It is not until the salt touches the earth that it hits me—I am truly leaving. A sense of loss and mayhap even panic ripples through me. Brittany has been the seat of all my darkest memories and vilest hours, and to leave that behind is no loss.
But, I realize, looking up at the rooftops of the townhouses and the church tower, I was safe here in Rennes—at least for a time. I was also welcome in this city. Indeed, it was one of the most welcoming places I have ever lived, second only to the convent. I was respected here, admired even. Everything good about myself—my friendships, my faith, my belief that I was someone with something to offer—is tied up in this place. And now I am leaving.
It has been hard enough to cling to faith here in Brittany, one of the last places the gods once walked the earth. One of the last places where lives have been touched by those gods—although I must remember more than ever to call them saints. How much harder will it be to keep faith alive in a land that has been stripped bare of their wonder and mercy and gifts? How will my faith not crumble like week-old bread?
At the head of the party, Beast raises his gloved hand, then motions us forward. We are on our way.
I do not look back.
?Chapter 25
Genevieve
move numbly through the days, ignoring the sad, drawn faces and the quiet tears of the other women. My own grief is like a moat between us, only instead of being filled with water, it is filled with thorns and nettles and spikes.
It is unbreachable.
I also avoid the entire fourth floor of the palace, having no wish to encounter Margot’s enraged soul as it lingers.
Count Angoulême sends for me twice, but I ignore the summonses, keeping mostly to my rooms, sneaking out only to exercise my body in the dark of the dungeons.
I do not visit the prisoner. He has seen me in my darkest hour, my guts spilled out onto the dungeon floor, more fully exposed than if I had paraded naked before a host of leering men. That he was deeply kind makes it all worse somehow. I did not ask him for such kindness and do not wish to be beholden to him because of it.
* * *
It is hunger that finally drives me from my room. When I am certain that dinner is over and most of the kitchen staff have retired for the night, I go in search of food.
That is where Angoulême’s steward finds me, pilfering cheese and bread from the larder. “My lady?”
I whirl around, stuffing the food into my pockets. “Master Gelais. You startled me.”
“I am sorry, my lady. That was not my intent. Count Angoulême requests your presence in his office.”
“I am not up to seeing him just now. Please send my sincere regrets.”
The steward shifts on his feet, looking uncomfortable. “I am afraid refusing is not an option, demoiselle.” His eyes are full of resolve, and for one ridiculous moment, I wonder if he will throw me over his shoulder and drag me to the count. I welcome the rush of anger that thought brings. But he is only the messenger. I will save my wrath for Angoulême.
When we reach the count’s chamber, the steward opens the door, ushers me in, then closes it behind me.
Angoulême’s study is in disarray. A travel pouch is open and filled with dispatches. Large maps lie on his desk, held in place with weights at each of the corners.
I curtsy. “My lord.” My voice is colder than the winter sky. Surely he knows I hold him responsible for Margot’s death. He cannot think to seek comfort with me, or worse, try to offer me such comfort. My grief is still raw and fresh and deeply colored by my anger at him. I square my shoulders. Let the count try to comfort me. I welcome the chance to cross swords with him and point out just how much this death falls on his shoulders.
He pushes the map aside and gives me his full attention. “Why have you refused my summonses?”
I stare at the floor in front of me. “Because I was mourning my sister, my lord.”
“You’re not the only one who grieves.”
My head snaps up, angry words gathering on my tongue.
“She asked for you, you know,” he continues. My heart—my heart does not know whether to leap for joy or dissolve in a fresh wave of sorrow. Why had no one told me? Fetched me to her side? “And yet you did not come.”
I force my voice to steadiness. “What did you wish to speak to me about that had your steward threatening to drag me here?”
His lips flatten into a thin white line, and for a brief moment, I do not know what he will do. “I have been summoned to Langeais to attend the wedding of King Charles and Anne of Brittany. I must leave tomorrow and will be gone through Christmas.”
My mind can scarce make sense of his words. How can the world continue as if nothing has happened?
“I should have left two days ago,” he continues. “But I could not. Not with all that has happened.”
I am filled with outrage that he thinks to dance at the king’s wedding while his young mistress lies cold in a grave merely days old. “The abbess of Saint Mortain should be there. She often attends affairs of state. Will you tell her how Margot died?”
He looks away, reaching for the dispatches. “There has been a message from her.”
“When? What does she say?”
He pulls a letter from his travel pouch, and my heart skitters nervously in my chest. Though I have waited for this very thing for five years, I am suddenly unsure I want to see it. “Under orders of the king and the Church . . .” Although he reads softly, his voice feels thunderous in the thickly charged air. “The convent of Saint Mortain has been ordered to disband.”
The words crash into me, knocking me off my feet and shoving me into deep water where I cannot regain my footing. “I do not believe you.” My voice sounds breathless. Desperate. “What reason would the duchess have to do such a thing?”
“I do not believe it was the duchess who was behind this decision. My guess is that the king’s bishops used the opportunity to cluck in his ear about the old-world beliefs still practiced in Brittany and he acceded to their wishes in the matter.”
My chest feels so tight I can scarce get the next words out. “What of the other Nine? Are their convents and abbeys to be disbanded as well?”
“I do not know, as I am not involved in those. And the king does not know I am involved in this one either,” he adds pointedly. “The letter from the abbess explains it all.”
The impact of the news works its way into my limbs, and I begin to tremble. “But how am I to serve the convent?”
He looks down at his desk, but not before I see the pity in his eyes. “You aren’t. The abbess has instructed me to be your permanent legal guardian.”
Bile rises in my throat, hot and bitter.