Rachelle and Armand were seated in the lower section. That was the other thing that was different: in Rachelle’s church, the people had all sat watching the priest as he stood at the altar. Here, every seat faced the back of the building, so they could spend the entire time looking up at the King sitting in his elevated red-velvet box with his chosen few. Today that chosen few did not include Rachelle and Armand, so they got the full view of the royal presence.
As the choir began to sing, Armand’s jaw tightened, and then he turned around to stare at the altar.
“I think that’s an insult to the King,” Rachelle muttered under her breath.
“Forgive me if I don’t feel like worshipping him today,” Armand muttered back.
“I don’t think anyone’s worshipping anything in here,” said Rachelle. Certainly the ladies next to them seemed a great deal more absorbed in whispering to each other and playing with a tiny dog than in paying due reverence to their King or deity. For a brief moment, she felt very sorry for whatever priest would be called upon to minister to such a blatantly impious congregation.
Then she realized who was leading the crowd of acolytes: Bishop Guillaume.
She felt hot and cold at once. Who let him into the Château? One glance up at the gallery convinced her that it hadn’t been the King.
Well, who cared? She had never yet been forced to sit through one of his sermons, and she didn’t care to start now. She stood, pushed past the other people in the pew, and walked out of the chapel. Whatever trouble she might get into, she’d rather bear it than the sermon.
Outside, leaning with her back against the wall, she knew she was a fool. It was a man she hated muttering prayers to a God she’d rejected. What did she have to fear? You couldn’t get more damned than damned.
“Shouldn’t you be in the chapel?” said Justine.
Rachelle’s eyes snapped open. “What are you doing here?”
Justine stood a pace away, her arms crossed. Her face was grim, though as that was her usual expression, it meant nothing.
“Never mind that,” Rachelle went on. “What’s your precious Bishop doing here?”
“He came to preach to the King,” said Justine. “I came to speak with you.”
Rachelle’s stomach turned. “I know what you’re going to say. And I’ll die before I join him.”
Justine pursed her lips. “Did I ever tell you,” she said quietly, “that before I was a bloodbound, I was a nun?”
Rachelle stared at her. It was the unspoken rule of the King’s bloodbound that they never, ever talked about their pasts. But Erec had broken it last night, so perhaps she shouldn’t be so surprised at Justine.
“I was pure as an angel and proud as a devil,” Justine went on, frowning slightly as she stared into the distance. “Only, I found that neither purity nor pride was courage, in the end.” Then she looked back at Rachelle. “Your pride won’t be enough for you either. Give up serving the King. Ask to be made the Bishop’s bloodbound.”
“And then what?” Rachelle demanded. “Help put him on the throne? Do you think treason will save your soul?”
“I think I would rather serve him for the last of my days than the King. Why do you think the days grow shorter and the forestborn grow stronger?”
Rachelle threw away her caution. “Because the Devourer is awakening.”
She’d expected nothing else, but it still hurt when Justine’s mouth twisted with disgust. “Do you still cling to your heathen superstitions? The darkness falls because God is judging us for our sins. He has delivered us over to the woodspawn and the forestborn for chastisement.”
“Our sinfulness,” said Rachelle, “is in living and in letting other bloodbound live. If you were truly sorry, you would get out a knife and cut your throat. As for me, I’ve spent more time talking to the forestborn than you ever have, and I much prefer them to the Bishop. At least they don’t pretend they’re holy.”
“Do as you will, then.” Justine stood. “But I will pray for you,” she added imperturbably, and walked into the chapel.
The doors had barely shut behind her when la Fontaine wandered into the hallway, gently fluttering a mother-of-pearl fan. She raised an eyebrow at Rachelle. “Slipped out before the consecration? Perhaps we should call you Mélusine.”
“Shouldn’t you be in there as well?” Rachelle asked sourly. She’d come out into the hallway to be alone, not to chat with every member of the court.
La Fontaine shrugged exquisitely, setting her ruby earrings swinging. “I’ve lived my life for one imaginary kingdom. I’ve no patience left for another.”
Rachelle had not imagined that the court concealed many true believers, but she also hadn’t expected anyone to be so blatant. Then again, if you were the King’s mistress, she supposed you weren’t going to impress anyone with your piety anyway.
“Who’s Mélusine?” she asked.
“You don’t know the story?” said la Fontaine. “And you the beloved of Fleur-du-Mal.”
“He’s not my beloved,” said Rachelle. “And he doesn’t tell me bedtime stories.”
“You might like it, for it’s a grim tale.” La Fontaine snapped her fan shut. “Once upon a time, a certain lord lost his way as he was hunting through the woods. He stumbled upon a clearing that he had never seen before, and there on the grass sat a woman of dazzling beauty, naked as the day she was born, combing out her long yellow hair. Of course you can imagine how deeply he fell in love with her. He bore the strange lady, who said her name was Mélusine, back to his castle and married her with all due pomp and ceremony. For years they lived happily and she bore him three sons and four daughters. Only one curiosity marred their life together: the lady always found a reason not to go with him to chapel. She was too tired, or she had a headache, or she needed to be shriven. Finally the lord demanded that his wife come with him. After many protestations, she consented, but as the mass progressed, she grew more and more restless, until at last she leaped out of the pew and fled for the door. On the threshold, her husband caught hold of her, but with a great shriek, she grew tusks and wings and claws. The lord let go of her in horror, and she flew away, never to be seen by mortal eyes again. That lord’s name was Marcelin Angevin, first duke of Anjou, and ever since a shadow has lain upon his line.”
