And because she is my friend. And so she tended an animate corpse in the hope that somehow all her research was wrong. Was this what Marie would have wanted her to do?
“Oh.” Isaac was nonplussed. “I am sorry. I did not know. But I do hear there is good news. Your brother is getting married, to Lady Arnette, daughter of le Duc du Troisville, isn’t it? A very rich man. Good for your fortunes.”
Isabelle winced, for she was sure her good fortunes were the last thing on anyone’s mind. As like as not, the Duc du Troisville saw the marriage as a lever by which to wrest control of the des Zephyrs’s domain for himself on the occasion of her father’s death. Jean-Claude seemed to think Guillaume would be an easy mark; he had all of Father’s vices without any of his cunning.
She only realized she had failed to respond to Henswort’s cue when Jean-Claude broke in, “Oh yes, rich as butter, her father. She’s no eyesore, either, but jus’ between you ’n me”—he leaned in conspiratorially—“she’s mean as a snake but not half so smart.”
Henswort backed off quickly, waving a handkerchief to disperse Jean-Claude’s cultivated fume. “That’s no way to talk about a lady, or in front of a lady.”
Isabelle put her left hand on Jean-Claude’s shoulder to warn him off. To Henswort she curtsied and said, “Your lecture.” She gestured him into the forum with her gloved right hand.
Professor Isaac looked moderately flustered. He glanced into the forum, where the intellectuals were mingling, then made two quick bows to Isabelle and mumbled, “Princess. Builder keep,” before disappearing between the columns.
“Savior come,” she replied to his retreating back, her tone as hollow as the custom. Someday the Savior would come and rescue the Risen Kingdoms from corruption, or so the Temple claimed, but she had never found someday on any calendar.
Jean-Claude leaned against a column with the indolence of a cat in a sunbeam. He was apparently in no hurry to depart. Isabelle sent Marie to fetch fresh bread from a bakery at the base of the acropolis; there was no telling when her father might decide to take an interest in Isabelle’s business and peek out through his bloodhollow’s eyes. Even in his crumbling state, he still vexed her.
After Marie had passed out of sight, Jean-Claude levered himself off the column and said, “Is everything well? You seemed uncomfortable.”
Without Henswort’s presence, the knot in Isabelle throat unwound, but she couldn’t have Jean-Claude thinking she was an idiot, so she said, “You were rude to my guest.”
He shrugged unrepentantly. “I was distracting him from the fact that you looked like you were about to vomit very vexing volumes—”
“Of vitriol,” Isabelle said, unable to suppress a smile; they’d been playing the alliteration game so long it had become a private ritual. “And various voided victuals vouchsafed by the letter ‘V.’ I’m well enough, just distracted. I fear what will happen to me when Father dies.” It was hard to imagine a more wicked person than her father, but he’d mostly let her be since she had proved unhallowed. “Guillaume hates me, and he’ll be in charge of me, with Arnette egging him on.”
Jean-Claude allowed himself to be diverted. “I have some thoughts on that. We might be able to get you out of here.”
Isabelle’s hand went to her throat. “How?” Could Jean-Claude really procure her freedom? She hardly dared hope.
“It occurs to me that there is a man of our mutual acquaintance, a mathematician of some renown, who might offer to marry you. Lord Martin DuJournal.”
Isabelle snorted into her sleeve. “Are you mad? You want me to send a marriage proposal to myself?”
“Certainly not. I suggest Lord Martin DuJournal write a letter to your father requesting your hand, suggesting a bride price, even. I’ll have some friends of mine vouch for DuJournal’s bona fides. Your father will stuff you on the first skyship to Rocher Royale.”
Isabelle shook her head in disbelief. “It’s completely daft. No one will believe it.”
“People believe what suits their desires. No more, no less. Besides, would you rather have Guillaume ruling your life?”
Put that way … “What if I’m caught?”
“What if you aren’t? You’d be technically married to a man who is always off having adventures. No one would expect him to be around. You’d be profiting by ‘his’ works and free to do as you please.”
“I’d spend the rest of my days living a lie.”
Jean-Claude gestured up toward the chateau on the acropolis. “The strangled life you lead cooped up in that miserable room is a lie. You should be free to fly.”
“I don’t know,” Isabelle said. It sounded amazing, and terrifying.
“At least think about it,” Jean-Claude said. “You’ve got time. I have to consult with Grand Leon before I do anything.”
Isabelle raised her eyebrows. “Why would le roi care what happens to me?” She’d never so much as corresponded with her imperial cousin once removed.
“He sent me, didn’t he? Not that he could have pried me away with a pitchfork.”
Isabelle glowed with daughterly affection, which was more than she’d ever had for her real father. “You always told me His Imperial Majesty’s exact words were, ‘If you seek to foist my mother’s name on this deformed wretch, you can watch her yourself. Now get out!’”
Jean-Claude said, chuffed, “His Imperial Majesty is wise in his pique. I would trust the job to no one else. Speaking of which…” He mimed a draw at his endless sack and slurred back into character. “Good thing I went t’docks to retrieve Professor Henpecked. Poor sod might have been trampled, or pressed, or worse. Soldiers everywhere, sailors and officers. You could tell the officers ’cause their pants were too small and their hats were too big. Comes from having big heads and small wassnames.” He made a point of adjusting his codpiece. “Stands to reason.”
Isabelle shook her head and gave this blatant innuendo the bare eye-roll it warranted.
Jean-Claude carried on, “Thing is, there was a bit of news I weren’t expecting, a bit that needs looking into all careful-like.”
“What sort of news?” Isabelle asked.
“Henwarts mentioned that he’d been traveling with a royal emissary from Aragoth. Unfortunately, the emissary neglected to divulge the nature of his mission, and apparently the professor wasn’t interested enough to give it much thought.”
“Should he have?” Isabelle asked. Jean-Claude found all sorts of intrigue … intriguing. He solved politics like she solved math problems. It was a domain she let him have all to himself. She’d never found anything but pain down that road.
“It’s been my experience that nobody who wasn’t born here ends up on l’?le des Zephyrs by accident. It’s too far out of the way. And seeing that l’Empire may soon be at war with Aragoth, I find the unexpected presence of an Aragothic emissary disturbing.”