When he is gone, I close the chamber door and cross over to my small trunklet. I lift the lid and place the stone in the box, then retrieve the sprig of holly from my belt and lay it next to the pebble before closing it again.
When I turn toward the far corner of the room, I see Tephanie sitting beside the bed, her face pale, her hands tightly clasped together.
Even though the bed curtains are tightly drawn, I keep my voice low. “Tephanie.”
Her head snaps up, her face brightening. “My lady!”
I motion her away from the bed to the fireplace. “Thank you again, for seeing to my sisters.”
“Of course, my lady. I am honored to be of service.”
“That may well be, but this sort of service is far more than you bargained for.” She starts to protest, but I hold up my hand. “Tephanie.” My voice is as gentle as I know how to make it. “You are pale, and your hands still shake. You were not meant to be a guardsman, but a beloved and devoted companion. While I would be sad to see you go, I cannot help but feel you would be happier in some other role. One that does not put you in harm’s way.”
Her hand flies to her cheek. “Oh no! I wish to serve you and the girls. Please don’t send me away.”
I reach out and tuck a strand of her mousy brown hair behind her ear. “Dearest goose, it would not be dismissing you, but seeing that you are safe.” For the briefest of moments, she allows her cheek to rest against the tips of my fingers, then quickly pulls away. “You understand, I cannot guarantee that something like this will not happen again?” I say softly.
She plucks nervously at her skirt. “I know, my lady. But few who are suited to the task of caring for young girls would be prepared for such things. I know your family and what to expect. I will be more alert from now on. I grew careless.”
“This is in no way a reproach of you or how you reacted! None of us expected Pierre to be so bold. You were courageous and kept your head, and for that you have my eternal gratitude.” Tephanie is one of the few who have found a place in my heart, and I would not hurt her for any reason. And as I gaze into her large brown eyes, eyes that are practically pleading with me, I realize that sending her away would hurt her. “If you truly wish to stay, I would be honored to have you.”
As moved as I am by Tephanie’s devotion, she is also one more person I will have to protect. All while hiding every weapon, skill, and talent I possess. It is beyond galling and I want to rail at the stupidity of a world that requires such rules. But I cannot do that without fear of drawing the judgment I wish to avoid. Merde.
But Tephanie will be under no such scrutiny. “Tephanie, do you still have that knife I gave you in Nantes?”
She looks at me blankly for a moment before her face clears. “Yes, my lady!”
I shove aside the rug in front of the fire. “Fetch it, then. Tonight we will begin your first lesson.”
?Chapter 18
Genevieve
return to the dungeons bearing a large sack of food. When asked, I told the kitchen servants I was taking it to Margot. They were surprised, as they had sent up a separate tray less than an hour before. I smiled and told them that with the babe, Margot had the appetite of three men.
Reassured by this good sign, they piled my tray high with all manner of food—plenty for both me and the prisoner.
I quickly transfer it to a sack, fill the empty wineskin with water, and return to the dungeon. As I draw near the oubliette, I can hear the prisoner moving. I slow my steps so I may listen better. He is breathing heavily, panting almost. A faint whooshing sound comes in a steady rhythm, pauses, then starts up again. I am so busy concentrating that I do not mind my feet and stumble on an uneven cobble and nearly land on my face.
“Ah, my ghost has returned.”
“Just how many ghosts do you have visiting you?”
“Too many.” His voice is bleak. “But you are my favorite.”
“You only say that because I come bearing food.”
My words are met by silence. “You do?” He is not quite able to hide the faint tremble of hope in his voice.
“I do.” When I reach the thick iron grate, I set the torch nearer to it than I have in the past, as I will need some light in order to get all this food down to him.
Mostly to give him something to do besides salivate while he waits for me to open the grate, I ask, “What were you doing just now?”
“What do you mean?”
“When I got here, you were doing something. Moving. Panting.”
There is a long moment of silence interrupted only by the screech of the bolt as I slide it free. “Exercising.” The word is filled with both faint defiance and sheepishness. “I cannot have my body become as enfeebled as my mind.”
I almost laugh at how closely his actions match my own of just a few moments ago. I wrest the hatch open, lie flat on my belly, and lower the sack down as far as I can. “Here.”
There is a faint whoomp as he catches it, then rustling as he unties the knot and retrieves his dinner: bread, cheese, two meat pies, a small game hen wrapped in laurel leaves, an apple and cheese tart. “This is a feast.” His voice holds a note of wonder.
I smile in pleasure. “It should satisfy you for at least an hour or two.”
As he begins to eat, I scoot closer to the grate. “How long have you been here?”
“Not sure,” he says around a mouthful of food. “I can remember the hot sun on my back and the smell of ripening wheat. But whether that was a year ago or two, I cannot say. And you?” His question startles me. “How long have you been here?”
I open my mouth, a lie at the ready, then stop. I am so tired of lying. Every breath I take, every word that crosses my lips has been a lie, and I am sick of it. Besides, he is alone in a dungeon, by all signs completely forgotten by everyone. Surely anything I tell him is no different than telling a dead man. “Just over a year.”
“And in all that time you have never wandered down here before. What brought you that first day?”
His deep rumble of a voice is gentle. It is a safe voice, a voice that is naught but darkness and breath. No face. No body. No past. No future in which to tell any of the secrets I might share. Only this moment when I do not have to wear a mask or dance to a tune I loathe. “Curiosity.” I do not tell him of the beating heart, or the promise of death that held for me, or the sense of dread that day.
“It is curiosity that brings you today?”
“No. Today it is anger,” I say without thinking. But it is not the whole of it. It is yet another lie.
In the darkness, all the words I have been unable to speak for months, nay, for years, press down upon me, heavier than the stone walls that surround us. “No, what truly brings me is pain.”
There is a faint whisper of movement. I cannot be certain through the murk, but I think he tilts his head, studying me. His regard is as tangible as a touch. “What hurts?”
“My heart.” I do not think I say it out loud, but somehow in the absolute quiet of the dungeons, he hears it.
“Ah.” His voice is full of sympathy. “Heart wounds are the hardest to heal.”