Lady of the Crescent Moon

by Ingrid Hahn

  “A hundred years ago, no, I wouldn’t have. Things have changed. And now I do.”

  Yes. Of course. That was Roland through and through. What other response could she have expected from this man?

  She spoke gently, looking up at him through her lashes. “Your father told your mother. She believed him.”

  His head bowed. “You’re right. She did. In many ways, she held the role for my father that I now occupy for Jacques, keeping the guardian safely on this side of the divide.” He looked up again. “But what was true for them all those years ago is not true now. The d’Ambroisins learned the secrets of what their duty entailed. They became stronger, more adept at the demands of being a guardian. To this day there are rumors of madness in the d’Ambroisin bloodline.”

  “It’s not true then? About the madness?”

  “Depends on your point of view.”

  “In yours?”

  “In mine, no d’Ambroisin has gone mad. Not truly. The guardians who aren’t careful can become trapped between worlds. The anguish of such an existence is . . . the only thing to do in such cases is ease the guardian’s final passage to the other side.”

  “But your father didn’t sequester himself. He wasn’t like Jacques.”

  Sidonie’s lungs tightened with the injustice of it all. Why could Roland’s father and mother have what they had while Roland was certain he had to deny himself any kind of a life?

  She tried to take a breath. Anger had no place in between them. Nobody was to blame for the past, nobody was at fault.

  Roland’s expression was troubled. “Precisely. And a generation ago, Jacques would have been able to live the same sort of life my father had. He could have taken a wife and fathered children. He could have attended to his duties as a nobleman and as master of Bramville. It’s changed. My father knew it was coming. It’s why I had to be born, because Jacques would have to be delivered to his duty whole.”

  “You said it’s grown stronger, but what does that mean?”

  “It’s like hell . . .” His voice went rough. “It’s like hell is mounting an army and every day their battering ram is one blow closer to breaking through once and for all.”

  The enormity of everything he’d confided settled heavily upon her thoughts.

  And then . . . something strange. She went dizzy. Sidonie took Roland’s hand and struggled to calm herself. What could it mean?

  “What’s troubling you?”

  He took her by the elbow as if she were in danger of toppling where she sat, which perhaps she was.

  Her lips framed denial that anything troubled her, but she let out the breath that would have carried the lie and let her shoulders sink. “Something’s not ri—”

  He helped her to her feet, pulled her close, and pressed a firm hand over her mouth. She tried sending him a questioning look, but his head was turned and they were so close, her face was only inches from the base of his neck. The hard planes of his body were rigid with tension. He was listening for something.

  She went still and opened her senses. No new presence. If only she could trust herself to be fully aware. Both Lyse and Jacques had caught her off guard.

  As a secondary measure, she strained her ears. Somewhere beyond the walls came a squawk. A chicken? She tried twisting away, pulling at his fingers. “Wha—”

  “Someone’s coming.” Roland started dragging her back toward the château. Inside, he hunched over to unlatch the entrance to the secret passage and shoved her inside. “Go up the tower. Lock yourself in the attic room.”

  “But—”

  “No time.” He cast her a look of such protective ferocity through the partially opened panel, her heart winged over one entire beat. “I’ll take no risks, not with you. Now go.”

  The panel slammed shut.

  Chapter 10

  Nerves rattled, Sidonie did as she was told, running upward with all her might. If only she could go faster she might succeed in outpacing her very emotions. Leaving them behind to rot and fester. It was too much. She didn’t want them—didn’t want to be feeling such things. Divided. Pulled to Roland while the only thing that mattered in her life was getting the witches free of the Burning Court.

  Locked inside the cramped tower room, she leaned against a wall. She was warm and breathless, but not from her flight up the steps. A restless sort of buzzing through the fibers of her flesh made her want to run the whole way to Paris to purge the feeling from her body. She didn’t need this. Not now.

  Why did she have to return? Why did she believe she might have gotten the answers she sought and leave unscathed? If she’d been able to see into the future, she never would have come. Trying to speak to Roland’s mother only made her a coward. She was too reliant on Jeanne; too reliant on guidance from her elders. Too unsure of herself.

  Frightened. Alone. Certain of her duty, but unable to face it. Was that why she’d come? Why she’d really come?

  What a fool she was. She’d squandered so much precious time. Would it all be for naught?

  She surveyed the trunks and old furniture. At the uncovered window, she peered down. The late morning’s overcast sky cast no shadows. Roland had indeed been correct about a visitor coming. A figure came through the gate.

  Sidonie knew in an instant, and her defenses stood down. The person posed no threat. It was Toinette. The distance of time had altered her but slightly.

  Toinette wore a thick cloak, the voluminous hood draping over her shoulders and down her back. The hems of her skirts were darkened, indicative of traveling on foot over damp roads, and her cheeks were as bright as cherries, which set off her pale reddish hair. The exercise in the wintry air apparently agreed with her.

  Close behind her in the room—no more than a span of a few steps—another presence materialized in Sidonie’s awareness. And this time she wasn’t caught off guard. Good. Her senses were recovering.

