“There is no other way,” the Archbishop interjected.
The Chasseur stood very still indeed. He seemed to have stopped breathing.
“You are like a son to me, Reid.” The Archbishop reached up to clasp the Chasseur’s shoulder—a mouse comforting an elephant. Some disconnected part of my mind wanted to laugh. “Do not throw away your life—your promising career, your oath to God—for the sake of this heathen. Once she is your wife, you can lock her in the closet and never think of her again. You would have the legal right to do whatever you please with her.” He shot him a meaningful look. “This arrangement would also solve . . . other matters.”
Blood finally returned to the Chasseur’s face—no, flooded his face. It raced up his throat and into his cheeks, burning hotter than even his eyes. His jaw clenched. “Sir, I—”
But I didn’t hear him. Saliva coated my mouth, and my vision narrowed. Marriage. To a Chasseur. There had to be another way, any other way—
Bile rose in my throat, and before I could stop it, I heaved a spectacular arc of vomit onto the Archbishop’s feet. He leapt away from me with a disgusted cry.
“How dare you—!” He raised a fist to strike me once more, but the Chasseur moved with lightning swiftness. His hand caught the Archbishop’s wrist.
“If this woman is to be my wife,” he said, swallowing hard, “you will not touch her again.”
The Archbishop bared his teeth. “You agree, then?”
The Chasseur released his wrist and looked at me, a deeper blush creeping up his throat. “Only if she does.”
His words reminded me of Coco.
Take care of yourself.
Only if you do.
Coco had said I needed to find protection. I stared up at the copper-haired Chasseur, at the Archbishop still rubbing his wrist. Perhaps protection had found me.
Andre, Grue, the constabulary, her . . . none of them could harm me if I had a Chasseur as a husband. Even the Chasseurs themselves would cease to be a threat—if I could keep up the act. If I could avoid doing magic near them. They’d never know I was a witch. I’d be hidden in plain sight.
But . . . I’d also have a husband.
I didn’t want a husband. Didn’t want to be shackled to anyone in marriage, especially someone as stiff and self-righteous as this Chasseur. But if marriage was my only alternative to spending life in prison, perhaps it was the most agreeable option. It certainly was the only option that would get me out of this theater unchained.
After all, I still had Angelica’s Ring. I could always escape after the marriage certificate was signed.
Right. I straightened my shoulders and raised my chin. “I’ll do it.”
The Ceremony
Reid
Shouts escalated outside the theater, but I barely heard them. Blood roared in my ears. It drowned out every other sound: their cries for justice, the Archbishop’s sympathy.
But not her footsteps. I heard every one of those.
Light. Lighter than mine. But more erratic. Less measured.
I focused on them, and the roaring in my ears gradually quieted. I could hear the theater manager and constabulary now, trying to calm the crowd.
I resisted the urge to unsheathe my Balisarda as the Archbishop opened the doors. My legs locked up, and my skin felt somehow hot and cold at the same time—and too small. Much too small. It itched and pricked as every eye on the street turned toward us. A small, warm hand rested on my arm.
Calloused palms. Slender fingers—two bandaged. I glanced down. Broken.
I didn’t allow my eyes to follow her fingers up her arm. Because her arm would lead to her shoulder, and her shoulder would lead to her face. And I knew what I’d find there. Two bruised eyes, and a fresh welt forming on her cheek. A scar above her eyebrow. Another across her throat. It still peeked below the black ribbon, despite her attempt to hide it.
Célie’s face rose in my mind. Unblemished and pure.
Oh, God. Célie.
The Archbishop stepped forward, and the crowd immediately quieted. With a frown, he pulled me in front of him. The woman—the heathen—didn’t relinquish her grip. I still didn’t look at her.
“Brothers!” The Archbishop’s voice rang out across the now silent street, attracting even more attention. Every head turned in our direction, and she cringed into me. I glanced down at her then, frowning. Her eyes were wide, pupils dilated. Frightened.
I turned away.
You cannot give me your heart, Reid. I cannot have it on my conscience.
