“I only learned of your existence two months ago,” she says at last. “When I was assigned to accompany the duchess to France.”
While her words bear the weight of truth, I also sense there is more to it than that. Frustration hums through my veins. “There are others at the convent besides yourself. Why not send someone sooner?”
Just as the convent taught us, she pivots, going on the offense. “Why?” she demands. “Are you indulging in a fit of temper, or has something happened to make timing of the essence?”
Because everything inside me wishes to avoid her question, I lean forward instead, not caring that it brings my dagger out into the open. “If you want to come back into my life after five years of nothing, you’ll have to start with some explanations. Something far more satisfactory than ‘we were busy.’”
She does not so much as spare my weapon a glance, but inclines her head, imbuing the movement with feline grace. “Very well. You are owed that at least.” For some reason, the sympathy in her voice infuriates me. She knows why we were left to molder.
“The abbess who sent you and Margot to France was an impostor.” Although she speaks clearly enough, the words scarcely make sense. “She was not a daughter of Mortain. Was not sired by the god of death. The person controlling all of our lives was not interested in the well-being of his daughters. Only her own.”
Her words hit me like a blow, and I struggle to grasp the enormity of what she claims. “How could such a thing happen?”
For the first time, she looks away, toward the window. “Sometimes the sheer scope and daring of a plan make it impossible to see it for the lie that it is.” Her gaze shifts back to me. “I am sorry that you were abandoned. Sorry that even now, you feel you must protect yourself with that knife.”
The sincerity of her words permeates my fog of anger, and for a moment, I want to throw myself into the comfort she is offering. Until I remember that she would never offer such comfort if she knew what I have done. Would possibly kill me on the spot.
“Many of the decisions the abbess made were designed to keep her own secrets.” The note of bitterness in her voice is personal, hiding closely held pain. She, too, has been hurt by this woman.
“Is the abbess going to be punished for what she’s done?”
The woman studies me a moment before answering. “A convocation of the Nine was called. She was put on trial, stripped of her position, and is now serving the crones of Dea Matrona, making amends for those she should have mothered but failed.”
I nod, but it is not enough. Not for the enormity of what her crimes have cost me. Cost Margot. Will have cost this entire convent when the truth of what I have done is laid bare. “When did that happen?”
“The abbess was removed nearly two months ago.”
“What day precisely?” Two months was before Angoulême claimed to have received the fateful letter, but letters take time to reach their destination. Could she have sent it, or was it truly a deception on Angoulême’s part?
“The convocation was called on the eighteenth of November. The abbess was relieved of her duties two days prior to that.”
This answer is as helpful as a knife made of sheep’s wool. It is possible that the abbess sent the letter.
“That does not explain where you have been for the last two months.” Margot was still alive two months ago. Not that this woman could have saved her, but the red, angry part of my soul does not care.
“The convent records were woefully inadequate and provided nothing to help us find you.”
“But I have been in Plessis for four days!” If she had found me even a single day earlier, I would not have exposed the convent to the king.
“It is a big palace with a large number of retainers. With my duties to the queen, I do not always know the moment a new person arrives. Especially if they are not formally announced.” She grows still, her head cocking to one side as she studies me anew. I can practically see the rash of questions she is forming.
Since I’ve no wish to answer any of them, I toss another one of my own at her. “How did you learn I was here?”
“I came upon you praying in the chapel. It wasn’t until you placed an offering in one of the niches on the wall that I guessed.” She opens her hand. The bright red of my holly berry makes her skin look unnaturally white. “I couldn’t see what it was, nor understand the significance of it, until you had already left. And then there were pressing matters I had to attend to.” A cold, hard look flashes briefly across her face. A look that sends goose bumps down my spine and warns me that she would not hesitate to shove a knife in my back if my actions warranted it.
But even that knowledge doesn’t temper the anger lapping along my skin like flames. Pressing matters. But for a hand span of hours, I would not have ruined everything. “You should have come sooner.” The words are empty, those of a desperate child, but I utter them nonetheless, as if by repeating them often enough, I can make the fault hers, not mine.
“I came last night, as soon as I was certain. You weren’t here. Where were you?”
“I was at dinner, with the rest of the court.”
“It was later than that. When everyone else was abed.”
As I consider what to tell her, the silence between us lengthens. Her fingers are drifting to the edge of her sleeve when a sharp rap on the door stills her hand.
“Demoiselle Genevieve?” a voice calls out.
Relief surges through me. “Coming!” I hop from the bed and straighten my skirts and bodice.
“Why are you being summoned?” The question is as sharp as I imagine her knives to be.
“We shall find out,” I snap, shoving my hair into some semblance of order. When I reach the door, I am surprised to find the steward standing in the hallway. I curtsy. “My lord, how may I serve?”
“I am sorry to disturb you, demoiselle, but the king is looking for Lady Sybella. One of the other ladies said she thought she saw her heading toward your chambers.”
Sybella. I roll the name across my tongue. Grateful for this reprieve, for a chance to digest what little she has told me, I turn to her. “Apparently, you are the one being summoned.”
