His eyes turned dark. Serious, “Everyone living in the chateau is currently in the main vestibule, Marcy. No one here has seen it—only us.” he looked to the window. Caught glimpse of the sun, “We still have time before daybreak—we can fix this.”
SEVEN
Dimitri
Was he in purgatory?
The black night swallowed him like a sea.
Have you ever felt as if something were...missing?
A figure appeared before him. A man swathed in black. The slayer.
Mismatched eyes, one blue the other green, bore into his own. The figure drew its fingers into a steeple before itself.
“You can call me, 'Dunstan Riche',” the man spoke, his tongue silver, “remember that name, young man.”
Dimitri swallowed. Choked. The air around him vanished as if sucked up by the sky above. He couldn't breathe.
There is power in repetition, young man.
Repetition, repetition, repetition.
Dunstan Riche brought his middle finger and thumb together.
He snapped.
DIMITRI GASPED. THE doors to his brother's solar stood as a bulwark before him. Shoving his hands towards the thick oaken doors, he charged into the room.
He caught his breath.
The room was small, yet spacious. A dark wooden desk sat some ways away from him, books and letters overflowing. Falling upon the intricate rug thrown across the floor. Long latticed windows brought in the noontime light. The sun's rays trailing towards Dimitri as he heaved—scanning the room for his brother with wild eyes.
He had seen so much. In the span of an entire night—he had seen too much.
Dimitri spotted his brother in the corner. Sitting in a red satin armchair, Loris adjusted his circular reading glasses, licked his thumb and turned a yellowed page in a thick tome seated upon his lap.
“I know who the Slayer of Safrana is!” Dimitri blurted, sweat drenching his forehead, “I saw him! Last night—I saw him!”
Loris sighed. He picked at his reading glasses before pulling his attention away from the book, “Truly?” he drawled, a tired expression on his face, “Get on with it, then. Tell me his name.”
“Dunstan—,” Dimitri said, throwing up his hands, “—Dunstan Riche!”
Loris chuckled, “Shut the door, little brother.”
Dimitri did as he was told. Loris slapped his book closed. He drummed his fingertips along his thigh, “Dunstan Riche, hm? Ah!” he nodded, “The Anima Man. Remember mother's stories? 'Don't stay up too late lads—the Anima Man will come and eat your soul if you do! No skulking around the manor past midnight!'” he chuckled once more. Leaning forward, he watched Dimitri with a sour eye, “Say his name three times and he comes to you, remember? He's like a djinn. He'll grant you wishes—at a cost.”
“A djinn...?” Dimitri muttered.
“A bedtime story to scare children, brother, that's all he is—tell me,” Loris leaned further, his fingers forming a sharp steeple beneath his lower lip, “are you well? Dunstan Riche does not exist. Have the stresses of court life gotten to you already?” he teased, eying Dimitri's scar, “Perhaps you've been idle for too long.”
“I know what I saw—who I spoke to! I—,” his eyes searched feverishly—how could he get Loris to believe him? Dimitri gasped—smiled, “I have a witness! The Odette's new handmaiden—Mademoiselle...”
Damn it—he hadn't even gotten her name.
Damn it!
Dimitri stalled, “...Mademoiselle...”
Loris snorted, “Oh...that little hellcat—she's from a lesser house, I've been told. Old nobility that no one cares for anymore. So...you've been looking at her, hm? Hanging around with her after dark?” he winked.
“No!” Dimitri snapped, “She saw—she saw the Slayer of Safrana too!”
“The slayer isn't real!” Loris bellowed, slapping his hands to the armrests of his chair “You're a liar Dimitri—and so caught up in your damned lies that even you believe them! The Odette's handmaiden?” Loris cocked his head as he dug his fingers into the plush fabric, his knuckles white, “She was in the main vestibule last night—just as you were! Just as the entire chateau was! I don't know where you're getting these crazy flights of fantasy from—perhaps mother? She's just as fucking crazy as you—!”
“Councilman Acel Dubois is dead.”
