I spend the rest of the day planning how I will kill Madame Hivern.
Normally, we do not worry overmuch about hiding our kills. The main purpose of the deception of posing as Duval’s mistress was to allow me easier access to the court. If the barons and nobles had learned I was from the convent, they would have been cautious and wary around me. Usually the convent feels it is wise to announce Mortain’s justice as a warning and a deterrent. even so, in this case I decide it is better to be discreet.
Poison, then. I am certain that would be Hivern’s choice if she were given one.
I take the thin gold chain from around my neck and use the key to unlock the trunklet. There is a faint tinkle of glass as I open the lid. The pearls would be easiest, but they leave signs of poison behind. Martyr’s embrace and scourge are far too painful. Amourna’s woe, so named for the pair of star-crossed lovers who were forbidden to wed, might work. So might Arduinna’s snare.
I stare down at the small clay pot of thick honey-colored paste nestled in the corner of the trunk. Arduinna’s snare is subtle and easily absorbed through the skin, but it is too imprecise for my taste. One can never be sure who will touch the poisoned object or if enough will be absorbed to kill one’s victim.
Nocturne’s malaise is painless. Hivern would simply fall asleep and never wake up, waste away into nothingness, but Madame Hivern would hate for her carefully tended appearance to wither so.
I scowl. what do I care how she feels about her death? This is what happens to traitors.
I reach for the bottle of nocturne’s malaise, but my hand grows still when I see the slender white candles beneath. Night whispers. Painless death by an intoxicating perfume, the perfect death for Madame Hivern.
If for no other reason than so I will not be filled with remorse when I tell Duval how his mother died.
Chapter Forty-one
It is well past dark when I set out for Madame Hivern’s quarters. Luck is with me, and she is not there, so I let myself in. I fortify myself with the thought that she is likely out plotting treason. I choose a hiding place behind a thick tapestry that hangs on her wall and settle in to wait.
It does not take long. She and her maid come into the room, chatting about the charming necklace an admirer has given her and guessing its worth. I wait as the maid undresses her and brushes her hair. I block out the sound of their low murmuring voices as they talk of the recent Christmas festivities and what Madame Hivern will be giving Fran?ois. Instead, I focus on Hivern’s spitefulness toward me since we first met and how cruel she is to Duval.
At last the maid leaves and I hear the rustle of covers as Hivern settles into her bed. Now, I think, just as surely as if Mortain had placed His hand on my back and pushed. I step out from behind the tapestry, take the candle laden with night whispers from the folds of my skirts, and approach the bed.
As my shadow falls across her, Madame Hivern starts, then sits up. "What are you doing in here?” Her voice is sharp with surprise, perhaps even fear. Ignoring her question, I hold the deadly candle against the small flame from the oil lamp on her nightstand until it catches. Slowly, I turn to face her. There is just enough light in the room that I can see the marque of Mortain upon her; a faint trickle of darkness begins just under her chin and trails down her throat. The marque spreads, like a bruise just beginning to form, across her neck and the swell of her chest that is exposed by her low-cut chemise. This comforts me greatly, for if Mortain has marqued her, then the convent’s order cannot be due to some trickery of Crunard’s.
“You are a spy, aren’t you?” Madame’s voice still holds a note of alarm. She looks younger, more vulnerable, without all her fine jewels and fancy headdresses.
“Some might call me that, but it is not what I am.”
She barks out a laugh. “I should have known Duval would not be taken with a mere maid.”
“My lord Duval is not taken with me at all,” I say tartly. "We merely work together. Our love and duty to the duchess give us much in common.” I realize I should move closer so the fumes from the candle can work more quickly, but my feet are leaden and reluctant to move.
"Whoever you may be, you are quite wrong if you think Duval is not taken with you. If there is one thing I know, it is men. And I certainly know my own son. He is smitten.”
“That is not so!” It is demeaning, this arguing with a victim while waiting for Death to claim her, and my voice is sharper than I intend.
She cocks her head to the side and studies me, as if we are simply having a tête-à-tête over spiced wine. “Ah,” she says, her voice full of wisdom nearly as old as Mortain’s. “You love him back.”
I grit my teeth but say nothing.
“I do not blame you for being distraught, Ismae. It is no comfortable thing, having your heart in thrall to a man, especially one such as Duval.”