Ansel dropped his head. “Yes, sir.”
Outrage washed over me as I watched him shuffle dejectedly to the door. I moved to follow him—yearning to hug him or otherwise console him somehow—but my pigheaded husband caught my arm. “Stay. I’d like a word with you.”
I wrenched my arm away and fired up at once. “And I’d like a word with you. How dare you blame Ansel? As if any of this is his fault!”
Jean Luc heaved a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll escort you to the infirmary, Mademoiselle Perrot.” He extended his arm to her, clearly bored with the direction the conversation had taken. Her answering glare was withering. Scowling, he turned to leave without her, but Ansel had paused on the threshold, blocking the way. Tears clung to his lashes as he looked back at me, eyes wide—shocked that someone had spoken up for him. Jean Luc prodded his back impatiently, muttering something I couldn’t hear. My blood boiled.
“He was charged with watching you.” My husband’s eyes blazed, oblivious to everyone but me. “He failed in his duty.”
“Oh, ta gueule!” I crossed my arms to keep from wrapping my hands around his throat. “I’m a grown-ass woman, and I’m perfectly capable of making my own choices. This is no one’s fault but mine. If you’re going to bully anyone, it should be me, not Ansel. The poor kid can’t catch a break with you—”
His face nearly purpled. “He isn’t a child! He’s training to become a Chasseur, and if that should happen, he must learn to take responsibility—”
“Ansel, move,” Jean Luc said flatly, interrupting our tirade. He finally managed to push Ansel through the door. “As entertaining as this is, some of us have work to do, prisoners to find, witches to burn . . . those sorts of things. Mademoiselle Perrot, you’re expected in the infirmary in ten minutes. I will be checking.” He gave us both one last irritated look before stomping from the room. Coco rolled her eyes and moved to follow, but she hesitated on the threshold. Her eyes held a silent question.
“It’s fine,” I muttered.
She nodded once, shooting my husband an irritated look of her own, before closing the door behind her.
The silence between us was blistering. I half expected the books to catch fire. It would’ve been fitting, given every book in this hellish place was evil. I eyed Twelve Treatises of Occult Extermination with newfound interest, picking it up as golden patterns shimmered into existence around me. If I hadn’t been so furious, I would’ve startled. It’d been a long time since unbidden patterns had appeared in my mind’s eye. Already, I could feel my magic awakening, desperate for freedom after years of repression.
It would just take a spark, it coaxed. Relinquish your anger. Set the page aflame.
But I didn’t want to relinquish my anger. I wanted to throttle my husband with it.
“You lied to us.” His voice cut sharply through the silence. Though I continued staring at the book, I could clearly picture the vein in his throat, the taut muscles of his jaw. “Madame Labelle told us the witch’s name is Cosette Monvoisin, not Alexandra.”
Yes, and she’s currently contemplating how to drain all the blood from your body. Perhaps I should help her. Instead, I chucked Twelve Treatises of Occult Extermination at his head. “You knew I was a snake when you picked me up.”
He caught it before it could break his nose, throwing it back at me. I dodged, and it crumpled to the floor where it belonged. “This isn’t a game!” he shouted. “We are charged with keeping this kingdom safe. You’ve seen the infirmary! Witches are dangerous—”
My hands curled into fists, and the patterns around me flickered wildly. “As if Chasseurs are any less so.”
“We’re trying to protect you!”
“Don’t ask me to apologize, because I won’t!” A ringing started in my ears as I stormed toward him—as I placed both hands on his chest and pushed. When he didn’t budge, a snarl tore from my throat. “I will always protect those who are dear to me. Do you understand? Always.”
I pushed him again, harder this time, but his hands caught my own and trapped them against his chest. He leaned down, raising a copper brow. “Is that so?” His voice was soft again. Dangerous. “Is that why you helped your lover escape?”
Lover? Baffled, I lifted my chin to glare at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“So you deny it, then? That he’s your lover?”
