Her daughter had been doing far too much of that lately. Cassandra touched her medallion and brooded. She had once been able to divine Megaera’s every thought. Now she was no longer so sure. Her daughter seemed to be growing more secretive every day, as though her life was becoming a separate entity from her mother’s, and the thought maddened Cass.
As far as Cass was concerned, their best days had been when Megaera was still tucked within her womb, their hearts beating as one, sharing breath, sharing blood, Megaera entirely dependent upon Cass for her very existence. She had felt so close to her daughter when Megaera had been no more than a flutter of movement, a chrysalis of all Cass’s ambitions and dreams, so full of promise. There had been no frustration, no disappointment, and no apprehensions of failure then. And none of Megaera’s sullen withdrawal, her marked preference for other people like that Waters woman and now this wretched Moreau girl. None of Megaera offering her trust to strangers, the love that was her mother’s due. Cass feared that the only hold she had over her child rested in the medallion suspended over Megaera’s heart.
Cass’s own heart twisted with the pain of rejection she seldom allowed herself to feel. If you carried a child in your womb, went through the agonies of labor, devoted your life to the girl, working and scheming every waking moment to make that child great, then surely that child ought to love you . . . even if no one else did.
Cass swallowed hard, telling herself fiercely it didn’t matter.
“Love me or hate me, you are mine, my Silver Rose. And you always will be,” she whispered, running her fingers lightly over Megaera’s face.
Megaera whimpered in her sleep, rolling onto her side away from Cass. She clenched her jaw and withdrew her hand. But she congratulated herself that in their latest battle of wills, she had emerged the victor.
She had forced Megaera to translate the instructions for the miasma, write them out on a sheet of parchment. The paper was even now folded and tucked within the bodice of Cass’s gown. Tired and hungry, Megaera had finally surrendered the translation this morning.
“You are sure you have gotten the miasma right?” Cass had demanded. “Found me the powerful potion I have needed?”
“Yes, Maman—I mean, milady,” the child had replied in that grudging tone that made Cass want to slap her. “But the one described in the Book is not exactly a potion. It will be more like a powder or dust.”
“I don’t care what form the miasma takes. Only one thing matters to me. Will it be as powerful as the Dark Queen’s?”
“It will be worse than hers. The Book said no one can fight this one. It will drive anyone mad, make anyone who breathes the dust angry and full of hate, wanting to kill and destroy, even themselves. The only protection from the miasma is a special ointment that you rub under your nose. I wrote down the instructions for that, too.”
Cass had caught Megaera’s face in her hand, uncertain whether to believe her or not. She had pinched the girl’s chin, seeking to divine her thoughts, but Megaera had—Cass frowned. Megaera had not precisely blocked access to her mind, but her thoughts had eluded Cass, racing out of reach as though they were engaged in some frustrating game of hide and seek.
Cass would have been tempted to clutch her medallion, teach her daughter another painful lesson about defiance, but the document Megaera had penned seemed to speak for itself. Cass could not read the words, but as her fingers closed over the parchment, she felt as though she could sense its power as well as the splotches of Megaera’s remorseful tears.
Cass’s mouth thinned. If there was one thing about her daughter that she deplored more than any other, it was Megaera’s tenderheartedness, her unwillingness to embrace the dark measures necessary to put her on the French throne.
Cass blamed Prudence Waters for her daughter’s weakness. She had heartily regretted that she had ever engaged that old woman to act as Megaera’s nurse, but it was not as though she had had much choice. Mistress Waters had been one of the few wise women skilled enough to instruct Megaera in the art of deciphering the ancient runes.
If the Englishwoman had confined her lessons to that, all would have been well. Instead, she had sought to fill Megaera’s head with nonsense about the true calling of a daughter of the earth, to spread compassion, peace, and healing, to eschew the more valuable darker arts. Cass supposed that she should have paid more heed to what was going on during Megaera’s early years. But she had never been one to go all soft and sentimental over children as other women did.
