The Unicorn Hunters: A Novel(92)

She was in the same tower room. But somewhat to Anne’s surprise, she did not catch Orléans in wild license with a korrigan wearing her face.

No, the korrigan was sitting by a fire, turning a piece of embroidery delicately in her hands. She did look like Anne, except that her long lashes veiled yellow eyes. Louis sat by the fire opposite her, watching her.

Anne said, “My lord of Orléans.”

He startled to his feet. He stared at her as though she was anaon and not Anne at all. It was him: his own eyes and hands and teeth. But when Anne appeared, the girl by the fire dropped her embroidery and bared fangs that were as long as a wolf’s. Her eyes were wider and rounder than a woman’s.

Anne said to this lady, politely, “Madame, I wish you would not wear my face.”

The lady blinked and the last humanity left her; her taut skin was dull ivory in clothes like cobweb, her gaze speculative. She said, “It is my task.”

Louis held back from Anne, a long arm’s reach away. “Are you real?”

“Yes, wretch.” Anne wanted to laugh, and she wanted to cry. “I cannot believe you thought she was I. She has fox ears.”

Louis looked. “I suppose she does.” He bowed to the korrigan and swallowed. “Forgive me, lady, for my mistake.”

The korrigan merely barked with laughter and stepped casually into the shadows and disappeared.

“God preserve us,” said Louis, fervently. He pulled Anne to him, his hands tentative in her hair as though to prove her to himself.

Anne was distracted. “That was your Never-Was? Not some mad passion, but—?” She pulled back to see his face.

He looked embarrassed. “The whole court would smile when you were happy, in Nantes.”

She laughed at him, then turned her face upward and kissed him. “Come,” she said, sobering. “We must find my sister. And Julien Moreau.”



* * *





Isabeau, with Moreau’s hand gripping hard to her hair, stepped from the brightly lit feasting hall in Rennes into the place with leaf-litter and all the doors. Elesbed had seized hold of Isabeau’s skirt with two clinging hands, and stepped with them, from firelight into damp shadow. There, she instantly lunged like a ferret, biting the hand that was clutching Isabeau’s hair. She bit it as hard as she could, so that he shouted and let go.

Isabeau must also have made a plan for herself, for at the very same moment, her eyes spilling tears from how he pulled her hair, she grabbed Moreau’s other hand and stole his mirror.

“Run!” screamed Elesbed, dragging Isabeau with her. They would have escaped too, except that Isabeau took a long, precious second to slam the mirror to the floor and grind it under her foot.

Julien screamed as the mirror broke. His wound slowed his enraged lunge, but Isabeau had taken too long. Moreau had caught her other wrist, yanked her away, and picked her up bodily, all his teeth bared. Then he stepped back and vanished into the shadows. Elesbed cried out with rage, but they were both gone, and her clever ploy had failed. She was left alone again, in that same cold courtyard with doors in the castle of Never-Was.

And this time there was no Butter to save her.

“Butter,” said Elesbed. “Butter—please, I’m sorry I left you in Nantes, but Hawiz needed you, and I don’t think you’d have liked trying to ride a horse. Butter, I don’t know what to do.”

Talking to an absent cat sounded foolish to her own ears. She wiped snot and tears from her face. Tried to think. Which door? Where had Butter led her that first time?

Maybe she could think like a cat. She looked at all the doors in turn. One was white like the duchess’s pearls, but she didn’t trust it. One looked just like the door to her house before the bandits came, but that scared her. One was just a shimmering veil of cloth, and she thought she saw a moving silhouette behind it.

Which one?

A lady was standing under the dead tree in the courtyard. Elesbed had not seen her at first glance, because the lady was gnarled like the tree. She squeaked and stumbled back.

The lady was smiling a little. Elesbed frowned. “You are the abbess,” she said. Only the lady was not dressed like an abbess anymore. She was wearing a robe with a belt of white stones and a great tall hat whose veil swept gracefully down.

“I am many things, small one,” said the lady. “You are trespassing.”

The lady was frightening, in the same way a wolf can stand quietly and be frightening, with bright watchful eyes. “Oh, I am not, Madame!” said Elesbed earnestly. “I am trying to save my lady and my friend; she was stolen away by a wicked sorcerer. Do you know where they have gone?”

The lady looked faintly amused. She said, “Well, you are a bold child, at least. Why do you think you can save anyone from a sorcerer?”

Elesbed didn’t know. Her voice turned small. “I have to try. And I am clever. Everyone says so.”

“With a quick tongue in your head, to be sure. I have a granddaughter, but I have not seen her in—in a long time. She went mad, you see.”

“Oh,” said Elesbed. “I am sorry.”

“Would you like to come away with me? I could make you a princess in her place.” The bright eyes bored into hers.

Elesbed said, “No, indeed! I do not want to be a princess. My lady Isabeau is practically a princess and they will not let her stir a foot by herself.”