“I said,” I repeated, staring pointedly at his hands around mine, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Bas isn’t my lover, and he never has been. Now let me go.”
To my surprise, he released me—hastily, as if startled he’d been touching me in the first place—and stepped back. “I can’t protect you if you lie to me.”
I charged to the door without looking at him. “Va au diable.”
Go to hell.
Lord, Have Mercy
Lou
Hushed voices drifted toward us from the sanctuary, and firelight cast shadows on the faces of the icons around us. Yawning, I stared at the one nearest me—a plain woman with a look of supreme boredom on her face. I sympathized.
“I still remember my first attempt. I hit the bull’s-eye straightaway.” The Archbishop chuckled, winding up as old men often do when reliving tales of the past. “Mind you, I was fresh off the street—just turned seven—with not a couronne in my pocket or any experience to my name. Hadn’t even held a bow, let alone fired an arrow. The old bishop proclaimed it an act of God.”
My husband’s lips quirked in response. “I believe it.”
I yawned again. The oratory was stifling, and the wool gown I wore—demure and drab and deliciously warm—didn’t help matters. My eyelids drooped.
It would be an act of God if I made it through the service without snoring.
After the library fiasco, I’d thought it, ah, prudent to accept my husband’s invitation to evening Mass. Though I didn’t know if he believed Ansel’s and my story about learning scripture, he’d latched on to the idea, and I’d spent the remainder of the day memorizing verses. The most diabolical of all punishments.
“‘A continual dropping in a very rainy day and a contentious woman are alike,’” he’d recited, eyeing me irritably and waiting for me to repeat the verse. Still peeved from our earlier argument.
“Rain and men are both pains in the ass.”
He’d scowled but continued. “‘Whosoever hideth her hideth the wind, and the ointment of his right hand, which bewrayeth itself.’”
“Whosoever hideth her . . . something about ointment and a hand . . .” I’d waggled my eyebrows devilishly. “Quel risque! What sort of book is—”
He’d interrupted before I could further impugn his honor, voice hardening. “‘Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.’”
“Iron sharpeneth iron, so you’re being an ass because I, too, am a piece of metal.”
On and on and on it’d gone.
Honestly, the invitation to Mass had been a welcome reprieve.
The Archbishop clasped his shoulder with another hearty chuckle. “I missed the target entirely on my second attempt, of course.”
“You still did better than me. I took a week to hit the target.”
“Nonsense!” The Archbishop shook his head, still smiling at the memory. “I distinctly remember your natural talent. Indeed, you were quite a deal more skilled than the other initiates.”
The clanging from the bell tower spared me from leaping into the fireplace.
“Ah.” Seeming to remember himself, the Archbishop dropped his hand, straightening and rearranging the cloth at his neck. “The service is about to begin. If you’ll excuse me, I must join the other attendants.” He paused at the threshold, expression hardening as he turned. “And do remember what we discussed this afternoon, Captain Diggory. A closer eye is necessary.”
My husband nodded, cheeks flushing. “Yes, sir.”
I rounded on him as soon as the Archbishop left.
“A closer eye? What the
hell does that mean?”
“Nothing.” Clearing his throat hastily, he extended his arm. “Shall we?”
I strode past him into the sanctuary. “A closer eye, my ass.”
Lit by hundreds of candles, the sanctuary of Saint-Cécile looked like something out of a dream—or a nightmare. Over half the city had gathered in the vast room to hear the Archbishop’s sermon. Those wealthy enough to procure seats had dressed in jewel-toned finery: gowns and suits of rich burgundy, amethyst, and emerald with golden trim and lace sleeves, fur muffs and silk cravats. Pearls shone luminescent from their ears, and diamonds sparkled ostentatiously from their throats and wrists.
At the back of the sanctuary, the poorer sect of the congregation stood, faces solemn and dirty. Hands clasped. A number of blue-coated Chasseurs stood as well, including Jean Luc. He waved us over.
I cursed silently when my husband complied. “We stand for the entire service?”