Loris sat back in his seat, “Funny!” he spat, forcing a grin upon his face, “The dead often play as the latter, hm? Is he a vampire then, Dimitri? Is he a night-stalker? The undead walk among us, I suppose. They hold emergency meetings and trials based on a slip of rumor that's been circulating ever since this damned earthquake!”
Dimitri touched his forearm. He opened his arms and stared down at his clothing.
Had he changed the night before?
“I'm not lying.” he said, touching his forearm once more. Feeling a bruise. He winced, “I saw Councilman Dubois ripped from chest to naval! I saw—and she saw too!”
“You are trying my patience.”
“What I say is true—!”
Inhaling slowly, Loris exhaled. He sighed, “Councilman Dubois is holding an emergency trial to account for the...circumstantial information acquired by the chateau last night. Somehow, the entire city knows—non—believes that the Savatiers held kin to the Duchess's family. Unborn kin that our family...” Loris dropped his head into his hands, “...abducted.”
“This—this has to do with the letter the Odette attempted to present...”
Loris nodded, “Correct.”
Last night truly did happen—but that letter, “I read it myself, Loris. It said nothing about a—,”
“I've had enough of your lies!”
Dimitri stepped back.
Loris grunted, allowing his head to fall into his hands once more, “Mother has returned. As have our sisters.” he murmured, “Go bore them with your tales.”
“Loris—I swear to you...”
Loris met his eye. Pain etched them, a twinkling white stained with a fleck of gold. Of cruelty.
The doors to Loris's solar blew open. Oak moaning. Wood splintering.
A clean-shaven young man entered, his pea green surcoat labeled him as a herald. The herald of Safrana's ruling council.
The boy's Adam's apple bobbed, “Monsieur Loris Couture, Head Councilman Acel Dubois summons you to the Victor Courtroom.”
Loris stood, “On what grounds?”
Dimitri turned. Chateau guards flanked the boy, their silver armor glinting in the noontime sunlight. Behind the gaggle of wide silver carapaces, stood their father. His face a grim mask. His hair disheveled. The large white frock serving as his collar stained beige and yellow.
Dimitri met his eye before cutting his gaze away. His father's face was swollen. His right eye blackened.
Dimitri looked to his brother—the pain in his gaze turned to fear. Bright red fear.
“You said he would come peacefully.” one of the chateau guards barked at their father.
Loris sighed, “My father is not a liar.”
And he approached the doors. Leaving the solar with his forearms tightly bound.
The doors closed with a clap. Metal jingled as the chateau guards lead his brother away. Dimitri listened, fingers clenched.
His mother was here—after five long years...
Where were they dragging Loris away to?
Abduction...of an unborn child...? Is that even possible?
Whatever was in the letters the slayer set free on the bridge—it wasn't what Reine was trying to keep secret. Somehow—the words had changed. Something had happened.
But how?
Dimitri left. Heading for the southern wing. The Odette's chambers.
He wasn't crazy—what had happened last night happened. It altered their present—whatever the slayer had done—that Dunstan Riche. This forged letter was ripping his family apart—but he could save it. He only needed her.
He just needed a witness to prove it.
RUMORS. THEY BLAZED through the halls, lighting up every corridor. Scandals and falsities hissed around every corner, the entire chateau rearing like a pent up snake waiting to strike. Haughty courtiers quieted as Dimitri passed, his pace quickening, while others simply raised their voices in accusation or penance. Stomping through the high halls of the main vestibule, he shoved his way through a surging sea of courtiers forcing their way into the corridor that led to the Victor Courtroom. As he passed, some backed away, making space for a man with whom they looked on with pity or malice.
Everyone took sides. Savatier or Couture. The kidnapping of the Duchess's unborn heir squarely on the heads of his family, or an absolute mystery. A sure lie of the Savatiers.
“It's all very vexing!” he heard a woman spout.
“Lies—all of it. Deceit to claim the throne! We've heard it before.” said a man.