  She needed to speak to Roland’s mother. It was the only way.

  Wasn’t it?

  Sidonie closed her eyes, settled the jumble of sensations within herself, then cleared her mind and focused.

  She hadn’t dared tell Roland what she planned to do in the secret prisons and dungeons of Paris. She had to open a gateway. It was imperative she not kill the inquisitor’s man. Her life she could give. Her soul was a different matter. And a murder would blight her beyond repair. What she had to do was help the inquisitor’s man to the other side.

  It was there—she could feel it. The scraps around the folds of the time and space of this world. But when she reached out or tried to look forward, what she sought moved just beyond reach.

  There was a reason she couldn’t get any farther. She was a relatively young witch. This shouldn’t have been in her purview, so it was right that she couldn’t force open a portal to the world beyond.

  But it was the only way to vanquish the inquisitor’s man. The only way to save her sister witches.

  The strain of reaching for what she could not take was too much of a drain on her. She stopped, panting for breath and leaned against the wall to support. There she remained, still—so very still—for who knew how long.

  The sense of another’s silent presence somewhere close by made her open her eyes again. She was already aware of what she’d find had joined her in the room. Or whom, rather.

  The sound of a cat’s plaintive meow reached her ears, but when Sidonie turned, the serving girl stood there with her hands folded prettily before her. The pieces slipped together in Sidonie’s mind and created a perfect whole.

  “You’re not merely related to Lyse, are you? You are Lyse. You . . .” Lyse’s shade took the form of a cat to inhabit the living world. She was trapped—trapped on the wrong side. Wasn’t there anything Jacques could do for her? It was his duty to protect the gateway, see that t
he proper things passed in the correct direction. He was its keeper. “When did you die?”

  “I hardly remember anymore.”

  The final piece slid into place. “You need my help.”

  The maidservant’s shade said nothing for a long moment. “I admit, I was hoping . . . But I need to warn you.”

  “Warn me?” Sidonie shook her head. “I never anticipated any of this being easy. Whatever the consequences might be, I accept them.”

  Lyse didn’t shift.

  Sidonie glanced back through the window only to see Toinette disappear from sight. Roland would be occupied and the tower room was locked from the inside, not the out.

  A distant movement far up the road caught her eye. A cloaked figure, the black mantle swept backward in a gust of wind. He’d traced her here—faster than she’d expected.

  Dread pierced Sidonie’s insides, making them bleed. She’d been a fool to waste so much time. Because she had to return to Paris. There could be no further delay.

  Instead of leaving with what she’d come seeking, she’d be leaving burdened with regrets. What choice did she have?

  Sidonie glanced back to Lyse’s unstudied expression. The shade of the serving maid held a calm steadiness. In life, she might have been frail. In death, she’d been reborn to quiet strength. It was easy enough to discern now she knew what to be aware of. Folklore might have been riddled with devious spirits, but the spirits Sidonie had known were always truthful.

  Then again, pity the being—living, dead, or otherwise—who dared lie to a witch.

  “Why didn’t you leave when you died?”

  Her expression went distant. “I don’t know.”

  “The gateway—”

  Lyse tilted her head, her expression oddly vacant. “I don’t have any answers. I only know I am here. Waiting.”

  Sidonie nodded her understanding. “For another gateway to open.”

  “You must go, madame.”

  Sidonie’s hand fisted, the full measure of her mistake of returning to Normandy burning more ravenously than ever. A hot surge of sticky shame scorched her cheeks. Curse the vanity and the pride that’d brought her to Bramville. Curse the reckless stirrings that so desperately wanted to say goodbye to Roland as a woman says goodbye to a man.

  Tonight would bring the last waning crescent. The following night, no moon would rise. The night after that, the waxing crescent would appear.

  Sidonie’s moon. The maiden’s moon.

  Which, contrary to common belief, had nothing to do with whether or not she’d ever known a man.

  Were she older, or had she become a mother, the full moon would have been hers. Women Roland’s mother’s age received the graces of the waning crescent.

  Sidonie wouldn’t dare attempt what she needed to achieve with the inquisitor’s man when any other moon hung in the sky. Maybe were she older and stronger . . . but she wasn’t. She needed all the help she could get. “Yes, I know. What else? Is there anything you can tell me? Anything at all?”

  The spirit’s demeanor didn’t shift. “You must go now.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Under an overcast sky, Roland waited in the road while Toinette made her way up the path. A biting wind shook the bare trees and tussled the stray locks of his hair. Morning mists hadn’t burned away, and lingered, pocketed in the depressions throughout the uneven landscape. In the gray silence came the calls of two tussling crows, arguing without care, their displeasure echoing in the stillness of the afternoon.

  He wanted to tell his cousin that she ought to have sent a message she was coming to the château, but since when had she ever needed to announce her visits? Never. Until now. With Sidonie present, she need to go away.