Infants were singularly uninteresting creatures, able to do nothing but squall and soil themselves. Small children were not much better. Megaera’s chirping little voice had often given Cass a headache. By the time she realized what a bad influence Megaera’s beloved Nourice was, it had almost been too late. At the same time, Prudence Waters had learned about the Book of Shadows and Cass’s true plans for her daughter.
The woman had actually dared to threaten Cass, declaring she would remove Megaera from Cass’s care. She could only suppose that Mistress Waters had discounted Cass’s ability to defend what was hers, reckoning her helpless simply because she was blind, a serious mistake on her part.
Cass wondered idly if the old woman’s body had ever been found. Not that it mattered. There would hardly be enough left of the Englishwoman to identify.
As for the unfortunate softening influence Mistress Waters had had on Megaera, Cass had hoped that her daughter would outgrow that in time, but to her savage disappointment, the girl had not. Cass had begun to fear that Megaera’s weaknesses were more inherent, the result of bad blood, her daughter’s flaws not a legacy of Mistress Waters’s but the girl’s unknown father.
Employing her staff, Cass made her way carefully over to the bedchamber window. The casement had been left cracked open, no hint of a breeze stirring. A hot summer night, the air still and stifling. So different from that night a decade ago when the sky had boomed with thunder and crackled with lightning, a dark wind howling outside the inn where Cass had waited.
As the storm had raged outside, she had known it was the perfect night to conceive a girl child, destined to become a great sorceress, a leader among wise women, a conqueror who would make the likes of Alexander the Great and Genghis Khan seem mere puling boys. A perfect night and Cass had chosen the perfect man to sire her babe. Nicolas Remy, the Huguenot captain who had won such renown for his ruthlessness and fierce skills as a warrior he was known as the Scourge. The Scourge’s fire and steel united with her dark power would produce a girl child who would be strong and invincible.
The only hitch to her plan was that Remy was the beloved of Gabrielle Cheney, a woman whom Cass had once considered her only friend. But Gabrielle had owed her a favor and it had seemed such a small thing to ask. She had only wanted use of the Scourge for one night. It still outraged her that Gabrielle had been selfish enough to refuse.
But Cass had been prepared for the possibility of Gabrielle’s ingratitude. She had tricked Gabrielle into giving Remy the medallion that would allow Cass to gain control over him. She had never expected that Gabrielle would be able to trick her as well—
Cass gripped the windowsill, her heart burning with anger and resentment as she remembered how she had waited for Gabrielle to send Remy to her. She had been tense, edgy, knowing that her entire future depended upon this one night.
The waiting had been especially difficult because she had recently resolved to conquer what had always been her greatest weakness, a fondness for strong spirits. Although she felt shaky, she had managed to subdue her demon, determined to keep her head clear on this, the most important night of her life.
And then he had entered her chamber, identifying himself as a waiter bringing her refreshments she had never ordered. She had ordered him to be gone, but he had persisted. Such a clever rogue, with his silky voice, tempting her with the glass of whiskey and she had been so desperate for a drink. Just one to steady her nerves.
But one had led to another and then another, until she had felt
her strength disappearing into a bottle as it had done so many times before. Her hazy mind had registered the fact that her future was in danger of slipping away from her. Nostradamus had been most specific in his prediction for once. Her wondrous child must be conceived this night or never and Remy still had not arrived.
Frantic, befuddled with drink, Cass had done the only thing she could. She had used the special perfume she had concocted to seduce the nameless villain who had invaded her bedchamber. Even after all these years, she had no idea who he had been. All she recalled was his honeyed voice and a remark he had made, referring to himself as a lone wolf.
She had been so preoccupied with her ambitions for her daughter, her desire for vengeance had had to wait, a luxury she could not afford at present. But someday, somehow, she would hunt them down, make them pay for tampering with her dreams, Gabrielle and her Scourge. And as for the lone wolf, she would make him suffer mortal agonies such as no man had ever endured. He would crawl at her feet, begging to die before she was through—
A soft rap at the bedchamber door disrupted her bitter thoughts. Before she could answer, the door creaked and someone entered. She did not need to inquire who it was. She was all too familiar with the pungent aroma of her servant.
