She stayed. For richer or poorer. In sickness and in health.
“I told you, Chass.” Her voice grew unusually quiet, and I risked another glance. She’d rolled to her side and now looked me square in the eye. Chin propped in her hand. Arm draped across her waist. “I have many enemies.”
Her gaze didn’t waver. Her face remained impassive. For the first time since I’d met her, emotion didn’t radiate from her very being. She was . . . blank. Carefully, skillfully blank. She arched a brow at my appraisal. A silent question.
But there was no need to ask—to have her confirm what I already suspected. Stupid as it was to take a thief at her word, there wasn’t a better explanation for why she’d returned. I didn’t want to admit it, but she was clever. Masterful at the art of escape. Probably impossible to find once hidden.
Which meant she was here because she wanted to be. Because she needed to be. Whoever her enemies were, they must’ve been dangerous.
I broke our eye contact to stare at the bedpost. Focus. “You disobeyed me,” I repeated. “I told you to stay in the Tower, and you didn’t. You broke trust.” She rolled her eyes, mask cracking. I tried to resurrect my previous anger, but it didn’t burn quite as hot now. “The guards will be more vigilant, especially after the Archbishop hears of your indiscretions. He won’t be pleased—”
“Unexpected bonus—”
“And you’ll remain confined to the lower floors,” I finished through clenched teeth. “The dormitories and commissary.”
She sat up, curiosity flaring in her blue-green eyes. “What’s on the top floors, again?”
“None of your business.” I strode to the door without looking back at her, sighing in relief when a maid strode past. “Bridgette! Can my wife, er, borrow a gown? I’ll return it first thing tomorrow morning.” When she nodded, blushing, and hurried away, I turned back to Louise. “You’ll need to change. We’re going to the council room, and you can’t wear those in front of my brothers.”
She didn’t move. “Your brothers? What could they possibly want with me?”
It must’ve been physically impossible for this woman to submit to her husband. “They want to ask you some questions about your witch friend.”
Her answer came immediately. “I’m not interested.”
“It wasn’t a request. As soon as you’re dressed appropriately, we leave.”
“No.”
I glared at her for a full second longer—waiting for her to concede, waiting for her to demonstrate the proper meekness befitting a woman—before realizing who this was.
Lou. A thief with a man’s name. I turned on my heel. “Fine. Let’s go.”
I didn’t wait for her to follow. Honestly, I didn’t know what I’d do if she didn’t. The memory of the Archbishop striking her reared in my mind, and the heat coursing through me burned hotter. That would never happen again. Even if she cursed—even if she refused to listen to a single word I ever said—I would never raise my fist to her.
Ever.
Which left me fervently hoping she followed.
After a few seconds, soft footsteps echoed behind me in the corridor. Thank God. I shortened my strides, so she could catch up. “Through here,” I murmured, leading her down the staircase. Careful not to touch her. “To the dungeon.”
She looked up at me in alarm. “The dungeon?”
I almost chuckled. Almost. “The council room is down there.”
I ushered her through another corridor. Down a smaller, steeper flight of stairs. Terse voices drifted toward us as we descended. I pushed open the crude wooden door at the base of the stairs and motioned for her to step inside.
A dozen of my brethren stood arguing around an enormous circular table in the middle of the room. Bits of parchment littered it. Newspaper clippings. Charcoal sketches. Underneath it all stretched an enormous map of Belterra. Every mountain range—every bog, forest, and lake—had been inked with care and precision. Every city and landmark.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the little thief.” Jean Luc’s eyes swept over her with keen interest. He sauntered around the table to examine her closer. “Come to grace us with her presence at last.”
The others soon followed, ignoring me completely. My lips pressed together in unexpected irritation. I didn’t know who bothered me most—my wife for wearing trousers, my brothers for staring, or myself for caring.
“Peace, Jean Luc.” I stepped closer, towering behind her. “She’s here to help.”
“Is she? I thought street rats valued loyalty.”
“We do,” she said flatly.