He eyed me suspiciously. “Have you never attended Mass?”
“Of course I have,” I lied, digging in my heels as he continued to steer me forward. I wished I’d worn a hood. There were more people here than I’d ever imagined. Presumably, none of them were witches, but one never knew . . . I was here, after all. “Once or twice.”
At his incredulous expression, I gestured down the length of my body. “Criminal, remember? Forgive me for not memorizing every proverb and learning every rule.”
Rolling his eyes, he pushed me the final few steps. “Chasseurs stand as an act of humility.”
“But I’m not a Chasseur—”
“And praise God for that.” Jean Luc stepped aside to make room for us, and my domineering husband forced me between them. They clasped forearms with tense smiles. “I didn’t know if you’d be joining us, given the fiasco this afternoon. How did His Eminence handle the news?”
“He didn’t blame us.”
“Who did he blame, then?”
My husband’s eyes flicked to me for the briefest of seconds before returning to Jean Luc’s. “The initiates on duty. They’ve been relieved of their positions.”
“Rightfully so.”
I knew better than to correct him. Fortunately, their conversation ended when the congregation stood and began to chant. My husband and Jean Luc joined in seamlessly as the Archbishop and his attendants entered the sanctuary, proceeded up the aisle, and bowed to the altar. Bewildered—and unable to comprehend a word of their dreary ballad—I made up my own lyrics.
They may or may not have involved a barmaid named Liddy.
My husband scowled and elbowed me as silence descended once more. Though I couldn’t be sure, Jean Luc’s lips twitched as if he were trying not to laugh.
The Archbishop turned to greet the congregation. “May the Lord be with you.”
“And also with you,” they murmured in unison.
I watched in morbid fascination as the Archbishop lifted his arms wide. “Brethren, let us acknowledge our sins, and so prepare ourselves to celebrate the sacred mysteries.”
A priest beside him lifted his voice. “Lord, have mercy!”
“You were sent to heal the contrite of heart,” the Archbishop continued. “Lord, have mercy!”
The congregation joined in. “Lord, have mercy!”
“You came to gather the nations into the peace of God’s kingdom. Lord, have mercy!”
The peace of God’s kingdom? I scoffed, crossing my arms. My husband elbowed me again, mouthing, Stop it. His blue eyes bored into mine. I’m serious. Jean Luc definitely grinned now.
“Lord, have mercy!”
“You come in word and sacrament to strengthen us in holiness. Lord, have mercy!”
“Lord, have mercy!”
“You will come in glory with salvation for your people. Lord, have mercy!”
“Lord, have mercy!”
Unable to help myself, I muttered, “Hypocrite.”
My husband looked likely to expire. His face had flushed red again, and a vein throbbed in his throat. The Chasseurs around us either glared or chuckled. Jean Luc’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, but I didn’t find the situation quite as funny as before. Where was my kin’s salvation? Where was our mercy?
“May almighty God have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life.”
“Amen.”
The congregation immediately began another chant, but I stopped listening. Instead, I watched as the Archbishop lifted his arms to the heavens, closing his eyes and losing himself in the song. As Jean Luc grinned, nudging my husband when they both sang the wrong words. As my husband grudgingly laughed and pushed him away.
“You take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us,” the boy in front of us sang. He clutched his father’s hand, swaying to the cadence of their voices. “You take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us. You take away the sins of the world, receive our prayer.”
Have mercy on us.
Receive our prayer.
At the end of my Proverbs torture session, there’d been a verse I hadn’t understood.
As in water face answereth to face, so the heart of man to man.
“What does it mean?”
“It means . . . water is like a mirror,” my husband had explained, frowning slightly. “It reflects our faces back to us. And our lives—the way we live, the things we do—” He’d looked at his hands, suddenly unable to meet my eyes. “They reflect our hearts.”
It’d made perfect sense, explained like that. And yet . . . I looked around at the worshippers once more—the men and women who pleaded for mercy and cried for my blood on the same breath. How could both be in their hearts?