“And thus,” said Erec, emerging from one of the side doors, “we are called the devil’s children. A title even bastards can inherit.”
“And yet you are not the only one who could be called the devil’s child,” said la Fontaine. She carefully did not look at Rachelle, and the line of her turned-away jaw was a more pointed accusation than any glare.
Since Rachelle would someday change into a creature hardly better than a demon, she could not object to the comparison.
“If you’re referring to the pair of us in our capacity as bloodbound,” said Erec, who had no sense of when to stay silent, “the devil’s lovers might be better. I assure you, there was nothing parental in the forestborn who brought us to this state.”
Rachelle winced, remembering her forestborn’s kiss.
La Fontaine saluted him with her fan. “You will never lack wit, my dear Fleur-du-Mal, not even on Judgment Day. Best hope the Dayspring finds you as amusing as I do.”
“I thought you didn’t believe,” said Rachelle.
“I believe in making threats when it’s convenient,” said la Fontaine. “Doesn’t everyone?” She gave them a slight curtsy, just barely treading the line between sarcasm and respect. “Give my respects to my cousin, Mélusine. I look forward to seeing him again. You, too—if convenient.”
“Oh dear,” said Erec, watching her skirt swish as she walked away. “She isn’t jealous, is she?”
Rachelle remembered the way la Fontaine had found her and Armand at the reception, her distress the next day when he wouldn’t eat. “I think she’s protective.”
“So long as she keeps attacking with literary references, I think we can withstand her.” Erec looked at Rach
elle. “Did she guess correctly? Did the holy chapel make you sprout horns?”
“No,” said Rachelle, “I just didn’t care for the preaching. What’s your excuse?”
“Myself, I don’t care to worship anyone who got hacked to pieces. It doesn’t inspire confidence. The Dayspring is the image of the invisible God, isn’t he? Maybe that’s what really dwells in the Unapproachable Light: just a pile of bloody limbs.”
She was so far past damned that it didn’t matter what blasphemy she listened to, but Rachelle still winced. “I’m sure the Bishop would like that,” she said. “A dead God who could never contradict him—that would be his dream come true.”
“And you? Have you seen any sign that the world is governed by something besides hunger and devouring?”
She remembered Aunt Léonie’s futile, gasping prayers as she died.
“No. But I’d rather worship bloody bones than the murderer who makes them.”
“And yet instead of worshipping, you stand here gossiping with a fellow murderer.”
She grinned at him. “When have I ever followed my principles?”
“Never. And far too often.” He took her hand. “I wish you’d reconsider some of them.”
Then she laughed out loud. “If you’re asking me to be your mistress again . . . blasphemy is a terrible way to start.”
“I’m only wondering if you truly regret your choices as much as you claim,” he said.
She remembered his soft voice as he told her about his brother the night before, and her throat tightened.
“Do you?” she asked, and she truly wondered.
“I think it doesn’t matter what either one of us regrets,” said Erec. “We are going to live forever, in darkness and in dancing. Because I know you, my lady, and you don’t have it in you to be a lamb for the slaughter any more than I do. The same wolfish greed beats in your heart: to have what you will, and kill for it. Or why would you be alive? And you are alive, and have your will, so what should you regret?”
It was like when Justine dislocated her arm: something familiar, swinging painfully out of place. Because Rachelle had told herself those same words, or near enough, a thousand times. She had wanted to live. She had gotten her wish. She could not claim to regret. Only minutes ago, she had snarled at Justine: If you were really sorry, you would get out a knife and cut your throat.
But now that she heard Erec say those words to her . . . they sounded wrong.
She thought, I regret.
“Speechless?” asked Erec. “Don’t be ashamed. I bring all ladies to that state sooner or later.”
Rachelle had always thought Erec understood her. No matter how she hated him, she had always loved him a little too, because he knew what she was in the darkest part of her soul. And yet now he really thought that she was speechless with desire for him. He really thought that she did not regret what she had done.
“Too bad for you,” she said, “I’m not a lady.”
He chuckled, clearly thinking that this was only another step in their dance together.
It was the most exquisite kind of freedom to realize that he could be wrong. It was terrifying too.
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Talking with Erec had made everything more clear. She did regret. She was willing to die. And that meant there was only one path for her to take: weave a charm and try her best against the lindenworm.
It would have to be a sleep charm. Margot had said, The most terrible charms or the most simple, and sleep charms were the only simple charms she knew that seemed like they might be at all helpful even if they did work. Yet one of the little snowflake-shaped sleep charms she used to hang over baby beds could not possibly be enough, or nobody would have ever feared lindenworms.