He raised a brow. “You refuse to help us then?”
Behave, I pleaded silently. Cooperate.
She didn’t, of course. Instead, she drifted toward the table, glancing at the bits of paper. I knew without looking who she saw. One face drawn a dozen times. A dozen ways. Mocking us.
La Dame des Sorcières. The Lady of the Witches.
Even the name rankled. She looked nothing like the hag at the parade. Nothing like the raven-haired mother, either. Her hair wasn’t even black in her natural form, but a peculiar shade of blond. Almost white. Or silver.
Jean Luc followed her gaze. “You know of Morgane le Blanc?”
“Everyone knows of her.” She lifted her chin and shot him a black look. “Even street rats.”
“If you helped us get her to the stake, all would be forgiven,” Jean Luc said.
“Forgiven?” She arched a brow and leaned forward, planting her bandaged fingers right across Morgane le Blanc’s nose. “For what, exactly?”
“For publicly humiliating Reid.” Jean Luc mirrored her gesture, his expression hardening. “For forcing him to disgrace his name, his honor as a Chasseur.”
My brethren nodded their agreement, muttering under their breath.
“That’s enough.” To my horror, my hand came down on her shoulder. I stared at it—large and foreign on her slim frame. Blinked once. Twice. Then snatched it back and tried to ignore the peculiar look on Jean Luc’s face as he watched us. I cleared my throat. “My wife is here to bear witness against the witch at Tremblay’s. Nothing more.”
Jean Luc raised his brows—politely skeptical, perhaps amused—before he extended a hand to her. “By all means, then, Madame Diggory, please enlighten us.”
Madame Diggory.
I swallowed hard and stepped up to the table beside her. I hadn’t yet heard the title aloud. Hearing the words . . . it felt strange. Real.
She scowled and knocked his hand away. “It’s Lou.”
And there she was again. I stared at the ceiling, trying and failing to ignore my brothers’ indignant whispers.
“What do you know of the witches?” Jean Luc asked.
“Not much.” She trailed her finger along the series of Xs and circles marring the map’s topography. Most were concentrated in La Fôret des Yeux. One circle for every tip we’d received about witches dwelling in the caves there. One X for every reconnaissance mission that had turned up nothing.
A grim smile tugged at Jean Luc’s mouth. “It would be in your best interests to cooperate, madame. Indeed, it is only by the Archbishop’s intervention that you are here, intact, rather than scattered across the kingdom as ash. Aiding and abetting a witch is illegal.”
Tense silence descended as she looked from face to face, clearly deciding whether she agreed. I’d just opened my mouth to prod her in the right direction when she sighed. “What do you want to know?”
I blinked, shocked at her sudden prudence, but Jean Luc didn’t pause to savor the moment. Instead, he pounced.
“Where are they located?”
“As if she would’ve told me.”
“Who is she?”
She smirked. “A witch.”
“Her name.”
“Alexandra.”
“Her surname?”
“I don’t know. We operate with secrecy in East End, even amongst friends.”
I recoiled at the word, disgust
seeping through me. “You—you truly consider the witch a friend?”
“I do.”
“What happened?” Jean Luc asked.
She glanced around, suddenly mutinous. “You did.”
“Explain.”
“When you busted us at Tremblay’s, we all fled,” she snapped at him. “I don’t know where she went. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.”
Jean Luc and I shared a look. If she was telling the truth, this was a dead end. From the little time I’d spent with her, however, I knew she didn’t tell the truth. Probably wasn’t even capable of it. But perhaps there was another way to procure the information we needed. I knew better than to ask about the man of their trio—the one who’d escaped, the one the constabulary searched for even now—but these enemies of hers . . .
If they knew my wife, they might also know the witch. And anyone who knew the witch was worth interrogating.
“Your enemies,” I said carefully. “Are they her enemies too?”
“Maybe.”
“Who are they?”
She glared down at the map. “They don’t know she’s a witch, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“I’d still have their names.”