“Lou, I’m—” He’d cleared his throat and forced himself to look at me. Those blue eyes had shone with sincerity. With regret. “I shouldn’t have shouted earlier. In the library. I’m . . . sorry.”
Our lives reflect our hearts.
Yes, it’d made perfect sense, explained like that, but I still didn’t understand. I didn’t understand my husband. I didn’t understand the Archbishop. Or the dancing boy. Or his father. Or Jean Luc or the Chasseurs or the witches or her. I didn’t understand any of them.
Conscious of the Chasseurs’ eyes on me, I forced a smirk and bumped my husband’s hip, pretending that it’d all been a show. A laugh. That I’d just been goading him to get a reaction. That I wasn’t a witch in Mass, standing amongst my enemies and worshiping someone else’s god.
Our lives reflect our hearts.
They might’ve all been hypocrites, but I was the biggest one of all.
Madame Labelle
Reid
The next evening was the first snowfall of the year.
I sat up from the floor, brushing back my sweaty hair, and watched the flakes drift past the window. Only exercise worked the knots from my back. After stumbling upon me on the floor last night, Lou had claimed the bed. She hadn’t invited me to join her.
I didn’t complain. Though my back ached, the exercise kept my irritation in check. I’d quickly learned counting didn’t work with Lou . . . namely, after she’d started counting right along with me.
She slammed the book she was reading down on the desk. “This is absolute drivel.”
“What is it?”
“The only book I could find in that wretched library without the words holy or extermination in the title.” She lifted it up for me to see. Shepherd. I almost chuckled. It’d been one of the first books the Archbishop had allowed me to read—a collection of pastoral poems about God’s artistry in nature.
She flounced to my bed—her bed—with a disgruntled expression. “How anyone can write about grass for twelve pages is beyond me. That’s the real sin.”
I hoisted myself to my feet and approached. She eyed me warily. “What are you doing?”
“Showing you a secret.”
“No, no, no.” She scrambled backward. “I’m not interested in your secret—”
“Please.” Scowling and shakin
g my head, I walked past her to my headboard. “Stop talking.”
To my surprise, she complied, her narrowed eyes watching me scoot the bed frame from the wall. She leaned forward curiously when I revealed the small, rough-hewn hole behind it. My vault. At sixteen—when Jean Luc and I had shared this room, when we’d been closer than brothers—I’d gouged it into the mortar, desperate for a place of my own. A place to hide the parts of myself I’d rather him not find.
Perhaps we’d never been closer than brothers, after all.
Lou craned her neck to see inside, but I blocked her view, rifling through the items until my fingers grazed the familiar book. Though the spine had begun to split from use, the silver thread of the title remained pristine. Immaculate. I handed it to her. “Here.”
She accepted it gingerly, holding it between two fingers as if expecting it to bite her. “Well, this is unexpected. La Vie Éphémère . . .” She looked up from the cover, lips pursed. “The Fleeting Life. What’s it about?”
“It’s . . . a love story.”
Her brows shot up, and she examined the cover with newfound interest. “Oh?”
“Oh.” I nodded, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling. “It’s tastefully done. The characters are from warring kingdoms, but they’re forced to work together when they uncover a plot to destroy the world. They loathe each other initially, but in time, they’re able to set aside their differences and—”
“It’s a bodice-ripper, isn’t it?” She waggled her eyebrows devilishly, flitting through the pages to the end. “Usually the love scenes are toward the back—”
“What?” My urge to smile vanished, and I tugged it from her grasp. She tugged it back. “Of course it isn’t,” I snapped, grappling for it. “It’s a story that examines the social construct of humanity, interprets the nuance of good versus evil, and explores the passion of war, love, friendship, death—”
“Death?”
“Yes. The lovers die at the end.” She recoiled, and I snatched the book away. My cheeks burned. I never should’ve shared it with her. Of course she wouldn’t appreciate it. She didn’t appreciate anything. “This was a mistake.”
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