by Lily Blake
Catherine turned to Mary, her eyebrow raised. Mary had trained herself never to reveal anything to Catherine, never to show any weakness. But standing here, now, she also knew that Catherine was the one person in the palace who could understand her feelings about Nostradamus’s prophecy. It wasn’t long ago that Catherine had begged Mary to stay away from Francis, convinced that the seer’s vision was correct—that their marriage would cause her son’s death.
“I had a strange dream,” Mary confessed. “King Henry was firing an arrow at my neck and I just had to see him. I had to make sure…”
She reached out and brushed her fingers over Henry’s hand. It was cold to the touch. Mary let out a deep breath, her whole body relaxing. She’d been so silly to come here—and silly to bring Greer and the guard for protection. Of course the king wasn’t going to hurt her. He was dead. He’d been dead since last night. He was here, in this crypt, and would be until his funeral two days from now.
“I feel like I’m losing my mind,” Mary whispered, dropping her head so Catherine wouldn’t see her face.
“Nostradamus’s visions have a way of doing that,” Catherine said. “You’re letting them get to you. When he first came here, I used to obsess about the things he told me. I’d turn them over and over again in my mind, trying to figure out every word, trying to stop the future he’d foretold. I was taking them too literally then.”
Mary looked at Catherine, surprised by how earnest she sounded. Just hours ago she was sitting down the table from her, challenging her in front of ten of the kingdom’s lords and ladies.
“You’re different, though,” Catherine said. “You’re strong enough to push against it. You shouldn’t let your imagination run away with you.”
Mary stood there, taking in her words. You’re strong enough to push against it. It was the closest thing to a compliment Catherine had ever given her. Had it been said at some other time, in some other place, she might’ve thanked her. She might’ve smiled.
“You should get some rest, Catherine,” Mary said. “It’s been a long day.” She turned, walking back toward the stairs.
“Good night, Mary,” Catherine responded. Then she closed her eyes again and bent her head, continuing her prayers.
“You should get some rest too,” Greer said, pulling her gently toward the door. James closed the heavy wooden door behind them, and they began the climb back to the upper floors of the palace.
“Did that make you feel better?” Greer asked as they approached the north wing. “Seeing that there’s nothing to worry about?”
“Perhaps a little,” Mary said. She knew the king was dead—she’d seen his body with her own eyes. But there was still a vague, undefined worry that was following her. It was the tense twisting in her stomach, a tightening around her lungs.
“She doesn’t seem like a woman bent on revenge,” Greer said, dropping her voice low. “Not now at least. She’s still in mourning.”
“I know,” Mary said. She’d noticed the kindness in Catherine’s words, the genuine sadness in her expression as she leaned in over Henry’s body. But still…
“Mary, I have to tell you,” Greer said as she threaded her arm through Mary’s. “You can’t let this unhinge you. You can’t worry about this prophecy right now. With the plague, and Francis gone… it’s just too much. We just have to assume that Nostradamus is wrong. We have to put it out of our minds.”
“It’s easier said than done,” Mary said.
“Can you at least try?” Greer asked. “I don’t want you waking up every night, wondering if someone is after you.”
“I’ll try.” But as soon as Mary said it, she knew it would be nearly impossible. Her only chance at preventing her death was to prepare. She couldn’t forget the prophecy—not yet. Not now.
“Good,” Greer said, seeming comforted by Mary’s words. She held Mary close as they continued down the corridor, the guard following behind.
Hours later, Mary was staring up at the embroidered canopy above her bed. Greer had dozed off right away, but Mary hadn’t been able to sleep. She’d barely been able to close her eyes. Her gaze kept returning to the pink tapestry that covered the far wall, that uneven seam that proved that someone had been using the secret tunnels. Did it have something to do with the prophecy? Was someone intending to kill her by using the passage into her room?
Mary remembered her promise to Greer. She forced herself to close her eyes. She willed sleep to come, but again and again, her thoughts returned to the hidden passage. Who had opened the door—and for what reason?
Mary turned over. She moved the pillow beneath her head, adjusting it for comfort. She curled up, her knees to her chest. When nothing worked, she sat up in bed. She couldn’t stand it any longer—lying here, waiting and wondering. She might not know what was happening with Francis, or with Lola, but she could get answers about this. She might catch someone using the tunnels, and finally know who’d been in her room.
Mary climbed out of bed. She must’ve been awake for hours, restless, turning over, waiting for sleep. The light was just warming the windows, the sun peeking up beyond the trees. She crept across the room, careful not to wake Greer. Then she lifted the tapestry on the wall and opened the door behind it. She took a few steps forward, disappearing into the dark.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The morning light streamed in through the shutters. Francis had fallen asleep in an old armchair in the living room, and as he straightened up, he could feel the stiffness in his neck. It had been a long and restless night, with very little sleep. Every half hour he’d check on Lola and the baby, seeing that they were both still alive. The few times he did manage to doze off, he’d find himself waking in a panic, worried that something had happened to them.
He turned to the dresser beside him. The middle drawer was pulled out, the insides filled with crumpled clothes. It had served as his son’s makeshift crib for the evening, but when he leaned over, peering inside it, he realized the child was gone. The drawer was empty. He was suddenly awake, his heart racing in his chest.
