and give myself a moment
in which I do not fear
for my sister’s safety,
Zahra’s, Emilde’s,
the other women.
With only animal eyes upon me,
no expectations, pressing decisions,
nothing but the crushing weight
of living in this world, I am
only Marguerite.
But perhaps that is
most terrifying of all.
Which is worse:
to imagine
I could have
done something
and didn’t
or
to face
the crushing truth
I never
had a chance.
A stable boy’s appearance
reminds me I am never
only Marguerite.
Even in this refuge
there are men, intruders.
He is small, pimply,
laughable to think
he might be a threat
and yet
sometimes
those are the ones
most worthy of fear.
Can I help you,
mademoiselle?
To stand, display
my finery and obvious rank,
or maintain my position,
Father’s move of power
to intimidate inferiors.
Mademoiselle?
I stumble to my feet displaying
not so much rank and finery
as exhaustion, nerves.
I am a guest of the duchess.
I await her return.
Surely mademoiselle
would be more comfortable—
I am a guest of the duchess.
I await her return.
This one speaks perfect French
and I am through with men
who act as though
they cannot comprehend
simple words
because they’ve fallen
from the mouth of a woman.
The stable boy gone,
I stay on my feet,
catch my balance
so I do not look the fool
when Isabella returns.
How can I expect
her help, her confidence,
if I can barely take two steps
without stumbling
on the bodies in my wake?
It seems you are
a personal friend
of the duchess, after all.
I whirl around
at the sound of a voice
not the spindly stable boy’s.
The guard
from the night before.
You clean up
real nice.
My heart thuds.
I grasp for a sword
I’ll never hold again.
My stumble backward
is my first mistake;
I end up cornered.
I owe you
an apology.
He steps toward me,
slow, like he’s no threat
except we both know
he’s nothing but.
If it weren’t for
your pretty little friend—
Emilde—
—I’d have turned you
noble ladies out
in the night.
But ladies like you
deserve to be kept
warm and safe,
secure behind walls.
He’s an arm’s length away.
I could stab him if only—
I glance wildly around.
The tools on the wall
are promising, but
he’s too close
for pitchfork, whip—
What’s wrong, chérie?
Nothing to fear.
You’re safe now.
He reaches out a hand,
trails a finger down
the side of my face.
I meet his gaze,
let him drink in
the fear in my eyes,
his intoxicant of choice
distracting while
my hand lashes out
grabs the hoof pick
from the wall—
its short, curved blade
the perfect size
to thrust against his neck
force him against the stall
draw a bead of blood
while he struggles
the terror reversed.
Hoofbeats approach
but I do not move.
I’ll not give up this prey.
Your form has improved.
Your Grace!
He cries out desperately
to the duchess, pleads
with a woman to save him.
This madwoman—
I think
she’s not so mad.
Provoked, perhaps?
Isabella takes her time
removing her horse’s saddle,
leading him to his stall.
I keep my gaze
pinned on my prey,
blade to his neck
enjoying his fear.
How many throats
pulsing, alive
do I need to feel
on the tip of my blade
before I’m safe?
I falter.
The moment I do
he spins away
from my weapon
and straight into
the tip of another blade.
Isabella holds
her dagger casually
a lace fan
a parasol
a deadly weapon.
His crime, then?
No crime—
I’m not asking you.
Her gaze flits
from him to me
then back to him.
She won’t falter.
But what was his crime?
I know how he made me feel
last night at the gate, in the kitchen,
and now, with his hand on my face
but a man will hardly
find himself convicted
of touching a maiden
on the face.
I only meant
to serve her needs—
With a flick
of her wrist,
the noble lady
Queen of Naples
Duchess of Lorraine
slices the fabric of his tunic
and also, judging by his howl,
his flesh as well.
Rope.
She juts her chin toward the wall
where I found the hook.
I grab a length of rope.
You do the honors.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Jess’s phone goes straight to voicemail when I call in the morning. Which might not be morning so much as late afternoon, because I slept until nearly noon and then wrote for hours. But they’ll understand. They understand passions more than anyone else I know.
Except Nor, maybe.
I’m sure that in the light of day, they’re feeling better.
When they don’t answer or respond to texts by dark, I assume they’re huffy I didn’t tell them to come straight over in the middle of the night. Maybe I’m a terrible friend
.
But really? They’ve been pretty clear I’m a second-choice friend anyway. I’m wrestling with a lot and they know it. Their big crisis was that the thing they knew was going to happen actually happened. I don’t blame them for being upset, but this was one disaster they should have seen coming.
I do the only thing left: I write.
WE
I’ll need a reason
to detain him.
Isabella plucks hay
from the waist of my gown
as the dungeon’s heavy doors
clang shut behind us.
He has a wife,
children.
If he’s released
we won’t be safe here.
I’ll need a new plan.
Isabella takes my arm
before I can escape
up the stairs.
I believe you.
Whatever happened,
I believe you.
It wasn’t—
Nothing happened.
She nods.
But it was going to?
If you hadn’t arrived—
That’s all I need.
He won’t trouble you again.
