Slowly, as if afraid I will bolt, he reaches for my hand, which has somehow escaped from the covers. when he laces his fingers through mine, my heart does its now familiar panicked flight, bumping painfully against my ribs. My shoulder twitches as if to pull my hand back, but my heart overrules it.
His hand is warm, the skin firm. we sit together in silence. I do not know what is going through his head, but my own mind is unable to form a single thought. At least, not a coherent one. After a long while, he squeezes my hand, then leans down to kiss the back of it. His lips are warm and soft and I am filled with the memory of them on my mouth, my throat. Slowly, as if with great reluctance, he pulls away, and I shiver. “Perhaps,” he says. "When this is all over.”
“Perhaps, my lord.”
He gives my hand another squeeze, then rises gracefully to his feet. “Until tomorrow,” he says, then leaves. I am alone in the darkness.
Knowing I have done exactly what the convent would want brings me little comfort.
Chapter Thirty-four
When I arrive at the duchess’s solar the next morning, one of the older ladies in waiting ushers me into Isabeau’s smaller chamber. The young princess is in bed, sitting up against the pillows, clutching a doll in one hand. A cup of warm, honeyed milk sits nearby. Her cheeks have two bright spots of pink, and her dark eyes are glassy with fever. “Hello, demoiselle,” she says shyly.
“Hello, my lady.” I curtsy, then draw close to her. “My lord Duval said I should sit with you while the others are in their meeting.” The assignment is a good one for me, for although my shoulder is healing, it is not yet fully recovered.
“Yes, please, demoiselle.”
I sit on the stool by her bed and try to think of something to say. “Are you looking forward to Christmas?” I ask, then want to bite my tongue. It will be her first Christmas without her father.
“My sister says we are to have a feast and a mummers’ parade.” Her face glows with excitement.
“Truly?”
She nods. "Will you be there?”
“If the duchess wishes it, yes.”
“I am sure she will. She likes you quite a lot.” She is overcome
by a fit of coughing just then, and her small, thin shoulders heave with the effort. when she is done, there is a faint sheen of sweat on her brow. “Do not call the physicians,” she pleads.
“No, no. I will not,” I say, smoothing her hair back. There is little the court physicians can do for her. Little anyone can do for her, her life spark flickers so weakly. “In fact, I have brought you medicine of my own, from the convent where I was raised. It is very good at settling coughs, although it might make you sleepy.”
“I will gladly suffer sleepiness if it means no physicians, demoiselle.”
“Very well.” I pull the small vial of Mortain’s caress from my pocket. It is a poison, true, but Sister Serafina used it on the younger girls when they were sick. It is good for coughs and lung fever, for it allows the patient to rest and get much needed sleep, but only if it is given in small doses. I carefully measure two drops — no more — into her milk, then swirl the cup to stir it all around. “Here.” I hand her the cup. “Drink it all down now.”
She takes the cup from me and does as she is told, draining the last drop from it. She hands it back to me. “It does not taste bad. Just a little sweeter.”
“That is because I do not believe in foul-tasting medicine,” I say. She smiles, which pleases me more than it should. The muffled voices coming from the other side of the thick wall call to me. I would dearly love to hear what they are discussing, judge the inflections and timbres of their voices. But as I look into Isabeau’s shadowed eyes, I find I cannot leave her to struggle for breath on her own.
“Do you know any stories?” she asks as I settle myself on the stool once more.
I hate to disappoint her, but I have no stories. No one told them at my house when I was growing up, and the stories told at the convent are not meant for such young, innocent ears. Just as I start to shake my head, I remember one tale. One of Annith’s favorites. Perhaps Isabeau will find some comfort in it. “Have you heard the story of how Saint Amourna captured Saint Mortain’s heart?”
Isabeau’s eyes widen. “The patron saint of death?” she whispers.
“It is not a frightening story, I promise you, but one of true love.”
“Oh.” Her face relaxes. “Very well, then. I would like to hear it, please.”
“One fine moonlit night, Mortain and his wild Hunt were riding through the countryside when they spied two maids more beautiful than any they had ever seen before. They were picking evening primrose, which only blooms in the moonlight.