Célie, please—
Those monsters who murdered Pip are still out there. They must be punished. I will not distract you from your purpose. If you must give away your heart, give it to your brotherhood. Please, please, forget me.
I could never forget you.
Despair nearly knocked me to my knees. She would never forgive me.
“Your concern for this woman has been seen and is appreciated by God.” The Archbishop spread his arms wide. Beseeching. “But do not be deceived. After attempting to rob an aristocrat such as yourselves last night, she had the ill grace to flee her husband as he attempted to discipline her this morning. Do not pity her, friends. Pray for her.”
A woman at the front of the crowd glared at the Archbishop with unabashed loathing. Slim. Pale hair. Upturned nose. I tensed, recognizing the woman from backstage.
You disgusting pig!
As if she sensed my gaze, her eyes flicked to me and narrowed. I stared back at her, trying and failing to forget her whispered condemnation. Hopefully they throw him in prison. Who knows what could have happened?
I swallowed hard and looked away. Of course that was what it’d looked like. The little heathen knew her tricks, and I’d made it laughably easy. Fallen right into her trap. I cursed myself, longing to jerk my arm from her grasp. But that wouldn’t do. Too many people watched us, and the Archbishop had been clear in his orders.
“We must confess our duplicity as soon as we return home,” he’d said, frowning as he paced. “The people must believe you are already married.” He’d turned toward her abruptly then. “Am I correct in assuming your soul is unsaved?” When she hadn’t responded, he’d scowled. “As I thought. We shall remedy both situations immediately and journey straight to the Doleur for baptism. You must act as her husband until we formalize the union, Reid. Take that ring from her right hand and move it to her left. Walk beside her. The charade may end the second the crowd disperses. And—for goodness’ sake, recover her cloak.”
The heathen twisted the ring in question now. Shifted her feet. Reached up to touch a piece of hair by her face. She’d pinned the rest into a snarled knot at her nape, wild and untamed. Just like her. I loathed it.
“I implore you to see God’s teaching in this woman.” The Archbishop’s voice rose. “Learn from her wickedness! Wives, obey your husbands. Repent your sinful natures. Only then can you be truly united with God!”
Several members of the crowd nodded, murmuring their agreement.
It’s true. I’ve always said as much.
Womenfolk are as bad as witches these days.
What they all need is wood—the rod or the stake.
The pale-haired woman from backstage looked as if she’d like to inflict bodily harm on the Archbishop. She bared her teeth, fists clenched, before turning away.
The heathen tensed beside me, her grip tightening painfully on my arm. I glared down at her, but she didn’t let go. That’s when I smelled it—faint, subtle, almost too light to detect. But still there, lingering on the breeze. Magic.
The Archbishop groaned.
I turned just as he doubled over and clutched his stomach. “Sir, are you—”
I stopped abruptly as he broke shockingly loud wind. His eyes flew open, and his cheeks flamed red. Mutters broke out in the crowd. Shocked. Disgusted. He stood hastily, attempting to straighten his robes, but bent double again at the last second. Another bout wracked his system. I placed a hand on his ba
ck, uncertain.
“Sir—”
“Leave me,” he snarled.
I backed away quickly and glared at the heathen, who shook with silent laughter. “Stop laughing.”
“I couldn’t even if I wanted to.” She clutched a hand to her side, shaking, and a snort escaped her lips. I eyed her in growing distaste, bending down to inhale her scent. Cinnamon. Not magic. I leaned away quickly, and she laughed harder.
“This right here—this exact moment—it just might be worth marrying you, Chass. I’m going to cherish it forever.”
The Archbishop insisted the heathen and I walk to the Doleur for her baptism. He rode in his carriage.
She scoffed as he disappeared down the street, kicking a rock at a nearby trash can. “That man’s head is so far up his own ass, he could wear it as a hat.”
My jaw clenched. Don’t rise. Remain calm. “You will not disrespect him.”
She grinned, tilting her head up to examine me. Then—incredibly—she rose to her toes and flicked me square on the nose. I staggered back, startled. My face flushed. She grinned wider and started walking. “I will do what I please, Chass.”