She decided to try weaving multiple sleep charms together, and she spent the rest of the day working out the pattern. Luckily Amélie already had a ball of yarn that she could use.
“You’re going to help,” Rachelle told Armand that evening.
He raised his eyebrows. “Are you planning to clamp knitting needles onto my hands? Because I don’t think that will work as well as it does with forks. And it doesn’t work all that well with forks either, though apparently it looks quite impressive. Several ladies have assured me that I’m very brave for managing to eat by myself.”
“Well,” said Rachelle, “I certainly won’t tell you that.”
He laughed.
“And luckily,” she went on, “I don’t need you to tie knots. I just need you to stay still. Here.” She sat him down in a chair and had him hold up his hands. She looped the yarn through his silver fingers and started weaving it together.
It was awkward sitting so close to him—their knees were almost touching, she could hear every breath he took, and the strange desire for him was seeping back into her. She tried to concentrate on the pattern, looking frequently at her sketches and weaving in quick, short motions.
The problem was, she hadn’t woven in three years. Very soon, the pattern started bunching. She had woven it too tight. So she pulled it out, and starting whirling through the pattern again with less tension—only now ungainly loops were dropping from it, because she was making it too loose. Again she pulled it out. This time it seemed to go better, but slowly the shape got more and more wrong, until at last she realized that she had left out two steps when she started the pattern. Her breath hissed out between her teeth in frustration.
“Now you know how I feel with forks,” said Armand.
She looked up at him, tensing. She expected to see mockery—Erec would have said the words with a sly grin and then winked—but Armand just looked at her with a wry half smile. Come to think of it, Erec would never have mentioned that he was bad at anything.
Rachelle laughed shakily and started to unwind again. “I have bloodbound grace and speed,” she said. “But it’s all for fighting.”
“You seemed to dance pretty well.”
“That was with Erec. That counts as fighting.” Her voice was rougher than she meant it to be, and she didn’t meet his eyes.
“I think everything at court counts,” he said.
She started weaving the pattern again, slowly and carefully. “I don’t think there’s enough chance of bloodshed.”
He paused. “There’s chance of bloodshed in dancing?”
“I repeat: with Erec d’Anjou.”
He laughed, and it shouldn’t have made any difference. But it did. The memory of the duel was no longer crawling right beneath her skin; it had still happened, but it felt like a much smaller and sillier thing.
For a few moments she wove in silence. Then Armand said, “I’ve been wondering about something. The way you fight—it’s incredible. Not just your speed, but your technique. I’ve seen men trained all their lives who weren’t that good. But you can’t have been trained before you came to Rocamadour.”
“No,” Rachelle agreed.
“Did you . . . learn it from the mark?”
“Not exactly.” Rachelle paused, finishing a particularly tricky bit of the pattern before continuing, “It’s . . . an instinct. For any sort of fighting. It’s like reading a book, I suppose. You don’t know the words until you see them, but you have them as soon as you do.” She remembered Amélie reading aloud a cosmetics recipe to her. “Erec trained me when I came to the city. In two weeks, I could nearly keep up with him.”
“Hm.”
Armand sounded pensive; she looked up. “Do you feel it?” she asked. “That instinct?”
His mouth puckered. “Sometimes. Maybe. I really hope not.” He paused. “Is that how it feels to have the Forest’s power growing inside you?”
“It’s not . . . just that.”
“What is it?”
She couldn’t tell him about the strange fury that sometimes came over her, the desire to crush and destroy. Sitting here wit
h him in quiet peace, knowing she had felt that fury toward him, however briefly—the thought was just obscene.
So she told him about the other way that the Forest crawled into her mind.
“All of us bloodbound,” she said. “There’s a dream we all have. You’re standing on a path in the woods—barren woods, with snow on the ground—and at the end of the path, there’s a house. It’s made of wood, but thatched with bones. There’s blood seeping between the wooden boards. And you have to walk toward it. You can slow yourself down, but you can’t stop. I can’t . . . I can’t tell you how terrifying it is.”
“And what happens when you reach it?” asked Armand.
“Nobody that I’ve ever talked to has reached it yet. But I think—we all think—when you open the door, that’s when you become a forestborn.”
Armand was silent.
“Do you dream it?” she asked finally.
“No,” he said distantly. “No, I don’t.”
“So you have the healing and the speed, but not the dreams? That’s convenient.”
“I also have visions of the Great Forest all the time,” he said. “Trust me, that’s not convenient.”
And Rachelle went back to weaving. Armand didn’t speak again—unlike Erec, who could never stop talking—he seemed content to just watch her and the pattern she was weaving. When she looked up and caught his eye, he didn’t feel the need to wink or smirk, he just smiled faintly and went on watching her.
She began to remember how weaving charms had always soothed her: the soft slide of the yarn against her fingers. The quick, repetitive motions. The slowly building pattern. Her hands found their rhythm, dancing through the pattern, looping the yarn in and out and around his fingers, and slowly the woven pattern grew between them.
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