She leaned back to look at me. “I thought suicide was a mortal sin.”
I reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Only God can judge us. Only God can read the depths of our soul. And I think he understands the power of circumstance—of fear.” I dropped my hand and cleared my throat. Forced the words out before I could change my mind. “I think there are few absolutes in this world. Just because the Church believes Monsieur Bernard will suffer eternally for his mental illness . . . doesn’t mean he will.”
Something swelled in Lou’s eyes at my words. I didn’t recognize it at first. Didn’t recognize it until several hours later, as I drifted to sleep on my bedroom floor.
Hope. It had been hope.
The Guest of Honor
Lou
King Auguste scheduled a ball on the eve of Saint Nicolas Day to commence a weekend of celebration. And to honor Reid. Apparently, the king felt indebted to Reid for saving his family’s skin when the witches had attacked. Though I hadn’t stuck around to watch the chaos unfold, I had no doubt my husband had acted . . . heroic.
Still, it felt odd celebrating Reid’s victory when his failure would’ve solved my predicament. If the king and his children were already dead, there would be no reason for me to die too. Indeed, my throat would’ve very much appreciated his failure.
Reid shook his head in exasperation as Coco burst into the room without knocking, a filmy white gown draped across her arm. Slinging his best Chasseur coat over his shoulder and sighing, he bent to tuck a piece of my hair behind my ear in farewell.
“I need to meet the Archbishop.” He paused at the door, the corner of his mouth quirking in a lopsided smile. Excitement danced in his sea-blue eyes. Despite my reservations, I couldn’t help myself; I smiled back. “I’ll return shortly.”
Coco lifted the gown for my appraisal after he left. “You’re going to look divine in this.”
“I look divine in everything.”
She grinned and winked at me. “That’s the spirit.” Tossing the gown on the bed, she forced me into the desk chair, raking her fingers through my hair. I shivered at the memory of Reid’s fingers. “The priests agreed to let me attend the ball since I’m such a close personal friend of you and your husband.” She pulled a brush from her robes with a determined glint in her eyes. “Now, it’s time to brush your hair.”
I scowled at her and leaned away. “I don’t think so.”
I never brushed my hair. It was one of the few rules I lived by, and I certainly didn’t see a need to start breaking it now. Besides, Reid liked my hair. Since I’d asked him to braid it, he seemed to think he could continue touching it at every opportunity.
I didn’t correct him because . . . well, I just didn’t.
“Oh, but I do.” She pushed me back down in my seat, attacking my hair as if it’d personally offended her. When I tried to wriggle away, she whacked me on top of the head with her brush. “Be still! These rats have to come out!”
Nearly two hours later, I stared at myself in the mirror. The front of the gown—crafted of thin white silk—skimmed my torso before billowing artfully at the knees, soft and simple. Delicate petals and silver crystals dusted the sheer fabric of the back, and Coco had pinned my hair at my nape to showcase the elaborate appliqué. She’d also insisted I heal the remainder of my bruises. Another velvet ribbon covered my scar.
Overall, I looked . . . good.
She stood behind me now, preening at her own reflection over my shoulder. A fitted black gown accentuated her every curve—the high neckline and tight sleeves adding to her allure—and she’d pinned her wayward curls into an elegant chignon at her crown. I eyed her with a familiar pang of jealousy. I didn’t fill out my own dress quite so well.
She smoothed the rouge on her lips with a finger and smacked her lips. “We look straight out of the Bellerose. Babette would be proud.”
“Is that supposed to be an insult?” I reached into my gown to lift each breast, squeezing my shoulders together and frowning at the results. “Those courtesans are so beautiful people pay to be with them.”
Ansel entered the bedroom a moment later. He’d trimmed his mop of curls and smoothed them away from his face, emphasizing his high cheekbones and flawless skin. The new style made him look . . . older. I eyed the long lines of his body—the sharp cut of his jaw, the full curve of his mouth—with newfound appreciation.
His eyes boggled at the sight of Coco. I didn’t blame him. Her gown was a far cry from the oversized healing robes she normally wore. “Mademoiselle Perrot! You look—er, you look very—very good.” Her brows rose in wry amusement. “I mean—er—” He shook his head quickly and tried again. “Reid—er, Captain Diggory—he wanted me to tell you—I mean, not you, but Lou—that, ah—”
“Good lord, Ansel.” I grinned as he tore his gaze from her. He blinked rapidly, dazed, as if someone had clubbed him in the head. “I feel a little insulted.”
But he clearly wasn’t listening. His eyes had already gravitated back to Coco, who stalked toward him with a catlike grin. She tilted her head as if surveying a particularly juicy mouse. He swallowed hard.
“You look very good as well.” She circled him appreciatively, trailing a finger across his chest. He went rigid. “I had no idea you were so handsome under all that hair.”
“Was there something you needed, Ansel?” I gestured to the room at large, sweeping an arm past Coco’s impressive bosom. “Or are you just here to admire the general decor?”
He cleared his throat, eyes gleaming determinedly as he opened his mouth once more. “Captain Diggory requested I escort you to the castle. The Archbishop insisted he go on with him. I can also escort you, Mademoiselle Perrot.”
“I think I’d like that.” Coco slid an arm around his, and I burst out laughing at the alarmed look on his face. Every single muscle in his body tensed—even his eyelids. It was extraordinary. “And please—call me Brie.”
He took great care to touch as little of Coco as possible as we walked down the stairwell, but Coco went out of her way to make the endeavor difficult. The Chasseurs who had been forced to stay behind stared unabashedly as we passed. Coco winked at them.
“Might as well give them a show,” I whispered.
Coco grinned wickedly and pinched Ansel’s backside in response. He yelped and leapt forward, whirling mutinously as the guards snickered behind us. “That wasn’t funny.”
I disagreed.
Ancient and unadorned, the castle of Cesarine was a fortress befitting its city. It boasted no intricate buttresses or spires, no windows or arches. It loomed over us as we joined the throng of carriages already in the receiving line, the setting sun tinging the stone with bloody red light. The evergreens in the courtyard—tall and narrow, like two spears piercing the sky—only added to the grim picture.
We waited for what seemed like hours before a footman in Lyon livery approached our carriage. Ansel stepped out to greet him, whispering something in his ear, and the man’s eyes widened. He hastily took my hand. “Madame Diggory! Captain Diggory has been anxiously awaiting your arrival.”