“Until the sun rose this morning, I had never truly seen your face.”
For a moment, vanity rears its head, and I want to protest that sleeping on the floor of a stable does not work to my advantage. Instead, I force myself to shrug. “It is just a face.” Still not looking at him, I shove to my feet, push my hair out of my eyes, and adjust the belt at my waist so my chausses do not fall down.
“Ah, but that is where you are wrong.” He stands up, his movements smooth, quick, and graceful. “I have never seen the face of the daughter of a god before.”
“Mind your tongue, wolf,” I growl. In the stalls around us there is the low rumble of voices and the sound of someone pissing.
“They cannot hear us any better this morning than they could last night.”
I do my best to ignore him and begin collecting my things, but he continues to study me—much the same way the count’s illuminator did when contemplating who would sit for his paintings. “We need some charcoal or a bit of ash from last night’s fire.”
I stare back at him stupidly. “What?”
“You have a distinctive face. We don’t want any of the castle servants to recognize you. I’ll be right back.” And with that, he turns and strides from our stall. My heart slams against my ribs in alarm. He can’t think to simply walk out of here. “Don’t forget to return for your . . . physick!” I say in a loud whisper.
He gives a wave of his hand to indicate he has heard before stepping out of sight. A brightly dressed fool emerges from a nearby stall just then, clutching his belled cap in one hand and his stomach in the other. I nip out of his way as he hurries past me to retch up the sour remnants of last night’s wine.
Distinctive face? What is that supposed to mean? I snatch up my breastplate and try to peer at my own reflection, but the steel is not polished enough. Disgusted with myself, I shrug into the piece of armor and fasten the straps at my shoulder. Just as I am buckling the sides, Maraud strolls back in.
“I was about to leave without you.”
“But you didn’t. Hold still.” He gently grips my face, the warmth and weight of his fingers shocking me into momentary silence. When I open my mouth to tell him to remove his hand or risk losing it, he talks over me. “You cannot keep that helmet on the entire time.” His other hand also reaches toward my face.
I flinch away. “What are you doing?”
He laughs, enjoying this far too much. “It is only charcoal.”
I glare at him, but hold myself still. “Look up,” he says, adjusting my chin.
I jerk my head higher in an attempt to minimize his touch. The glance he gives me is unreadable. “Close your eyes so the dust won’t get in them.”
I sigh heavily so he will know how tedious I find all this, but I am also willing to accept whatever can be done to alter my appearance.
With quick, feather-light strokes, he brushes the charcoal along my eyebrows, darkening them and drawing them so they are closer together. Next he smudges a bit onto his finger and rubs it in a thin line from my nose down to my mouth. His final touch is a smudge under each eye. He steps back to survey his handiwork. “There. You look older, less fair, and much more tired.” Unsettled by the small intimacy of his ministrations, I scrunch my nose against the feel of the dirt on my face. “Now we can go,” he says.
I hold up my hand. “Not so fast.” I remove the vial from the pouch at my waist.
He eyes it with revulsion and relief. I pull the stopper and lift the bottle. He is taller than I, which makes administering the drops awkward. I am tempted to ask him to kneel, but the idea of making him kneel at my feet to receive an antidote he doesn’t deserve is too much like a mummer’s farce. Instead, I reach up and hold it out to him. Needing no instruction or encouragement, he bends his knees and opens his mouth.
I allow three small drops to fall onto his tongue. “There,” I say, not meeting his eyes. “You are good until tomorrow.” I tuck the vial back into my pouch, feeling as if I have managed to regain control.
* * *
It is easy to attach ourselves to one of the small groups of mummers leaving the castle yard. Behind me it feels as if all the windows of the castle are watching. My shoulders itch, and I hope it is only the hay that I slept on.
When we pass through the barbican, I draw my first easy breath of the morning. By the time we reach the main road, I allow myself to look up into the sky, to feel the fresh morning air on my face. The clouds have disappeared during the night, but the air has grown colder, leaving a light dusting of frost so that everything sparkles in the sunlight.
My gaze seeks out Alips, and I wonder if the charcoal dust will fool her in broad daylight. To my relief, she is not among our group of travelers. I recognize some of them from the village—Blavot the chandler, as tall and thin as the candles he makes. Herbin the butcher and his wife, Jacquette. The miller’s wife, Matilde, is among us, wearing a furred tunic and carrying a bow and arrow. As is Rogier the stonemason, who has been working on the chateau remodels that Angoulême has undertaken. But no other household servants that I can see. Best of all, no one’s gaze lingers overlong on me or Maraud.
It is an easy group, talking and laughing as they walk. Some carry bundles attached to their backs. Others have their masks tucked up under their arms. The stonemason pushes a handcart full of casks and drums, while Herbin drives a wagon pulled by two oxen. A handful of matrons sit on the back end, their feet dangling over the side. A various assortment of children tag along, like a long, wiggling, giggling tail.
A number of them take great sport in following Maraud, the terrifying wolf’s head of his cape hanging down his back, leering at them upside down. Occasionally one grows bold enough to run forward and tug at his tail before quickly darting away with a squeal of terrified laughter. I glance up at Maraud to see how he is taking this, my words shriveling before I can utter them.
It is the first time I have seen him in good light. This morning, even as he gazed at my face, I avoided his. Besides, the sun was streaming in through the window directly into my eyes.
In spite of his overlong hair and his beard—which should be bushy and matted from his time in captivity but instead manages to accentuate his strong features—he is . . . Rutting figs! There is no word for it but handsome.
He turns to me just then, our gazes meeting. “Can you feel it?” he whispers.
“Feel what?” Mortified at being caught, the word comes out hoarse, croaked.
He leans in closer, and the lips I have just been admiring form the word: “Freedom.”
Released from my embarrassment, I huff out a breath. “Yes. I do.”
He smiles at me, a flash of strong white teeth against the darkness of his beard, then grows serious. “And for that, I thank you.”