Angoulême snorts derisively. “No one imagines either of them is happy. Maximilian may take some action against France or Brittany, but that action will be tempered by the fact that France now holds his daughter hostage.”
I feel sick for Marguerite as well. She was much beloved by the king, as well as Madame. Since she was three years old, she has been pampered and indulged and raised with all the royal magnificence due a future queen of France. Now that has been taken from her.
It changes not only the dauphine’s position, but mine as well. If Brittany and France are now allies, if they are one country unified under one ruler, where does that leave me? Or the convent? Do they still answer to the duchess and serve her interests above all else? “Will Brittany remain independent, or shall it become part of France?”
Angoulême looks down into his goblet. “I am certain it is part of France now.” He swirls the contents. “Why else would the king go to all the trouble to marry such a thorn in his side as your duchess has been to him?”
His words set my teeth further on edge. That is when I finally understand my own distress. The marriage makes Brittany’s independence simply a point to be negotiated on a contract. I thought what the convent was fighting for was more important than that. And now it seems that I was wrong. “I still am not sure I believe it. Is it possible she was forced into it?” If that is true, then surely there is still some role for me to play.
“Now you are just being absurd.”
“Even so, shouldn’t you at least send a message to confirm the truth?”
“Foolish girl! Do you not think the regent has me watched for just such a misstep?”
I stare at him in bemusement.
He laughs outright. “Do you think I can write to the duchess’s Privy Council or your precious convent whenever I please? Do you think my comings and goings and, yes, even my correspondence, are not scrutinized by the regent? Come now, Genevieve. Surely the convent trained you better than that.”
“Of course they did, my lord,” I snap back. “But I also assume that you have means of working around those obstacles, else what use would you be to the convent?”
His nostrils flare in agitation. “You forget yourself. Perhaps time will bring some clarity. Now leave. I have work I must do.”
“With pleasure.” I lift my skirts and storm from his chambers.
My head is a swirl of questions both heady and sobering. Was the duchess coerced? If so, and if she is on her way to the French court, why have I not been called to take action? Surely I am the most well placed initiate of the convent. Indeed, my connections with the French court could prove most helpful, even if she has not been forced into this marriage.
Hope, bright and shining, surges through me. In my darkest moments, I have come close to believing what both Angoulême and Margot claim—that the convent had forgotten about us. But now there is a chance their need for me could not be greater.
?Chapter 12
Sybella
ephanie and the girls stand in the doorway that leads back into the palace, closer to people than the abandoned garden, yet not so far that I will not know where they have gone. Tephanie has managed to calm Louise, while Charlotte is carefully smoothing her gown over and over.
At my approach, Louise looks up. The hesitation on her face cuts me to the quick. “Come,” I say, as if their entire world had not just been turned upside down. “Let’s return to our chambers.” I take each of their hands in my own. Charlotte tries to tug away, but I refuse to let go.
If I had a choice, I would keep some truths from both of them all their lives. Even though they have lived in the d’Albret household and have seen much, they do not fully understand all that they saw. But today they have witnessed more violence, cruelty, and hate than most girls are exposed to in a lifetime. I cannot simply ignore it. Between Pierre’s accusations and my own actions, I must tell them something.
When we finally reach our chamber, I pull the girls inside while Tephanie closes the door behind us. I kneel in front of them, not letting go of their hands. Louise’s enormous brown eyes look like crushed autumn leaves. Was I ever that young? That innocent? I must have been, but I can no longer remember it.
And Charlotte. The look on Charlotte’s face guts me even more, for it is filled with both familiarity and knowing. She has seen some version of this before, and she believes that whatever I am about to tell her will likely be a lie, or at the very least, an attempt to put too fine a polish on what is naught but a lump of lead.
“First, you need to know that I did not mean any of what I said to Pierre. I do care about you—about Tephanie—but wanted Pierre to believe otherwise.”
“Why?” Louise’s voice is whisper quiet.
“I hoped if he thought I did not love you, he would not bother to hurt you. It is like you pretending your favorite doll is not your favorite so Charlotte will not tease you with it.”
Her face clears in understanding even as Charlotte scowls at me.
My voice grows softer, for these next words are hard to get past the sorrow that fills my throat, the wound still fresh. “You must also know that I did not kill our brother Julian.” Although I now know we shared no blood, I will always think of him as my brother. “He was killed trying to protect me, and while I love him all the more for it, you can be certain that will weigh on my conscience for all eternity.”
“Who was trying to hurt you?” Louise’s voice is small.
How do I tell her it was her father? I reach out and cup her tender cheek in my hand. “Someone who enjoyed cruelty for its own sake and had no care for those he hurt.”
“Oh.” That seems to be enough for her. She has not been around him much. He did not bother himself with his children until they could be of use to him. When I turn to Charlotte, however, I can see that she knows precisely who it was that tried to hurt me. She regards me for a long moment before nodding, as if she has deigned to believe me.
Unable to resist, I quickly hug her for her faith in me, then I plant a quick kiss on her forehead before doing the same to Louise.
Behind me, the door opens, followed by a murmur of voices. Ismae has arrived and has brought reinforcements. Lazare—a slender man whose face is as sharp as any blade and his eyes as cutting—is with her. He is one of the mysterious and maligned charcoal-burners who serve the Dark Mother, the one to pray to when the Nine have forsaken you. Maybe that is who I should look to for guidance now. Especially since she favors the scarred and wounded, those without hope.