"Well, I fear he is lying somewhere in there. Have you seen him in the last few days? He is very ill. He — ” My throat grows so tight that it is hard to get the words out. In the end, I cannot tell them I am afraid Duval is dying but say instead, “I fear he is too weak to move.”
De Lornay’s whole manner changes and his gaze sharpens. “It is not my doing,” I tell him, but I do not think he believes me.
"We will help,” Beast says before de Lornay and I can come to blows. “Show us.”
The hour is late and the court subdued, so there are few people about to see us. when we reach Duval’s apartments, I hesitate. It would not do for loyal Louyse to see me leading two men into my bedchamber. She would never forgive such a betrayal of her master.
But there is no one in the main chamber, so I motion to Beast and de Lornay and they move through the room, silent as shadows. when we reach my chamber, Duval is still not there. “The door he uses is here,” I say, showing them the wall by the fireplace. “But I do not know the mechanism that opens it.”
Neither, apparently, do they, for they poke and grunt and prod at the wall for long frustrating minutes until finally there is a solid thunk, and then the wall gives way. Beast puts his shoulder to it and shoves. Cool, dank air wafts into the room. "We’ll need light,” de Lornay says.
I hurry to the table and use the lone candle burning there to light three more tapers. I hand one to de Lornay, another to Beast. They glance at the candle I clutch in my own hand but do not try to keep me from coming.
The blackness inside the corridors is absolute, and the faint glow from my room is swallowed up in a matter of seconds. There are no windows, no doors, no openings of any kind. Just thick gray stone pressing down on us from all sides. It reminds me of the crypt at the convent, and I do not know how Duval has stood it all this time.
The main corridor branches off in many directions. Carefully and methodically we explore each one. It is slow going in the dark, with few landmarks to guide us. we do not dare call out his name for fear of being heard in the bedrooms and chambers on the other side of the walls.
The corridor twists and turns like a writhing serpent, and just when I fear we will never be able to find our way back, there is an “Oof ” from Beast, followed by a voice in the darkness: “I think I would rather die of the poison than be trampled by a great oaf like you.”
“Duval!” My breath hitches in my throat and I dart around de Lornay and Beast. Duval leans against the stone wall, his face alarmingly pale. “You are alive,” I say, and do not add, but barely. It is as witless as anything I have ever uttered, but relief sings so sharply in my veins it has chased away my wits.
“Alive,” he says, then grimaces. “But unable to move my legs.”
I turn my gaze to his lifeless legs so he cannot see my face. The poison has seeped further into his body and has begun paralyzing his limbs. Surely, his lungs and heart will soon follow.
Beast shoulders past me, shaking his head and tsking like a nursemaid. “Never could hold your drink.” De Lornay goes to the other side of Duval and I see they mean to haul him to his feet and carry him. I know he would not want me to watch, so I take the men’s candles from them and turn back toward the corridor, ready to light the way once they have a solid hold on him.
I use the moment to compose myself. why have I not heard from Annith? Could it be that the abbess has intercepted my note? Or is my request so contrary to the teachings of the convent that Annith will not honor it? A note of hysterical laughter comes close to escaping. I, a mistress of poison, am willing to trade my soul for an antidote, if only I could find one.
Now that we have located Duval, I find the passageway does not seem so impossibly long or hopelessly dark. In a matter of minutes we are back in my chamber. I set the candles down and busy myself with stoking the fire, giving Beast and de Lornay a chance to settle Duval on the bed.
The men murmur softly among themselves as I take a pot of broth from the hearth. I am close to throwing myself on Duval’s ruined body and weeping. Instead, I square my shoulders, put the warm broth on a tray, and carry it to the bed. “There is much news,” I tell him.
He tries to push the tray away, but I glare at him. “And I will not tell you a word of it unless you eat something.”
He exchanges a glance with Beast, and in that glance I see he thinks it a pointless exercise. He accepts that he is dying. Not only accepts it, but prefers it. He does not want to be carried like a scarecrow for the rest of his days. But I do not accept it, so I hand him the spoon.
“Tell me,” he says, lifting it to his mouth.
“The French have crossed the border into Brittany and taken Ancenis, Fougères, and Vitré.”
The spoon stops in midair. “Marshal Rieux’s own holding?” “Aye,” I say.
Off to my side, Beast whistles.