I wince at the memory and cannot help but marvel at how hard I worked to escape the convent when I first arrived. I remember Nantes, d’Albret slaying those loyal servants, the look of terror in Tilde’s eyes, and the scratching at my own door. “More fool I,” I say quietly.
As she helps me into a clean gown, the look on Ismae’s face softens. “Assigned to d’Albret’s household, you have faced more horrors than any of us. But truly, Sybella, I do not think you understand how hard it is to be left behind, to feel as if you will never be given a chance to prove yourself or make a contribution. Especially for one such as Annith, who has trained for this her entire life.”
“She would not survive a fortnight outside those walls,” I say, my voice harsh.
Ismae sends me a disappointed look. “She will never know now, will she?”
Since I do not have the heart to argue with her, I change the subject. “What is between you and Duval?”
She makes herself very busy pouring us each a goblet of wine. “What makes you think there is something between us?”
“The way you look at each other. That and the fact that you listened to him when he told you you could not kill whomever you were talking about. So, do you love him?”
Ismae nearly drops the goblet she is handing me. “Sybella!”
“You are in love.” I take the goblet and sip the wine, trying to decide what I think about that.
“What makes you say such a thing?” she asks.
“You are blushing, for one.”
She fiddles with the stem of her goblet. “Mayhap I am embarrassed you would ask such forward questions.”
“Oh, do not be such a stick-in-the-mud. Besides, remember who taught you how to kiss. Duval has much to thank me for.”
Unable to restrain herself, Ismae picks up the wet towel and throws it at me. “It is complicated,” she says.
For some reason, I think of Beast. I swirl the wine in my goblet. “It always is,” I say, then drain the cup.
“He’s asked me to be his wife.”
This surprises me, but it also makes me like the man more. “Are you not still married to the pig farmer?”
“No. It was never consummated, and the reverend mother had it annulled the second year I was at the convent.”
“What did you tell him?”
“That I would think about it. For, while I love him, and will do so always, it is very hard to give anyone that kind of power over me again.”
“What did the reverend mother say?”
Ismae wrinkles her nose and refills her goblet. “It is just one of the reasons I have fallen so far out of her favor.”
“You? But next to Annith, you were her favorite.”
“No.” Ismae gives a firm shake of her head. “It was not I who was her favorite, but the blind, adoring acolyte that she loved.”
And that is when I know just how fully Ismae has changed.
Before we can talk further, there is a knock at the door. Ismae answers it, and a whispered, urgent conversation takes place before she closes the door and turns back to me. “The council meeting will not be resumed until tomorrow. The duchess’s sister has taken a turn for the worse, and the duchess wishes me to mix a sleeping draft for her.”
I arch an eyebrow. “You are a poisons mistress, not some healer for hire.”
Ismae gives me a sad smile. “It is a dance with Death, nevertheless.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
SINCE I AM DRESSED IN one of Ismae’s habits, the guard at the palace door salutes respectfully and makes no move to prevent my leaving. I step out into the cold night air and head toward a bridge that is lit by a sparse row of torches whose light is reflected in the dark water below.
It also leads to the convent where Beast is being held. I need to assure myself that I did not bring him all this way only to have him expire while in the sisters of Saint Brigantia’s care.
I reach the main gate at the convent and find it closed. Just to the right of the gate is a large bundle of what looks like rags. It takes me a moment to realize it is a sleeping Yannic, as loyal as the most faithful of hounds and no doubt banned from the convent for being a reasonably healthy man. Only ill or wounded men are allowed through those doors. I consider ringing the summons bell and announcing my presence to the entire convent, then reject the idea. What if they will not let me in? Or worse, what if they ask why I am here? For a moment, uncertainty grips me. Surely Beast has no need of me. Not now, when he is surrounded by the most skilled healers in our land.
I pause. Why am I here?
He is safe. And will soon be in a position to help the duchess. My role in his life is done. I saved him from d’Albret, the way I could not save Alyse. That should be enough.
So why do I feel this need to linger? Why this reluctance to part?
If I were anyone else feeling this, I would name it love, but I—I am far too smart to ever give away my heart again. Especially when to do so is as good as a death sentence for those I care about.
The old, familiar swirl of panic tries to surface. Instead of fighting it, I try to open myself to it, to let it come.
I remember the screaming. And the blood.