“You’re to be my wife.” Catching up to her in two strides, I reached out to grab her arm, but stopped short of touching her. “That means you’ll obey me.”
“Does it?” She raised her brows, still grinning. “I suppose that means you’ll honor and protect me, then? If we’re adhering to the dusty old roles of your patriarchy?”
I shortened my pace to match hers. “Yes.”
She clapped her hands together. “Excellent. At least this will be entertaining. I have many enemies.”
I couldn’t help it. I glanced at the deep bruises coloring her eyes. “Imagine that.”
“I wouldn’t, if I were you.” Her tone was conversational. Light. As if we were discussing the weather. “You’ll have nightmares for weeks.”
Questions burned up my throat, but I refused to voice them. She seemed content in the silence. Her eyes moved everywhere at once. To the dresses and hats lining shop windows. To the apricots and hazelnuts filling merchants’ carts. To the dirty windows of a small pub, the soot-stained faces of children chasing pigeons in the street. At every turn, a new emotion flitted across her face. Appreciation. Longing. Delight.
Watching her was strangely exhausting.
After a few minutes, I couldn’t stand it any longer. I cleared my throat. “Did one of them give you those bruises?”
“Who?”
“Your enemies.”
“Oh,” she said brightly. “Yes. Well—two, actually.”
Two? I stared at her, incredulous. Tried to imagine the tiny creature before me battling two people at once—then remembered her trapping me backstage, tricking the audience into believing I’d assaulted her. I scowled. She was more than capable.
The streets widened as we reached the outskirts of East End. The Doleur soon glinted in the bright afternoon sun ahead of us. The Archbishop waited beside his carriage. To my surprise, so did Jean Luc.
Of course. He would be the witness.
The reality of the situation crashed over me like a bag of bricks upon seeing my friend. I was actually going to marry this woman. This—this creature. This heathen who scaled rooftops and robbed aristocrats, who brawled and dressed like a man and had a name to match.
She wasn’t Célie. She was the furthest thing from Célie God could’ve possibly created. Célie was gentle and well mannered. Polite. Proper. Kind. She would’ve never embarrassed me, never presented herself as such a spectacle.
I glared at the woman who was to be my wife. Torn and blood-spattered dress. Bruised face and broken fingers. Scarred throat. And a smirk that left little doubt as to how she’d come to receive each injury.
She arched a brow. “See something you like?”
I looked away. Célie would be heartbroken when she learned what I’d done. She deserved better than this. Better than me.
“Come now.” The Archbishop motioned us to the deserted riverbank. A dead fish was our only audience—and the flock of pigeons feasting on it. Its skeleton protruded through rotted flesh, and a single eye gaped up at the clear November sky. “Let us be done with this. The heathen must first be baptized at our Lord God’s command. For ye shall not be unequally yoked. Light hath no communion with darkness.”
My feet were leaden, each step an incredible effort in the sand and mud. Jean Luc followed closely behind. I could feel his grin on my neck. I didn’t want to imagine what he now thought of me—of this.
The Archbishop hesitated before striding into the gray water. He glanced back at the heathen, the first hint of uncertainty on his face. As if unsure she would follow. Please change your mind, I prayed. Please forget this madness and send her to prison where she belongs.
But then I would lose my Balisarda. My life. My vows. My purpose.
A small, ugly voice at the back of my mind scoffed. He could pardon you, if he wanted. No one would question his judgment. You could remain a Chasseur without marrying a criminal.
So why didn’t he?
Chagrin washed through me at the very thought. Of course he couldn’t pardon me. The people believed I’d accosted her. It didn’t matter I hadn’t. They thought I had. Even if the Archbishop explained—even if she confessed—people would still whisper. They would doubt. They would question the Chasseurs’ integrity. Worse still—they might question the Archbishop himself. His motivations.
We’d already ensnared ourselves in the lie. The people believed she was my wife. If word spread otherwise, the Archbishop would be branded a liar. That couldn’t happen.
Like it or not, this heathen would become my wife.
