“Demoiselle?” the duchess asks, leaning forward with her brows pinched in concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Just trying to remember another trick with the string.” I force all thoughts of my sisters back into the small, cramped box deep in my heart, bind it once again with chains, and lock it tight.
I spend the next hour teaching Isabeau how to do the trick while the duchess talks softly with her ladies. Unobserved, I try to note each of them and take her measure. How long has the duchess known them? How loyal to her are they? I do not recognize any of them from Guérande, which suggests they have been culled from Rennes’s noble families. Let us hope they are more loyal than her other attendants and retainers have been.
They in turn watch me, their glances like small, biting insects. I cannot tell if it is mere curiosity or if there is knowledge and censure in their gaze.
When it is time for dinner, the ladies put away their embroidery. Isabeau is being allowed to attend tonight, for the duchess has agreed to a performance by minstrels that she thinks her young sister will enjoy.
We leave the solar, and the duchess has one of the other ladies escort Isabeau while she herself walks next to me. Her steps slow somewhat, and I must alter my pace so I do not run ahead and leave her trailing behind. When no one is close enough to hear, she leans toward me slightly. “Demoiselle, I want you to know that I thank you for your sacrifice, for to go against your family, no matter how justified, is no easy thing. I also want you to know that I do not doubt a single word you have told us. Indeed, it aligns precisely with what my lord brother and I have long felt. I am only sorry that you have had to learn this knowledge firsthand.” With that, she squeezes my arm gently, then turns the talk to the minstrels and what she has heard of their talents. I hear nothing she says; I am too busy holding tight this small nugget of trust she has granted me.
While the great hall in Rennes is smaller than that of Nantes, it is every bit as opulent. The rich carved paneling is decorated heavily with thick, brilliant tapestries, and the room is alight with the glow of scores of candles. The mingled scent of rose, civet, cloves, and ambergris hangs heavy in the air, and I feel the beating of a dozen hearts. It is, in every sense of the word, an assault upon my senses. Even worse, everyone in the room is infected with high spirits, and the guests’ jubilant manner makes me uneasy. It is unwise for them to be so very happy, for the gods will feel the need to humble us.
The first thing I do is look for Beast, but the ugly oaf is not here. My entire body sags in relief, for I did not look forward to an entire evening spent trying to ignore his wrath. Not to mention I’m fairly certain his continuing fury would blister my skin.
The rest of the council is here, however. The abbess and the bishop have their heads together, whispering. As if feeling my gaze, the abbess glances up and gives me a cool nod. I dip a curtsy but do not go to her.
The earnest Captain Dunois is deep in conversation with the chancellor, his heavy, furrowed brow making him look even more like a bear. Wanting to test his reaction to me now that he knows who I am, I drift closer.
When he sees me, he nods a distracted greeting. Or perhaps it is a cool greeting, like the abbess’s, a way to discourage my approach. I do not know him well enough to say. While I do not know Chancellor Montauban any better, there is no mistaking the distaste in his gaze. He makes no effort to hide it.
As I turn away from them, I see a small, hunched figure hovering just outside the doorway. It is Yannic, whom Beast has no doubt sent to spy on my movements.
Furious, I turn and search the hall, looking for someone I can attach myself to and prove that I am not moping over him. Nor am I the pariah he no doubts wishes me to be.
The duchess’s cousin Jean de Chalon is but a few paces from me. When our eyes meet, he smiles, which surprises me somewhat, as the last time we were together he appeared most distant and guarded. But he is handsome and titled and will make a good story for Yannic to carry back to his master. I smile at Chalon, a smile filled with more mystery than sparkle, for he is not a man to be lured with simple wiles.
He draws closer and bows. “You look lonely, demoiselle.”
“Ah, not lonely, my lord. Simply discerning in the company I keep.”
“A lady after my own heart, then.” He snags a goblet of wine from a passing page and hands it to me. As I take it, I let my fingers brush against his, and I feel his pulse flare with interest.