Chapter 2
Sybella
As I step out of Genevieve’s room into the hallway, I wonder if she knows just how much she owes the king’s steward. I was within a hair’s breadth of grabbing her by the shoulders, giving her a hard shake, and ordering her to pull herself together. There are far larger problems than hurt feelings and wounded pride to deal with right now.
Perhaps that is the darkness in me—once embraced, it continues to push and prod until I do its infernal bidding. Or perhaps it is simply that between the regent’s plotting, the king’s indifference, my sisters’ danger, and the queen’s illness, I have no patience for such indulgences.
“This way, my lady.” As the steward steps in front of me, I hear Genevieve slip into the hallway behind us. Not her footsteps, for they are as light as any assassin’s should be. It is her heart I hear, beating the slightly too rapid rhythm it has had since she first discovered me in her room.
For so long I’ve held out hope of finding one of the convent’s elusive moles, but instead of gaining an ally, I have found an angry and sullen girl. One who is hiding something. But what—and why—elude me. Why is nothing in this benighted court ever simple?
I resist the urge to scowl in annoyance, and keep my face carefully blank. Why does the king wish to see me? I can think of no good reason for the request—and many disastrous ones. My mind sorts through possible plans and explanations, devising lies I can tell convincingly, and truths I can share without exposing myself.
When the steward speaks to the sentries at the king’s door, I fall back beside Genevieve. “Where is Margot?” I ask, my attention firmly fixed on the steward. “I fear we may need her shortly.” Because of Genevieve’s evasiveness, I am no longer certain she can be trusted.
“Margot will not be coming.”
At the note of finality in her voice, I tear my gaze from the steward. “Why not?”
She meets my eyes coolly. “Because she is dead.”
Her words barely have time to register before the steward announces me to the king. “The Lady Sybella, Your Majesty. As you requested.” With my mind still reeling from Genevieve’s news, I am ushered into the room. There is a faint rustle of silk as Genevieve slips in behind me and drifts—as silent and unobtrusive as a ghost—to stand among the other courtiers at the fringes of the room.
But I can spare her no more thought. The king sits on his throne with a cluster of military men and bishops behind him. Something about his manner has shifted since yesterday, although I cannot put my finger on it. The queen is not present, but the regent stands to his right. It is not until she steps away from the man she is speaking with—my brother’s lawyer, Monsieur Fremin—that my worst fears are awakened.
I force a placid, bemused smile upon my face. When Fremin sees me, he takes three steps forward. Only the formality of our surroundings keeps him from launching himself at me. “What have you done with my men?”
I halt, recoiling slightly, as if his abrasive behavior is threatening to me.
“Monsieur Fremin,” the king remonstrates. “I did not give you leave to assault the women of the court.”
Fremin fumes like a pot on a raging boil, but clamps his mouth shut and tries to collect himself. I alter my stride, imbuing my movement with hesitation. When I am in front of the throne, I sink into a deep curtsy. “Your Majesty. How may I serve you?”
When I rise, the king’s gaze rests upon me. It is far less friendly and approving than it was just two days before. “Monsieur Fremin’s attendants have gone missing. He thinks you know something about their disappearance.”
Unable to contain himself any longer, Fremin steps closer, attempting to tower over me. “What happened to them?” He is nearly rigid with rage.
And fear. I do not envy him having to report his failure back to Pierre. “What happened to whom?” I ask bemusedly.
He takes another step closer. “My men are missing, and you are behind it.”
“Me?” I fill my voice with incredulity, trying to draw the king into the absurdity of such an accusation, but the way he studies me sends a ripple of apprehension across my shoulders. “How could I have caused your men to go missing?” I glance again at the king. He can’t possibly believe Fremin. I have given him no cause to do so. “Mayhap they simply headed home early?” I suggest.
“They would never do that.”
“Then mayhap they went wining and dicing, and have not yet come back? They would not be the first men to do so.”
The king ignores my suggestion, and my unease grows. “When we had someone sent to your room to fetch you here, the woman told us your room was empty. Your sisters weren’t there, nor your attendants.”
My heart plummets like a stone. Before it has reached the bottom of my stomach, I know what I must do, and allow pure terror to show on my face. “Your Majesty, that cannot be true! They were happily playing with their nurse when I left this morning to attend upon the queen!”
“And yet we did not find you with the queen when we went looking for you,” the regent points out.
I do not so much as look at her. It is the king my performance must convince. “And now you say they aren’t there?” I color my voice with distress and clasp my hands together tightly—as if only just barely managing not to wring them. “Who was sent?”
The regent answers. “Martine.”
My gaze frantically searches out Martine’s short figure. I take a step in her direction. “Are you certain? Could they not be outside, taking in some air?”
Martine shakes her head primly.
“We sent men to check precisely that,” says the regent, “once Martine returned with her report.”
Casting all conventions aside, I whirl back to face the king and throw myself onto the floor at his feet. “Please, Your Majesty! This is most alarming news. May I have leave to go see for myself? Perhaps they are playing some game or hiding from each other?”
“But of course. Your concern is understandable.” At least he is not so convinced of Fremin’s claims that he dismisses my request outright.