Finette crept over to where Cass lingered by the window. “Mistress,” she said in a low voice. “A messenger has arrived. There is word from our spy in the Queen’s household.”
“I’ll receive her up in my tower,” Cassandra replied. She produced the parchment from her bodice. “After you have escorted me there, I want you to single out two of our order who are most skilled at brewing potions. Odile and Yolette, I think. Set them to work on the miasma and the protective ointment at once.”
Finette eagerly took the paper from her hands. “Do you think Megaera has really managed to translate the miasma correctly? Can we trust the child?”
“Of course we can. She is my own daughter. She does what I tell her,” Cassandra snapped, unwilling to admit even to Finette what she feared, that her control over Megaera was weakening.
———
THE DOOR TO THE TOWER ROOM creaked open. Cass heard the rustle of skirts and a familiar sniff as Nanette entered the room.
“All hail milady, revered mother of our Silver Rose.” The girl prepared to eagerly salute Cassandra’s hand, but she pulled away impatiently.
“Yes, never mind all these formalities. Just tell me what I need to hear.”
“There is great news, milady. The meeting you have hoped for is slated to take place. The king of France, the Dark Queen, and the duc de Guise will all be assembled at the Louvre a few days hence. We can strike them all at once.”
Cass frowned. That did not give them much time to brew and test the miasma.
“But there is a problem.”
Cassandra gripped her staff tightly. She did not want to hear about any more problems. “What the devil now?”
“It’s the witch-hunter. Le Balafre is still alive and worse than that, he is now working with the Dark Queen to bring you down.”
Cassandra sagged back against the wall, feeling momentarily overwhelmed.
“So Agatha Ferrers failed. That man has more lives than a cat. How hard can it be? Can no one rid me of this devil?”
“I could,” Nanette volunteered. “I even know where he is. The alliance between the witch-hunter and the Dark Queen is not an easy one. She has had him followed. Gillian has reported to me they have trailed the witch-hunter back to his home.”
“He has a home?” Cass snapped. “Why did no one discover this before?”
“Because he is very clever, milady. But he has gone back there and it is not far from here.”
“I want someone sent after him and no mistakes this time. We need to send our best people and perhaps a change of tactics. Whoever goes must be prepared to be bold and resourceful, willing to lay down their lives and trust in the Silver Rose to resurrect them.”
“Let me go, milady,” Nanette pleaded. “I beg you to bestow this great honor upon me.”
Cassandra wished the girl’s size matched her fanatical enthusiasm. “You may go, but we will also need a woman of great strength. Ursula would be the best choice. She will be thirsting for the man’s blood when she hears about Agatha Ferrers. The woman was her cousin.”
“Ursula thirsts for any man’s blood.” Nanette giggled. “It is her favorite quaff.”
Cassandra drummed her fingers upon the windowsill. The idea came to her slowly, causing her lips to curl in a thin smile. “We shall send one other. A new recruit named Carole Moreau.”
“Your pardon, milady,” Nanette said. “But do you think it wise to send someone untried on so important a mission?”
“Ah, but Mademoiselle Moreau has risen high in the favor of our Silver Rose.”
Far too high, Cass reflected grimly. This would be a great opportunity to test the Moreau girl’s loyalty. And if she should fall in battle, dying heroically in the service of the Silver Rose, so much the better. A few quiet words in Ursula’s ear should be enough to arrange it.
Chapter Seventeen
BREAKFAST WAS A TENSE MEAL, MIRI PUSHING AROUND her food on her dish, feeling caught between the two men at the table. Martin was slouched down in an idle posture, making a hearty meal, but Simon seemed as little inclined for his breakfast as she. He maintained a morose silence. He wasn’t so cold and distant this morning, but there was a wearied sadness about him.