He started toward the bedroom, afraid of what he might find there. The woman had tended to Lola all night, bringing her wet washcloths for her forehead, making her drink tiny sips of juice. Francis had been in and out of the room, rocking the baby, then switching off to take care of Lola himself. How long had he been asleep? It had felt like mere minutes, but now he worried it had been hours, and something horrible had transpired. He rested his hand on the knob, taking a breath before he pushed the door open.
Lola was propped up in bed, staring down at the baby in her arms. She looked tired, but the color had returned to her cheeks, and she was smiling. “Good morning, Papa,” she said.
He let out a small laugh, his eyes welling with tears. He wasn’t sure he had ever seen anything quite so beautiful.
“Lola… you’re all right,” he whispered, crossing to the bed. “I wasn’t sure I was going to see you again.”
“I don’t remember much from last night.…” Lola smoothed the baby’s fine hair back from his forehead. “I wasn’t even sure if you’d really come to me, or if it was some kind of dream.”
“You look so much better,” Francis said. Lola’s brows drew together, as if she was offended. She pushed the dark hair out of her face. “I meant healthier,” he corrected.
“The woman who lives here—Aida. She found a nurse in the village. They gave me some medicine and it seems to have helped. Everything still hurts, just not as much. They told me to stay in bed, to not move for several days.” She looked down at the baby and smiled. “But I’m not sure that I’d want to.…”
“Isn’t he wonderful?” Francis sat on the bed beside her, peering down at his sleeping son. “I think he might just be the most perfect baby that the world has ever seen. I suppose all parents feel that way, right?”
“He’s very handsome,” Lola said, tracing his nose with her fingertip.
“Well, that was inevitable… given his father
’s looks.” Lola rolled her eyes at him, and Francis smiled. “But he’s also very smart. You can tell. He keeps looking around, studying everything. He’s thinking great thoughts already and he’s only a few hours old.”
“I would expect nothing less,” Lola said, her eyebrow raised, “given who his mother is.”
Francis smiled. He put his arm around her, pulling her and the baby closer. He let his hand squeeze the back of Lola’s neck, massaging her sore muscles, untangling a few curls there. He was so lucky. So stupidly lucky that things had turned out like this. That she was here, up and awake, the color back in her cheeks. That their son was safe.
“About last night…” Lola looked up at Francis. “There were pieces that came back to me… things you said. About what I meant to you. Did you…” She turned away, adjusting the baby’s blankets. “Did you mean all that?”
Francis swallowed hard. He had meant it—every word of it. He had feelings for Lola. They were real, he knew they were. They were even stronger now, seeing her here, like this… seeing their child in her arms. He hadn’t been embellishing or lying when he’d spoken. But he had also been facing the very real possibility that she wasn’t going to live beyond the hour. He wasn’t censoring himself, or weighing his words, or thinking about what they might mean for his marriage… or to Mary.
He didn’t want to deny it, or take any of it back. But he couldn’t talk that way anymore, not now—it was too dangerous. He was married to Lola’s best friend. Mary was already hurt that they had spent the night together in Paris, that there was a child because of it. The consequences of that decision would affect them for years. And if Mary was barren, if she couldn’t conceive… He hated to even think about it.
“I care for you so much, Lola.” Francis spoke slowly, carefully, thinking through everything before it was offered up. “And there are no words to express to you how relieved I am that you survived. It seems like a miracle. Like a second chance. But…”
“But there are realities that exist outside this room, people whom we need to protect…” Lola interrupted, giving Francis a weak smile. “I know that more than anyone. I understand.”
Lola leaned forward, over the baby, and a strand of hair fell in her face. He reached out to tuck it behind her ear, as he’d done a dozen times last night, but then stopped himself. He didn’t want to confuse things even further.
“I should get you some water,” he said, pushing off the bed. “Are you hungry? Bread maybe? I saw a few loaves in the kitchen.…”
“I have everything I need right here,” Lola said, staring at the baby.
Francis walked into the living room, looking around for the woman who had helped them. “Madam?” he called. “Aida?”
The woman was in the kitchen, leaning over the washbasin. She emptied a bucket of water over some pots, absorbed in the work. It took a moment for her to notice Francis standing there. When she turned to face him, he felt his breath catch in his chest. Her cheeks were flushed. On her neck, right by her lymph nodes, was a scarlet rash. It spread out in a near-perfect circle.
Ring around the rosy. He smiled at the woman, then started to back away. “I was wondering if you have some water,” he tried. “But I think I may go to the well myself, get some fresh for us. How does that sound?”
He tried to hide the panic in his voice, but it was no use. His hands were shaking. This woman had the plague. It was the early stages, but it was unmistakable—her eyes already had that strange, sunken look. Francis turned back toward the bedroom.
“Sir?” the woman said, trailing into a cough. “Is everything all right?”
Francis slipped into the back room and closed the door behind him. When Lola looked up, he saw himself through her eyes. How frantic he must seem, how scared. “Francis?” she asked. “What’s happening? What’s wrong?”