  “Good day, cousin.” He hoped he didn’t sound too brusque. Toinette was one of his greatest allies. Through everything, she had remained by his side. They were linked, he and she, because they shared the secret of Château Bramville and the d’Ambroisin blood. Becoming impatient with her would serve no purpose. “What brings you here?”

  Her skin was pale at the best of times. She had the reddish hair that bespoke the family’s northern ancestors, the Viking blood more outwardly dominant in her than in him. The cold had colored her cheeks, but otherwise, she was pale. “You don’t know?”

  His teeth set. If something was wrong, he should have been the first to know.

  Unless . . . she couldn’t know about Sidonie’s return. A wave of protectiveness shot through his veins. But he couldn’t allow wild and unconfirmed suspicions drive him to rash behavior. And if she did, what of it? It wouldn’t mean much to her. Would it? “Tell me at once.”

  “Your mother sent for me.”

  He went still. If his mother had sent for Toinette, the end must be near.

  The cold out of doors was nothing to the cold that befell him at the realization. He rubbed his hands on his face, all of a sudden weary. He’d been negligent. Sidonie had distracted him. It was as if a part of him didn’t understand that his mother really was in her final hours, and that his place was by her side. Whatever Sidonie did or did not do—well, that could not be helped. His need to protect her might have been fierce. Indeed, it was. But what he wanted and what she wanted was nothing to what he owed to his mother as her son.

  Without a moment to lose, he turned on his heel and strode back to the château, Toinette trailing behind him.

  The passed through the doorway and she caught his arm. “Before I see her, I want to speak to you.”

  He nodded and took her to one of the less formal rooms in a part of the château seldom used since his father’s death, a room once reserved strictly for the family’s use. Toinette kept her cloak around her shoulders. So often in the dark months the interior rooms were colder than the air outside. Even when a fire was kept burning constantly—and in this room, it wasn’t—there were always icy pockets in the cavernous chambers.

  They lingered in heavy silence, the length of the room a chasm between them. Something had changed. Never before had there been any degree of acrimony between them. The charged hostility was new and strange and unsettling. “Enough. Whatever it is, for God’s sake, say it.”

  From her position staring out a window, she turned in a swirl of heavy fabric and drew herself to her full height. “It’s well past time I assumed my rightful place.”

  “Rightful what?”

  Her chin tilted to a defiant height as if she prepared to do battle. “I’ve come to stay. I’m having my whole household moved here to Bramville.”

  Three thoughts sped through his mind in panicked succession, each more horrifying than the last. They’d always been like brother and sister, he and Toinette. Had she believed they could be more? Was she here in a fit of jealousy demanding he claim her? Marry her?

  Toinette didn’t so much as blink to break her stare. “I’ve known for some time my place is here. My place, Roland, do you understand?”

  He was beginning to. She thought to usurp him.

  “What you ask is impossible.”

  “No. It’s inevitable.” His cousin’s expression remained hard. “I’ve stayed silent the past few months, believing you would come to the same understanding as I have, but I can hold the truth back no longer. I am Jacques’s protector. Not you.”

  Roland turned and curled his hands around the ledge over the hearth. The stone was carved with creatures that, as a boy, had fascinated him endlessly. Now he had to force himself to look. These twisting, writhing things were depictions of what Jacques stood guard against, a subtle warning to any d’Ambroisin who dared believe he might turn his back on the family’s duty.

  She continued. “You shouldn’t have been a part of this. You weren’t meant to be. You’re not a d’Ambroisin by blood.”

  Roland ran fingers through his hair and tried
not to feel his cousin’s words as blades of treachery sinking into his belly.

  Chapter 11

  Fighting to remain master of himself, Roland raised his head from where he’d been staring into the old pit where a fire hadn’t burned for years. With every effort to maintain civility in his tone, he spoke. “I might not be a d’Ambroisin by blood, but I am a d’Ambroisin by duty.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I’m a d’Ambroisin by duty. Not you.”

  “You have concerns of your own. The children, for one.”

  “Yes, my children. You think I haven’t thought of them? I think about them every waking second of every day. They press upon my heart, their lives a hundred times more dear to me than my own. That’s why it’s all the more important we come here, don’t you see?” Her eyes shone. “Our fathers were brothers, Roland. My children don’t carry the name, but they carry the blood. You know what that means.”

  “It means nothing.”

  “It means I have something to fight for.” Her voice lost its sharp edge. “And they’re next in line.”

  Next in line after Jacques, she meant, but didn’t say.

  “What do you think it means to be a d’Ambroisin, to have this duty sealed in our blood? Do you think it means we have a choice?”

  “And yet you presume to have the authority to make a choice for me? You think to disinherit me? To strip me of—”

  She grabbed a dust-laden figurine from a nearby table and pounded it once on the surface so hard, it was a miracle the thing didn’t shatter. “Stop immediately. You’re more of a d’Ambroisin than any of them. You’re not being disinherited. You’re not being stripped. You’re being set free.” She pressed a fist against the center of her breast. “If I feel it here, you must, too, and if you dare say you don’t, you’re lying to yourself, which I could never have believed of you, of all people.”