Her warm fingers
slide down my arm
until they slip into my hand
small, cold
hold me tight
guide me up
into the light.
You’ll need weapons.
Training, preparation.
Isabella’s hound
follows her pace for pace
across the sitting room.
I’ve been trained.
For battle?
I hesitate.
You flinch like that in the field
and you’ll be impaled
on the end of Chalon’s sword.
Father taught me
rules and decorum,
no different really
than Mother’s table manners.
But what was the use
of empty techniques
when battle is kill
or be killed?
I may as well have
learned embroidery.
At least then when
I stabbed my target
there’d be an end result.
Your sword work
hand-to-hand
is excellent.
I worry, though,
how you will fare
atop a moving horse.
I could slip out
in the night,
make my way
to the camp
of the Prince of Orange
A mace and battle ax
are useful at close range
as they can smash a helmet
and kill a man on contact.
run my sword
through him
and die
by his men
whose rage would burn
hotter when their general
dies at the hands of a girl.
I do not care to battle
with a lance, for once
your opponent is impaled
he’s dead, but you’re
without a weapon. Still,
we must bring lances
or we won’t—
Wait, we?
She stops pacing.
Her hound stops too.
Of course we.
Did you think
I’d let you
go alone?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
I’m not a total asshole. When a few more days go by without a response from Jess, I track down a number for Summer and text her. Jess said Camp Theater Paradise didn’t have good cell service, but surely teens marooned on an island for an entire summer find a way.
Summer responds within a day. Jess left town.
That’s my first clue that I was a bigger jerk than I’d realized. I scour their social media, find few updates. Finally, a photo of Jess with a severely beautiful woman on a boat. All the time they’ve spent with my family this summer and I’ve never seen their mother once.
So they went to Saipan. They had to be seriously pissed off to go all the way across the globe to escape me.
But there I go being self-centered again. Probably the decision had nothing to do with me. Maybe.
PENNYROYAL TEA
Of course
I thought
I was alone.
Parents dead
brother gone
sister walled in
like an anchoress
Zahra a friend
but set apart
by station
I have only
myself
and my sword.
And still
I do not
have a sword.
Helene insists
on taking midday meal
in the kitchen.
Isabella flutters a hand.
Wherever she’s comfortable.
I seat myself
with the duchess
and her husband,
who only ever gazes
upon her with adoration.
I am so sorry
for all you’ve been through.
Does he know?
Does he have any idea
what we’ve been through?
It’s so vague
what we’ve been through
a rainstorm
a touch of fever
the brutal slaughter
of our entire household
but his eyes are kind, sincere.
Isabella places a hand
over his on the table,
rests there, as though
touching a man
does not have to be
the most repulsive thing.
Marinated leeks
in mustard vinaigrette
aromatic sausages
with cinnamon and cloves
fava bean soup
freshly baked bread and
spiced quince butter cake
are spread before us
on the table
and though I have not
had a proper meal
in days, my stomach turns.
Perhaps Helene
has the right idea—
bread and pottage
with the servants
feels more fitting
and yet
I’ll need my strength
for the road ahead.
I reach for
a helping of leeks
and the duchess
is the one who bolts
from the table
retching.
Shall I ring
for her lady’s maid?
I’ll go.
Pardon me.
René dashes
from the room.
I am left alone
save a servant in the corner
to eat the vegetables
before me.
I do not even care
for leeks.
Isabella finds me
in the courtyard
dueling air.
Let’s get you
a real weapon.
She strides past me
across the bailey,
hound on her heels.
I stumble to catch up.
Are you well? We don’t hav
e to—
I cannot abide fava beans.
The armory will have
what you need.
Father’s estate did not have
a proper armory, only
a room in the east wing
devoted to his weapons.
Isabella’s armory
is a cavernous chamber
opposite the stables
filled to bursting
with swords and daggers
polearms, maces, flails
longbows, halberds, shields
and armor that might
even fit my frame.
Ornate filigree
on the cross guard
of a beautiful sword
draws my attention.
Stunning, isn’t it?
Isabella hands me
a simpler weapon.
But this is easier to maneuver
and a far sharper blade.
I take the sword,
test its weight, possibility.
The weapon
is not as important
as your skill.
But the weapon
is still
important.
She takes her own
simple sword.
Let’s see how much
your technique has improved
since you were a child.
Three times I’ve
disarmed the duchess
when Zahra appears,
out of breath.
Begging your pardon, miss,
but your sister is unwell.
Swords clatter to the ground
as we hurry to the kitchen,
the enormous dog
storming the threshold before us.
Get that mangy beast
out of my kitchen!
The same miserable woman
who would have sent us to the barn
shakes a cleaver at the hound
before going cloud white at the sight
of his mistress on his heels.
That mangy beast
has a name, which is Owen,
and he will go
where he pleases
in my home.
The maid sinks
into a curtsy so low I fear
she may not rise again.
Yes, madame.
Begging pardon, madame.
Zahra beckons us
to a far corner.
She’s here.
Searching for Helene
in a kitchen, among servants—
my mind stutters
on the horrors
We Are the Ashes, We Are the Fire Page 16