“Fine.” She shrugged—immediately bored—and began ticking names off on her fingers. “There’s Andre and Grue, Madame Labelle—”
“Madame Labelle?” I frowned, remembering the woman’s familiarity with Tremblay the night of the robbery. She’d claimed her presence had been coincidental, but . . . I tensed in realization.
The seal on the Archbishop’s tip—the letter he’d thrown in the fire—had been shaped like a rose. And Ansel’s stammered description of the informant had been clear: She had bright red hair and was very—very beautiful.
Perhaps Madame Labelle’s presence hadn’t been coincidental after all. Perhaps she had known the witch would be there. And if so . . .
I shared a meaningful look with Jean Luc, who pursed his lips and nodded as he too drew the connection. We’d be speaking with Madame Labelle very soon.
“Yes.” The heathen paused to scratch out Morgane le Blanc’s eyes with a fingernail. I was surprised she didn’t trace a mustache in the charcoal. “She tries to lure us into indentures with the Bellerose every few weeks. We keep refusing her. Drives her mad.”
Jean Luc broke the shocked silence, sounding genuinely amused. “So you really are a whore.”
Too far.
“Don’t,” I growled, voice low, “call my wife a whore.”
He held up his hands in apology. “Of course. How crass of me. Do continue the interrogation, Captain—unless you think we’ll need the thumbscrews?”
She fixed him with a steely smile. “That won’t be necessary.”
I gave her a pointed look. “It won’t?”
She reached up and patted my cheek. “I’ll be more than happy to continue . . . as long as you say please.”
If I hadn’t known better, the gesture would’ve felt affectionate. But I did know better. And this wasn’t affection. This was patronization. Even here, now—surrounded by my brethren—she dared to goad me. To humiliate me. My wife.
No—Lou. I could no longer deny the name suited her. A man’s name. Short. Strong. Ridiculous.
I caught her hand and squeezed—a warning mitigated by my burning cheeks. “We’ll dispatch men to interrogate these enemies, but first, we need to know everything that happened that night.” I paused despite myself, ignoring my brothers’ furious mutters. “Please.”
A truly frightening grin split her face.
The Forbidden Infirmary
Lou
My tongue was thick and heavy from talking when my darling husband escorted me back to our room. I’d given them an abbreviated version of the tale—how Coco and I had eavesdropped on Tremblay and Madame Labelle, how we’d planned to rob him that night. How we’d stolen from his vault, but Bas—I hadn’t bothered concealing his name, as the idiot hadn’t bothered concealing mine—had pocketed everything when the Chasseurs arrived. How Andre and Grue had jumped me in that alley. How they’d almost killed me.
I’d really emphasized that point.
I hadn’t mentioned Angelica’s Ring. Or Madame Labelle’s interest in it. Or Tremblay’s trafficking. Or anything that might further connect me to the witches. I walked a thin line as it was, and I didn’t need to give them another reason to tie me to the stake.
I knew Madame Labelle and Tremblay wouldn’t risk incriminating themselves by mentioning the ring. I hoped Andre and Grue were intelligent enough to follow suit. Even if they didn’t—even if they stupidly revealed they’d known about Angelica’s Ring without reporting it—it would be our word against theirs. The honor of Monsieur Tremblay, the king’s vicomte, was surely worth more than the honor of a couple of criminals.
It also didn’t hurt that my husband was in love with his daughter.
Either way—judging by the furious gleam in said husband’s eyes—Andre and Grue were in for a thrashing.
You’re my wife now, whether we like it or not. No man will ever touch you that way again.
I almost cackled. All in all, it hadn’t been a bad afternoon. My husband was still the most pompous ass in an entire tower of pompous asses, but somehow, that had been easy to overlook in the dungeon. He’d actually . . . defended me. Or at least come as close as he was capable without his virtue imploding.
When we reached our room, I headed straight for the tub, craving time alone to think. To plan. “I’m taking a bath.”