“The throne sits empty. The populace churns—it was only a matter of time!”
“Until what?!”
Dimitri pursed his lips—ignored the words and pushed through.
Moving through the main vestibule proved to be an almost impossible task as arguments erupted and fists were brought out. Noticing a purple tapestry hanging high as it swung from the domed roof above, Dimitri spied a silvery archway which led outside—straight to the gardens—and he took the opportunity to save himself. Lest too many people recognize to whom he belonged to.
He wished fervently that he was back with his uncle.
According to rumor, his uncle had been called back to the western citadel. All to participate in this “trial”.
Did the people truly believe one could kidnap an unborn child?
People will believe anything that confirms their biases.
As the constricting walls of the chateau gave way to a bright blue sky, Dimitri let himself stand still. He closed his eyes.
Was he crazy? Truly?
Was he a liar?
Opening his eyes, he walked a cobblestone path bleached by the sun. Verdant bushes housing white hush petals contoured the stony byway, and he brought his eyes to the twisting vines slithering up the expanse of the chateau's west wall.
He heard voices.
A posse of women floated up the path, a happy song coupled with conspiratorial hushes met his ears.
Dimitri slowed his pace, coming to a halt as the women came closer.
The Odette met his eye. She stopped her girls with a hand.
On her arm, hung the short handmaiden that had stabbed him the night before. Dimitri met her eye. She glared back, her eyes vacant. Cold and hawk-like.
Stepping aside, Dimitri let them pass. A posse of five women in flowing gowns of white, gossamer sleeves trailing behind them like lithe shadows. The color spoke of innocence.
“Your secrets,” Dimitri called after the group, his gaze on the handmaiden's back, “are they free, Mademoiselle? Is this why you wear white?”
The group halted gracelessly. Their stop abrupt. Dimitri watched the Odette hesitate.
Dimitri grimaced.
Tossing her disheveled sun-spun hair away from her face, the Odette slipped him a sidelong glare. Dark eyes were sharp. Deadly, “And so the rats come scuttling out of the nest.” she singsonged. Laughing, she threw back her head, “If this were the trial of my older brother, I would be there—as support if nothing else.” and with a final toss of her head, she walked on, the four others following as they giggled, “Good day, Monsieur. May the Fates bless your brother in his cell.”
In his cell?
His brother was on trial...for kidnapping..?
One woman tripped—screaming as her red hair unraveled from its tight chignon. She stopped the group as she scratched for a hairpin amongst the cobblestones and rocks.
“We have no time for this, Sophie!” the Odette screeched, “Get it later!”
“Yes, Mademoiselle—but—,”
“I. Said. Later!”
The red head rejoined the group.
As another woman stepped out.
The Odette ignored the strange dark-haired handmaiden as she excused herself and watched the group walk on. Snapping her gaze to Dimitri, she looked at him pointedly before kneeling. She scratched at the dirt for the red head's hairpin.
Dimitri approached. He joined her.
“You stabbed me last night—you blamed me for her letter getting compromised. Do you remember—,”
She brought a finger to her lips, shushing him.
“You saw—,”
She pressed her finger to his lips, “Shut up.”
Dimitri swallowed.
“I remember everything.” A silver pin glittered in-between the cracks of the cobbles. She picked it up.
“Councilman Dubois is alive.”
Her grip around the bauble tightened. Her upper lip twitched, “C'est la vie.”
Dimitri's eyes flashed, “Such is life?” he snapped, “Are you—are you toying with me?”
The short handmaiden stood, “I apologize for stabbing you.” she inclined her head, “The exchange was brutal, Dimitri. I want you to know that it was tough for me and that I am sorry—so sorry—for your loss.”
She cupped the pin, met his gaze with her large child-like eyes, and walked off.
“Wait—Mademoiselle! Your—your name!” it was all he could think to do—all he could think to salvage.
If he could just get her name.
She stopped.
“Mademoiselle Brandy.”
And kept walking, her pace quickening.
