“What’s wrong?” Amélie asked her that afternoon.
For once Armand was not required anywhere in the Chateau. Rachelle might have been able to slip out and search for the door without Erec hearing about it, but today she didn’t have the heart to try. She would try, again and again, until time ran out and Endless Night fell and she died fighting. But right now, her heart and her bones were made of lead. So she sat still and watched Amélie knit. She stared at the fine brown hairs falling out of Amélie’s braid, at the quick, deft motions of her tiny hands, and she wondered how long somebody so gentle would survive, once Endless Night returned.
“Rachelle?” Amélie was looking straight at her now, forehead creased. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” Rachelle said quickly. “Nothing.” Guilt tugged at her stomach. But if she couldn’t save Amélie, at least she could let her live in peace a little longer. Surely there was no need to tell her the truth when it couldn’t save her.
“Of course.” Amélie’s voice was sharper than she’d ever heard it before. “Nothing’s ever wrong.” She stared at her yarn; she wrapped it around the needle with a particularly ferocious gesture.
It was all wrong; Amélie was never angry. Rachelle sat up straight. “Did something happen?”
“Nothing,” said Amélie, still staring at her knitting. Her needles clacked once, twice. Then her hands stilled and she sighed. “A letter from my mother. I’m worried.”
“Woodspawn?” said Rachelle, and her body tensed with the need to fight. She should have known there wouldn’t be enough bloodbound to patrol the city properly without her. She should have known, and now people were dying, and it was all her fault—
“What?” Amélie looked up at her. “No. The riot. You know.”
“The riot?” Rachelle echoed stupidly.
“I suppose it wasn’t quite a riot—my mother called it a ‘tussle’ in her letter, but of course she never tells me the whole truth—” Amélie paused, staring at her. “You mean you didn’t know?”
“No,” said Rachelle, feeling like the ground was rocking underneath her. “What happened? What did the Bishop do?”
“Nothing,” said Amélie, looking nervous now. “It was just a crowd on the streets. There was a bloodbound—Raymond something, I think—some people say he was hurting a child, some say he came to blows with a drunkard. Whatever happened, the people turned on him. They beat him half to death.”
It must have been Raymond Dubois. He was the newest of the King’s bloodbound in Rocamadour. Rachelle had always disliked him, because he was never far from the prostitutes in Thieves’ Alley, but when she imagined him being trampled into the mud and cobblestones by a furious crowd, her stomach turned.
“The city guard’s rounded up at least a dozen people,” Amélie went on, “but who knows if they’re the ones who were really there.” Her mouth tightened. “People are scared, and angry. Next time there may be a real riot. And Mother will never run, not even if it happens on her doorstep. She didn’t even tell me the whole story in her letter; I had to get it from the other servants.”
“I’m sorry,” Rachelle said faintly, as she thought, Erec knew. He must have known my city was falling to pieces. And he didn’t tell me.
He didn’t tell me.
It took her nearly an hour to find him, which did not improve her mood. He was hidden away in a little-used corner of the Chateau, talking to a pair of the bland-faced lackeys who ran his personal errands. And while some of those errands were simply setting up assignations with ladies, a lot of them also involved spying out and arresting the enemies of the King.
He had to know everything about what had happened in Rocamadour.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Rachelle demanded as she strode into the room.
Erec looked up. “Didn’t tell you what?” he asked. “I think I’ve mentioned that you’re pretty almost every day.”
“Can’t you leave off playing games for even a moment? I mean what’s happening in Rocamadour. The attack. It was Raymond Dubois, wasn’t it?”
“I didn’t know you cared so much about him. Is that why you’re so cold to me?”
“I care,” Rachelle growled, “about my city.”
Erec waved a hand. The two lackeys filed out, and she was left alone with Erec, who rose to his feet.
“Dubois was attacked. He survived. We can’t prove it was plotted by the Bishop, so the incident is useless to us. What’s to tell?”
“I think I have a right to know,” she bit out, “when my city is getting closer to outright rebellion.”
“Well, it’s not your problem now, is it?” said Erec.