“You can’t let her go alone,” Fremin protests. “She might try to run.”
The king casts an aggrieved look at the lawyer. “She will not run without her sisters, Monsieur Fremin. Nevertheless, she will have an escort.” He waves his hand, and the regent and Martine step forward. As they take up position on either side of me, I head for the door. When the king turns to speak with his bishops, I feel Genevieve fall into step behind me. I wish that our first meeting had gone better so I could know whether she is simply curious or intends to guard my back.
* * *
As soon as we have cleared the fourth flight of stairs, I lift my skirts and break into a run. I throw the door to my room open and race inside. It is, indeed, empty. My hand flies to my mouth, as if to prevent a cry of alarm from escaping. I hurry toward the bed, yanking aside the canopies, tossing the bolsters to the floor, and pulling the counterpane from the mattress. Widening my eyes as if panicked, I call out, “Charlotte! Louise! Come out now, this is not funny!”
As the others watch, I drop to my knees and look under the bed, then rise and hurry to the window. I pull back the drapes and press my face against the glass, as if checking to see if they have fallen. It is easy enough to convey a mounting sense of alarm. I do not even have to pretend. What could have so emboldened Fremin that he would take this matter to the king?
I check the fireplace next, even looking up the chimney. “They’re gone,” I finally say, my voice small and hollow. “Not just them, but everything. Their clothes, their sewing, their dolls. All gone.”
It is a testament to my acting abilities that both Martine and the regent look discomfited. In the awkward silence that fills the room, Genevieve steps forward to take my elbow and help me rise from the hearth. “My lady, calm yourself. You did not know your sisters were leaving?”
I cannot tell what role she is playing, but use it for my own purposes. “No. There were no plans for them to go anywhere. Both had been ill recently and were being kept to their rooms.”
“Well,” the regent says briskly. “You’ve seen for yourself that they’re gone. The king has indulged you in this. Let us not make him wait any longer.”
* * *
I head directly toward Fremin once we reach the audience chamber. “You!” The word is so forceful he rocks back on his heels. “You did this. Where have you taken my sisters?”
“What are you blathering about? It is my men who are missing.”
“As are my sisters.” I take another step toward him. “You were most displeased with the king’s ruling. You even asked to see Charlotte and Louise afterward.” Although I long to back him up against the wall, I force myself to maintain my decorum. “When you could not get what you wanted by legitimate means, you took matters into your own hands.”
His face drains of some of its florid color as I publicly name the very thing he had been planning. “D-don’t be absurd. You only say that to cover your own actions.”
“Enough.” The king’s voice is as effective as a bucket of cold water on snarling dogs.
I am immediately contrite. “Forgive me, Your Majesty. My distress has caused me to forget myself.”
“It is understandable, Lady Sybella. The news of your sisters complicates things a great deal.” He gazes at Fremin, annoyed that the lawyer did not share this piece of the puzzle.
“Your Majesty! How was I to know the girls were not there?”
“How indeed,” a male voice muses, but I dare not look to see who it is.
There are few choices available to me on how best to play this, so I plunge ahead, using the truth to bolster my lies. “Your Majesty, I saw Monsieur’s attendants sitting in the antechamber the day he arrived. They are not mere attendants, or men-at
-arms or even a simple escort. I know those men from the years I spent in my father’s household. They are the worst cutthroats among the men that serve my family. Men the d’Albrets have used to do their most unsavory deeds.
“At the time, I thought it unusual for a lawyer to have such an escort, but I assumed it was because the war was over and they had to find something for such men to do. But now, now their purpose is made clear. He would not need those sorts of men if he intended only to escort two young girls back to their family.”
The king whips his head around to spear Fremin with a look. “Who were these men who accompanied you?”
The lawyer swallows before speaking. “Their names do not matter, Your Majesty. What matters is that they are missing.”
“Oh, but their names do matter,” I continue, committing fully to this course of action. “I’ve no doubt some of your own men will have heard of Yann le Poisson.” There is an audible intake of breath. “Or of Maldon the Pious.” That name is followed by another susurration of whispers. “I know his exploits and strange taste for self-punishment have long been the source of rumor and gossip. And the Marquis? How many Frenchmen have been betrayed by him?”
From somewhere behind the king, a large man steps forward. “I have heard of these men.” His deep rumbling voice is so very familiar that I wrench my gaze from the king to look at him. “They are precisely as she claims.” He is uncommonly large—his nose, his jowls—everything but his eyes, which are small and narrow set. He has eschewed the more distinguished long robes of the king’s other advisors and instead wears a shorter military style, complete with vambraces. His deep blue mantle is held in place by two gold brooches.
By his sheer size and ugliness, he can only be Beast’s father, although his face has none of the charm or good humor that Beast’s possesses. I drop my eyes quickly lest he see the spark of recognition in them. Merde. Can the gods lob any more disasters at me this morning?
A new suspicion glints in the king’s eyes as he stares at Fremin. “What say you, lawyer? General Cassel has corroborated Lady Sybella’s claims.”
Igniting Darkness Page 2