She stomped out after the Archbishop as if to reaffirm the fact. He scowled, wiping away the flecks of water she splashed on his face.
“What an interesting turn of events.” Jean Luc’s eyes danced with laughter as he watched the heathen. She appeared to be arguing with the Archbishop about something. Of course she was.
“She . . . tricked me.” The confession stung.
When I didn’t elaborate, he turned to look at me. The laughter in his eyes dimmed. “What about Célie?”
I forced the words out, hating myself for them. “Célie knew we wouldn’t marry.”
I hadn’t told him about her rejection. I hadn’t been able to stomach his ridicule. Or worse—his pity. He’d asked once, after Filippa’s death, about my intentions with her. Shame burned in my gut. I’d lied through my teeth, telling him my vows meant too much. Telling him I’d never marry.
Yet here I was.
He pursed his lips, regarding me shrewdly. “Still, I’m . . . sorry.” He stared out at the heathen, who had pointed a broken finger at the Archbishop’s nose. “Marriage to such a creature will not be easy.”
“Is marriage ever easy?”
“Perhaps not, but she seems particularly intolerable.” He flashed me a halfhearted grin. “I suppose she has to move into the Tower, doesn’t she?”
I couldn’t bring myself to return his smile. “Yes.”
He sighed. “Pity.”
We watched in silence as the Archbishop’s face grew steadily stonier. As he finally lost patience and jerked her toward him by the nape of her neck. As he threw her underwater and held her there a second too long.
I didn’t blame him. Her soul would take longer to cleanse than a normal person’s.
Two seconds too long.
The Archbishop appeared to be at war with himself. His body shook with the effort of keeping her under, and his eyes were wide—crazed. Surely he wasn’t going to—?
Three seconds too long.
I plunged into the water. Jean Luc crashed after me. We threw ourselves forward, but our panic was unfounded. The Archbishop released her just as we reached them, and she sprang out of the water like an angry, hissing cat. Water cascaded down her hair and face and dress. I reached out to steady her, but she shoved me away. I yielded a step as she whirle
d, spluttering, toward the Archbishop.
“Fils de pute!” Before I could move to stop her, she dove at him. His eyes flew open as he lost his footing and tumbled backward into the water, limbs flailing. Jean Luc rushed to help him. I seized her, pinning her arms to her sides before she could tackle him back into the water.
She didn’t seem to notice.
“Connard! Salaud!” She thrashed in my arms, kicking water everywhere. “I’m going to kill you! I’m going to rip those robes off your shoulders and strangle you with them, you misshapen, foul-smelling piece of shit—”
All three of us gaped at her—eyes wide, mouths open. The Archbishop recovered first. His face purpled and a strangled sound escaped his throat. “How dare you speak to me so?” He jerked away from Jean Luc, waving a finger in her face. I realized his mistake a split second before she lunged. Tightening my grip, I managed to haul her away before she could sink her teeth into his knuckle.
I was about to marry a wild animal.
“Let—me—go—” Her elbow sank deep into my stomach.
“No.” More a gasp than a word. But still I held on.
She let out a frustrated noise then—something between a growl and a scream—and went mercifully still. I sent up a silent prayer of thanks before dragging her back to shore.
The Archbishop and Jean Luc joined us shortly thereafter. “Thank you, Reid.” The Archbishop sniffed, wringing out his robes and readjusting the pectoral cross around his neck. Disdain dripped from his features when he finally addressed the hellcat. “Must we shackle you for the ceremony? Perhaps procure a muzzle?”
“You tried to kill me.”
He looked down his nose at her. “Believe me, child, if I had wanted to kill you, you would be dead.”
Her eyes blazed. “Likewise.”
Jean Luc choked on a laugh.
The Archbishop stepped forward, his eyes narrowing to slits. “Release her, Reid. I should like to get this whole sordid affair behind us.”
Gladly.
To my surprise—and disappointment—she didn’t flee when I let her go. She merely crossed her arms and planted her feet, staring at each of us in turn. Obstinately. Sullenly. A silent challenge.
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