“We need to leave now.” Francis grabbed his cloak off the chair. He moved around the small room, finding a plain brown dress that had been tucked in a drawer. “Right now.”
“But… why?” Lola protested, her brows knitting together. “I told you what the nurse said. I’m not meant to go anywhere. I can’t…”
“Lola, I know this is hard.” Francis could feel his panic rising in his chest. Every minute they were in that house brought them closer to death. “But you have to be strong now, the way you were last night. It’s Aida… she’s sick. It’s the plague, I know it. And we’ll all get it too, unless we leave right now.”
Lola brought her hand to her mouth, her green eyes wide. Francis saw she understood him, finally. She understood what she must do. She eased herself out of bed, wincing as she stepped onto the stone floor. She reached for her trunk, but Francis shook his head. “There’s no room for it on the horse,” he said. “We have to leave it here.”
Lola nodded, taking the dress from his hands. He held the baby as she pulled it on, her face twisting in pain. “Everything hurts,” she said. “It’s hard to even raise my arms.”
“I’m sorry,” Francis said, rocking the child. “I know, I can’t imagine…”
When she was fully dressed, Francis put the cloak around both of their shoulders, giving Lola one end to shield her nose and mouth. As they turned toward the back door, he saw the cross Marcel had given him. It had kept them safe once—maybe it would keep them safe again. He grabbed it, holding it tight as they started outside.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Bash slipped onto the balcony, Pascal’s shirt in his hands. The crowds had grown, the yelling louder than it was the night before. “No luck,” he said, looking at Kenna. “The guards let them run the grounds for over two hours, but they couldn’t turn up anything. They just brought the dogs back into the stables.”
Kenna pulled her robe close around her, her throat tight. “I’ve been watching them run from up here,” she said. “I was sure they would find him. It’s been so long, Bash.… Where could he be?”
“I don’t know,” Bash said. “We could check the palace again. Bring more guards into the search. We’ve gotten an early start on the day.”
“I guess it’s all we can do. I’ll get dressed; we can start in the south wing and work our way east. Someone must’ve seen something,” Kenna said, pulling at Bash’s sleeve. “Come on.”
But Bash didn’t move. He was standing at the balcony rail, looking out at the crowd outside the gates. His eyes were locked on a small figure just beyond them, standing behind a few women in long gray coats. “Look,” he said, pointing. “Down there—beyond the gates.”
“What is it?” Kenna asked. She peered down, trying to see what Bash was referring to.
“Not what—who,” Bash said. Kenna turned her head and finally spotted the small figure standing there, just to the left of the old oak tree, his dark hair blown back by the wind. He gazed up at them.
“It’s Pascal,” she whispered. “What is he doing out there? How’d he get outside the walls?” Kenna asked as she stared at the boy. It was Pascal, she was sure of it. There was no mistaking him for anyone else. Out of all the times he could’ve left the palace grounds… why now? Every gate was locked, the plague spreading outside the walls.
“I don’t know,” Bash said. He was just as baffled as Kenna was. Just last night the boy had been in the east wing of the palace, running through the corridors. How had he slipped past the guards stationed at every entrance and exit? How had he gotten across the great lawn?
Despite everything, Bash couldn’t help but feel a tiny swell of pride. It was stupid of him, he knew that, but Pascal had lived through his experience with The Darkness and had now managed to escape from a palace that was under heavy guard. There was something so unusual about the boy… special, even.
“I have to go get him. I have to bring him back,” Bash said, his eyes locked on the small figure below. They didn’t have much time. He couldn’t risk Pascal running off into the woods, where he might encounter things far worse than the plague. There’d been rumors the pagans were still sacrificing innoce
nts, the numbers growing now as they tried to reverse the plague’s course.
“You can’t,” Kenna said, grabbing Bash’s arm.
“What are we going to do? Stand here and watch him run off? Watch him get swept into that mob, get hurt… get sick? Every minute he’s out there, the chances of him getting the plague increase. You know that, I know that.”
He looked down at her, and Kenna felt her stomach tense. She knew he was right. But if Bash left the palace walls, she risked losing both of them. What would she do now, without her husband? Without this man she’d grown to love?
“Bash, you have to think clearly,” she tried.
“I am thinking clearly,” Bash said. “I’m thinking I need to get down there and help him. He’s only a little boy.…”
“It’s too dangerous.”
“I can’t stay here knowing he’s not safe,” Bash said. He turned toward the door, but Kenna stepped in front of him, blocking his path.
“I know,” she said. “It’s killing me to see him down there on his own. You’re not the only one who cares about him. But we have to think this through.”
Bash shook his head. “Kenna, there’s no time—”
“There is,” she interrupted. “You have to listen to me. You’re always thinking about everyone else. But I’m your wife now. I’m the one thinking about you.”
“I’ll be fine,” Bash said.
“Will you?” Kenna fixed him with a look. “Against the plague? Those people aren’t out there because they’re in the best of health, Bash. They’re there because they’re dying and they’re scared. France can’t lose both you and Francis. And I…” Kenna’s breath caught in her throat. “I can’t lose my husband.”
