  “I’m alive, aren’t I?”

  “Are you?” He arched a copper brow. “You look like someone nearly killed you.”

  I waved a careless hand and smirked. “Hazard of the job.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Excuse me?”

  His eyes blazed. “You’re my wife now, whether we like it or not. No man will ever touch you that way again.”

  Tension—taut and heavy—settled between us at his words.

  I tilted my head and stalked toward him, a slow smile spreading across my face. He glared at me, but his breathing hitched when I leaned over him. His eyes flicked to my mouth. Even sitting, he was nearly taller than me.

  “Good.” I curled my hand around one of the knives in his bandolier. Flicking it to his throat before he could react, I dug the tip in hard enough to draw blood. His hand came down on my wrist—crushing it—but he didn’t force me away. I leaned closer. Our lips were only a hair’s breadth apart. “But you should know,” I breathed, “that if a man touches me in any way without my permission, I’ll cut him open.” I paused for effect, dragging the knife from his throat to his navel and beyond. He swallowed hard. “Even if that man is my husband.”

  “We have to consummate the marriage.” His voice was low, raw—angry. “Neither of us can afford an annulment.”

  I pushed away from him roughly, jerking up my sleeve to reveal the skin of my inner arm. Eyes never leaving his, I dug the tip of the knife in and sliced down. He moved to stop me, but it was too late. Blood welled. I ripped the blanket from his bed and let the blood drip on his bedsheets.

  “There.” I stalked to the bathing chamber, ignoring his shocked expression. “Marriage consummated.”

  I savored the pain in my arm. It felt real, unlike everything else in this wretched day. I cleaned it slowly, deliberately, before dressing it with a cloth from the cupboard in the corner.

  Married.

  If someone had told me this morning I’d be married by sunset, I would’ve laughed. Laughed, and then probably spat in their face.

  The Chasseur pounded on the door. “Are you all right?”

  “God, leave me alone.”

  The door cracked open. “Are you decent?”

  “No,” I lied.

  “I’m coming in.” He poked his head in first, eyes narrowing as he saw all the blood. “Was that necessary?”

  “I’m nothing if not thorough.”

  He tugged the dressing down to examine the cut, forcing me to look squarely at his chest. He hadn’t yet changed, and his shirt was still wet from the river. It clung to his chest in a particularly distracting way. I forced myself to stare at the tub instead, but my thoughts kept drifting back to him. He really was too tall. Abnormally tall. Entirely too big for this small of a space. I wondered if he had some sort of disease. My eyes cut back to his chest. Probably.

  “They’ll think I murdered you.” He replaced the dressing and opened the small cupboard again, grabbing another cloth to mop up the floor and basin. I finished wrapping my arm and joined him.

  �
��What do we do with the evidence?” I wiped my bloody hands on my hem.

  “We burn it. There’s a furnace downstairs.”

  My eyes lit up. “Yes! I set a warehouse on fire once. One match, and the whole thing went up like a smokestack.”

  He stared at me in horror. “You set a building on fire?”

  These people obviously had hearing impairments. “That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”

  He shook his head and knotted the towel. “Your dress,” he said without looking at me. I glanced down at it.

  “What about it?”

  “It’s covered in blood. It needs to go too.”

  “Right.” I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “I don’t have any other clothes.”

  “That’s your problem. Hand it over.”

  I glared at him. He glared back. “I don’t have any other clothes,” I repeated slowly. Definite hearing impairment.

  “You should’ve thought about that before you slashed open your arm.” He thrust out his hand insistently.

  Another second passed.

  “Fine, then.” A wild little laugh escaped my throat. “Just fine!” Two could play this game. I attempted to jerk my dress over my head, but my fingers—still stiff and painful—prevented me from succeeding. The wet fabric caught around my neck instead, strangling me, and I nearly broke the rest of my fingers in a desperate attempt to pry it away.

  Strong hands soon reached forward to assist me. I leapt away on instinct, and my dress ripped as easily as it had done in the theater.

  Flustered, I threw it in his face.

  I wasn’t naked. Soft, flexible undergarments covered my sensitive bits, but it was enough. When he extracted himself from my dress, his face was burning. He averted his eyes quickly.

  “There’s a shirt in there.” He nodded to the cupboard before eyeing the wound on my arm. “I’ll tell a maid to bring you a nightgown. Don’t let her see your arm.”

  I rolled my eyes again as he left, slipping into one of his absurdly large shirts. It fell down past my knees.

  When I was sure he’d gone, I crept back out to the bedroom. Golden light from the sunset shone through the lone window. I dragged the desk over to it, stacking the chair on top, before climbing up. Balancing my elbows on the ledge, I rested my chin in my hands and sighed.