When I reach the corner before her office, I stop, pulling quickly back.
The seneschal is escorting a girl from the room, a girl I have never seen before. Something catches my eye. It is not the strong, supple grace with which she holds herself, nor the simplicity of her gown. Rather, it is some paradox in her manner—the way her lips and eyes smile politely and say, “Thank you, Madame,” even as her entire body seems to quiver with resentment—an internal struggle that echoes every encounter I’ve ever had with the regent.
The seneschal closes the door behind her, then escorts her in the opposite direction, and I am left free to pass without the regent seeing me.
* * *
The stable yard is full of mounted knights and soldiers who have just arrived, reminding me of how Pierre got into Rennes. I tamp down my growing unease and go in search of Beast.
I find him in the armory, surrounded by swords and axes, knives and pikes. Plate armor is stacked against the wall, piled high on tables, or sitting on racks. There is a sharp tang of metal in the air, accompanied by the scent of the oil used to keep the armor clean. He sits in the middle of it all, head bent over a long sword as he tests the edge. “They have you squiring in the armory now?”
At the sound of my voice, his head snaps up and he shrugs. “It was better than pummeling the louts who rode in and nearly foundered their horses. Besides, sharpening weapons helps me think.”
“Who are they?”
“One of the king’s generals and his retainers, newly returned from Flanders.”
“Is it the one rumored to have knowledge of Anton?”
“Possibly. But I will wait until their horses”—meaning his temper—“recover before asking.” It would be better to tell him my plan when he wasn’t already in an ill humor, but I do not have time to wait.
I run a finger along the flat of the blade he is polishing. “Pierre’s man—the Mouse—paid a visit to our bedroom window last night.”
Beast’s hand grows still, his gaze leaping to mine, his eyes taking on their eerie feral light. “What?”
“He did not get in—did not even try. It was a scouting mission. But it was far sooner than I would have expected.”
Beast sets the sword aside and places his hands carefully on his knees. “I will kill them.”
“We should. And we will. But not while the lawyer is presenting his case against me. Having four of his men go missing would only cause more attention and closer scrutiny.”
“Have you spoken to the queen yet? What did she say?”
“Two things. Pierre’s lawyer told the king that Pierre visited Rennes to ask for his sisters back and was summarily attacked and escorted from the premises without receiving an audience, much less an answer.”
“An outright lie. Surely the queen told him that.”
“She did. But he was not happy with her and she is not certain she can sway him to her favor.”
Beast’s eyes are bleak, for he knows what is coming. “That is not overly hopeful.”
“No. It isn’t. And with Pierre’s enforcers growing bold, I fear we must get Charlotte and Louise out of harm’s way sooner rather than later. They will be safest at the convent.”
He looks away to stare at the wall. “The queen has offered her full support,” I assure him. “Given me permission to use all the tools and manpower she has at her disposal. That includes you and the queen’s guard, as well as Aeva and Tola.”
He swears, then rises to his feet. “Do not ask me to leave you to face this alone, Sybella. I cannot do that. I will not leave you unprotected with so many who wish you harm. That has been your fate all your life.”
His words fill up the space between us and wrap themselves around my heart, squeezing it painfully. I reach up and place my hand on his rough, scarred cheek. “But my sisters are the most vulnerable parts of me. By getting them someplace where Pierre cannot touch them, you are protecting me.”
The anguish and despair in his eyes feels like it comes from my own soul. “But you are my heart,” he whispers. “How can you ask me to leave that behind?”
I lean my forehead against his. “Why do the gods do this to us? Give us choices that wrench the very hearts from our chests?” I whisper. “We always knew this would not be easy. We knew it would take two of us—and all the skills and courage we possess—to stop Pierre.”
He does not argue. There is no point.
I do not tell him how hard it is for me to send him away. How little I relish being left alone among my enemies. But I am not seven anymore. I no longer need anyone to save me, but Charlotte and Louise do. “You once pulled me to safety through a nest of vipers. You are doing so again—only this time safety just happens to be in the opposite direction of where I’ll be.” The smile I send him feels wobbly at the edges.
“And if the king rules in favor of Pierre?” he asks. “What will you do when it is time to produce the girls?”
“I will stall. Claim that they are ill. Then I will run.”
“They will be expecting that. Where will you go?”
“I don’t know.” It sits poorly to go hide in Brittany at the convent. As does leaving the queen, but the truth is my presence—and that of the girls—brings dangers to her door. If I leave, that will disappear. And she has other loyal attendants. “Maybe I will go to Cognac,” I tell him, the idea coming to me as I speak. “And see if I can call the other initiates into service. They could return to court and take my place at the queen’s side.”
That is it, I realize. When I leave, I will head for Cognac and the only two people in France who can help me.
“When must I go?”
“Soon?” I whisper. His fists clench, not in anger, but with sorrow, determination, and a love so overpowering that it fills the very air around me.
His pulse beats rapidly in his neck as he reaches out to stroke my cheek. When he touches me, all that I have been feeling in the last hours, days, weeks, rushes through me in one giant wave that leaves me lightheaded, dizzy, wanting.
Everything I feel in that moment is so big and overwhelming that it cannot be contained in one body. I grip his head and bring his lips toward mine.
He does not resist. Indeed, I have barely touched him, and then his mouth is everywhere, hungry and warm, kissing my lips, my cheek, my throat, his wide hands coming around my waist, sliding upward and drawing me closer. I open my mouth to him, pressing my hands against his chest, feeling the heat of him and the racing of his heart.
He pulls his mouth from mine. “Sybella.” It is a wish, a vow, a prayer.
I do not know when I will see him again—if I will see him again. I want my body to remember this—the press of his flesh, the cording of his muscles as he holds his strength in check, the desperate hunger of his mouth that is both gentle and demands my very soul.