If my suspicions were correct—and they usually were—the tree man from yesterday had disappeared to the forbidden upper floors. Perhaps to an infirmary? A laboratory? A furnace?
No. The Chasseurs would never murder innocent people, though burning innocent women and children at the stake seemed like it should qualify. But I’d heard the Chasseurs’ tired argument: there was a difference between murdering and killing. Murder was unjustified. What they did to the witches . . . well, we deserved it.
I turned on the tap and perched on the edge of the tub. Bigotry aside, I’d never considered where the witches’ victims actually went, why there weren’t bodies littering the streets after every attack. All those attacks. All those victims . . .
If such a place existed, it was surely doused in magic.
Just the sort of cover I needed.
“Wait.” His heavy footsteps halted just behind me. “We have things to discuss.”
Things. The word had never sounded so tedious. I didn’t turn around. “Such as?”
“Your new arrangements.”
“Arrangements?” Now I did turn, stomach sinking. “You mean my new warden.”
He inclined his head. “If you’d like. You disobeyed me this morning. I told you not to leave the Tower.”
Shit. Being watched . . . that didn’t work for me. Didn’t work for me at all. I had plans for this evening—namely, a little jaunt to the forbidden upper floors—and I’d be damned if another pompous ass would stand in my way. If I was right, if the Tower held magic, it was a visit I needed to make alone.
I took my time mulling over an answer, meticulously unlacing my boots and placing them beside the washroom door. Tying my hair on top of my head. Unwrapping the dressing on my arm.
He waited patiently for me to finish. Damn him. Exhausting all my options, I finally turned around. Perhaps I could . . . deter him. Surely he didn’t want his new bride to spend ungodly amounts of time with another man? I labored under no delusions he liked me, but men of the Church tended to be possessive of their things.
“Go ahead, then.” I smiled pleasantly. “Bring him in. For your sake, he’d better be handsome.”
His eyes hardened, and he walked around me to turn off the tap. “Why would he need to be handsome?”
I strolled to the bed and fell back, rolling to my stomach and propping a pillow beneath my chin. I batted my lashes at him. “Well, we are going to be spending quite a bit of time together . . .
unchaperoned.”
He clenched his jaw so tight it looked likely to snap in two. “He is your chaperone.”
“Right, right.” I waved a hand. “Do continue.”
“His name is Ansel. He’s sixteen—”
“Oooh.” I waggled my brows, grinning. “A bit young, isn’t he?”
“He’s perfectly capable—”
“I like them young, though.” I ignored his flushing face and tapped my lip thoughtfully. “Easier to train that way.”
“—and he shows great promise as a potential—”
“Perhaps I’ll give him his first kiss,” I mused. “No, I’ll do him one better—I’ll give him his first fuck.”
My articulate husband choked on the rest of his words, eyes boggling. “Wh—what did you just say?”
Hearing impairment. It was getting alarming.
“Oh, don’t be so priggish, Chass.” I leapt up and crossed the room, flinging the desk drawer open and snatching the leather notebook I’d found—a journal, stuffed full of love letters from none other than Mademoiselle Célie Tremblay. I snorted at the irony. No wonder he loathed me. “‘February twelfth—God took special care in forming Célie.’”
His eyes grew impossibly wider, and he lunged for the journal. I dodged—cackling—and ran into the washroom, locking the door behind me. His fists pounded against the wood. “Give me that!”
I grinned and continued reading. “‘I long to look upon her face again. Surely there is nothing more beautiful in all the world than her smile—except, of course, her eyes. Or her laugh. Or her lips.’ My, my, Chass. Surely thinking of a woman’s mouth is impious? What would our dear Archbishop say?”
“Open—this—door.” The wood strained as he pounded against it. “Right now!”
“‘But I fear I’m being selfish. Célie has made it clear that my purpose is with my brotherhood.’”
“OPEN THIS DOOR—”
“‘Though I admire her selflessness, I cannot bring myself to agree with her. Any solution that separates us is not a solution at all.’”
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