Before she disappeared around a bend in the path. Hush petals swirling in a cold breeze, disguising her long shadow.
Gone was his chance of finding answers—of saving his family.
Dimitri thought back to the silhouette—the man with the mismatched eyes. The slayer.
Dunstan Riche.
His mother knew something about him—perhaps, perhaps he was real.
He squared his shoulders.
It was all he could do now.
He'd have to find his mother.
EIGHT
Reine
Reine couldn't keep still.
The constant clamor of hammers tapping and nails being slammed into place kept her awake. The nonstop noise stole her appetite. The construction of a massive wooden scaffold upon High Hill diligently making her nose bleed and her stomach shrivel.
For five days, she went without sleep, knowing that soon a man would hang there by the neck until dead.
For five days, she went without food. Accepting only lemon water and bread from her handmaidens when her tremors were unbearable and she couldn't keep still.
Standing before the high archway of the chateau's eastwing chapel, this was one of those times. Her palms trembled against her gossamer overdress. Her tongue became cotton in her mouth.
“The trial for poor Duchess Mariett's child enters its fifth day,” one of Reine's handmaidens murmured. Sophie, the redhead with leafy eyes, spoke above the hallowed silence of the chapel's entryway, “The poor Odette is unable to contain her sorrow...”
Reine threw a sidelong glare over her shoulder. Fingers clenched. Trembling, “Leave me,” she commanded, “all of you.”
She looked pointedly at Marceline who held her ground, arms crossed, as the other handmaidens scurried away.
Reine huffed, stepped inside the chapel and flinched as Marceline's heels clicked behind the trail of her off-white gown.
“I said—leave me!” Reine snapped, turning to face Marceline. “I need peace. I need to pray—can I not be alone for that much?”
Marceline kept her arms crossed. Her lips pressed into a thin line. She said nothing as she looked at Reine with a tired expression. One that spoke of exhaustion. Whenever Reine was up wandering about, Marceline was too. Even if Reine couldn't see her slinking in the shadows, she could always feel the agent's presence.
It was like that of an owl staring down at her, its look of haughty intelligence forcing her to bite her tongue.
&n
bsp; In Marceline's presence, Reine was less of a person. Less of a woman.
And it had been a long time since Reine felt as if she were lesser in front of anybody.
She was the Odette, damn it! An important woman...
But she was beginning to believe that her importance rode on the back of the duchess's power. The deceased duchess.
Reine found the strength to grind her teeth as Marceline stared at her expectantly.
“Leave. Me.” Reine hissed, glaring into Marceline's glacier like eyes, “I am tired—tired of your insolence!” she took a step closer—to her surprise, she was taller than Marceline. It made her grin to look down upon the woman, the woman with the haughty glare, “Ever since you and your people entered the Victoire Chateau—there has been nothing but trouble! My family stands on trial as the Coutures hawk about their innocence! A man will hang soon—hang for the kidnapping of the next leader of Safrana—did you know this? Or do you simply not care? How would the ruling council know, agent? Know that the duchess even had a child? Much less that her sickly body could carry it to term?” Reine hissed a sigh. Her vision blackened and she blinked. Slapping a hand to her chest, she forced herself to breathe slowly as her vision gradually returned.
“You need to eat.” Marceline finally said, still glaring pointedly, “Why starve yourself?”
Reine stiffened. Her heart fluttered in her chest.
As another pair of heels clicked through the high entryway of the chapel. A waif of a woman entered, flanked by two female guards in long brigandines sewn with plated leather.
The waif's haunting eyes of gray snapped to Marceline. Her turquoise sleeve sailed in the chapel's chilling air as she brought a porcelain hand to rest upon the pointed shoulder of Marceline's rose overdress, “What a talkative handmaiden you are,” the woman smiled, chuckling at her own jest, “are you from Safrana, Mademoiselle?”
Reine raised an eyebrow as Marceline brought her gaze from the waif, and to the two female guards towering behind her.
Touching the hand upon her shoulder, Marceline brushed it away, “No, Madam.”
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