Madame Pascale had served them, but had gone off to tend to her morning chores, leaving the three of them alone. Miri sought to relieve the tension by speaking with forced cheerfulness.
“We shall have some relief from the drought at last.”
“How can you be so sure of that, my love?” Martin drawled.
“The frogs told me when I was down by the pond last night.”
Martin almost choked. He gave her a warning scowl, his message clear. Be careful what you say in front of the witch-hunter.
But Simon clearly astounded him, by agreeing. “I heard them as well.”
Martin scowled as though the two of them were in collusion to mock him.
“Frogs croaking is a sure sign of coming rain. You have never heard of such a thing before?” Simon asked.
Martin shrugged. “In Paris, if one wants to know it’s going to rain, one just sticks one’s head out the window.”
Silence descended again. Simon gave over all pretense of eating, shoving his plate away from him. Despite all of his steadfast efforts to avoid Miri’s eyes, his gaze locked with hers and she thought that she saw a frustrated longing that matched her own.
When she had sat alone by the pond, she had sensed Simon watching her through the darkness and had hoped that he might come to her so they could mend the rift between them. She wondered if he would have done so but for Martin. She felt ashamed of herself for wishing her dear, devoted friend hundreds of miles away.
Sighing, she made another effort to break the silence. “It was so lovely and peaceful down by the pond last night. I believe I am regaining my ability to connect with nature that I thought I had lost on Faire Isle.”
“Mon Dieu, Miri. Never tell me you have been caressing trees again,” Martin teased.
Surprisingly, Simon came to her defense. “When I was young, I used to do something similar. By stretching myself out on the ground, I thought I could feel the pulse of the earth. I haven’t been able to do that for years.”
“Maybe you just haven’t tried hard enough. Go a little deeper, like six feet under, Monsieur Cyclops.”
“Martin!” Miri rebuked him.
Simon winced at the insult. He got to his feet. “It is of no consequence. I have been called worse. If you will excuse me, I have work to do.”
He strode from the room, heading up the stairs. Miri frowned at Martin. “I realize you don’t like Simon. But you are here enjoying his hospitality.”
“It was only a jest. I make them often.”
“But I have
never known you to be cruel before.”
“I have never been this jealous before.”
When she said nothing, he added. “That was your cue, Miri. Your next line should be, my darling Martin, you have no reason to be jealous.”
“This is not a performance, Martin.”
“If it were, it would be more a farce than a tragedy,” Martin groused. “Ever since I have arrived here, not only have I had to hear you defend the man, his people are going out of their way to point out to me Aristide’s virtues. What a great, kind man their master is, so fair and just, generous to the poor, protector of widows and orphans, the savior of beleaguered cows. He appears to have gone from the evil Le Balafre to Saint Simon in a single breath. It is enough to make a man dizzy.”
Miri gave a wearied sigh. “I wish I could make you understand about Simon. You have no idea what he has endured. What his life has been like.”
“And what of mine, Miri? Though I don’t go moaning about it, my youth was no day at the fair either. A bastard child, abandoned by my mother, not the least idea who my father is. Growing up in the streets of Paris, learning to survive by thieving and stealing purses. At least he had a family for eleven years.”
“That’s true, but you had the good fortune to cross paths with Nicolas Remy. My brother-in-law is a good and noble man. Simon was rescued by a lunatic, a half-mad witch-hunter. That he survived at all is a testament to his character.”
Martin slunk farther down in his chair, looking disgruntled. “Fine, if this is what you admire in a man, I am sure I could—could learn to deliver cows.”
Miri laughed in spite of herself at the idea of Wolf, with his penchant for fine doublets and shirts with lace cuffs, lying in the mud and blood of the barn.
“I could,” he insisted in an injured tone. “I have been thinking some things over. You feel that I never listen or really know who you are. I do. It’s just that having been so poor and risen so far in the world, it is natural I would want to give the lady I adore fine gowns and jewels and a grand home. But if you want me to live in a cottage out in the woods on Faire Isle, I would do that in a heartbeat.”
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