I inched closer to the desk. Though Reid trusted his patriarch implicitly, I knew better. That furtive gleam still shone in his eyes, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be trapped on a bed.
As if reading my mind, he halted—shifted so he was directly in front of the desk drawer. My mouth went dry. “I do care for him. He’s my husband.”
“‘And the great dragon was thrown down, the serpent of old who is called the devil and Satan, who deceives the whole world.’” His eyes flashed. “You are that serpent, Louise. A viper. And I will not allow you to destroy Reid for another moment. I can no longer stand idly by—”
A knock sounded on the door. Brows knitting together angrily, he whirled in a storm of crimson and yellow. “Come in!”
A page boy poked his head inside. “Begging your pardon, Your Eminence, but everyone is waiting for you outside.”
“I am aware,” the Archbishop snapped, “and I will be along to witness the hedonism momentarily. I have business to attend to here first.”
Oblivious to the reprimand, the boy bounced on the balls of his feet in barely contained anticipation. His eyes gleamed with excitement. “But the performance is about to start, sir. They—they told me to come fetch you. The crowd is getting restless.”
An agitated muscle worked in the Archbishop’s jaw. When his steely eyes finally settled on me, I motioned pointedly toward the door, sending up a silent prayer of thanks. “You don’t want to keep them waiting.”
He bared his teeth in a smile. “You shall accompany me, of course.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary—”
“Nonsense.” He actually reached out and grabbed my arm, tucking it firmly beneath his. I flinched away from the contact instinctively, but it was no use. Within seconds, he’d dragged me out into the corridor. “I promised Reid I would stay with you, and stay with you I shall.”
The crowd milled around the wagons eating treats and clutching brown paper packages, noses red from a day of shopping in the cold. The Archbishop waved when he saw them—then stopped short when he noticed the eclectic band of performers on the cathedral steps.
He wasn’t the only one. Those not feasting on macarons and hazelnuts whispered behind their hands in disapproval. One word rose above the rest, a soft hiss repeated over and over in the wind.
Women.
The actors in this troupe were all women.
And not just any women: though they ranged in age from crones to maidens, all held themselves with the telltale grace of artists. Proud and erect, but also fluid. They watched the crowd murmur with impish smiles. Already performing before the show began. The youngest couldn’t have been older than thirteen, and she winked at a man twice her age. He nearly choked on his popcorn.
I don’t know what these idiots had expected. The troupe’s name was Ye Olde Sisters.
“Abominable.” The Archbishop halted at the top of the steps, lip curling. “A woman should never debase herself with such a disreputable profession.”
I smirked and withdrew my arm from his. He didn’t stop me. “I’ve heard they’re very talented.”
At my words, the youngest caught sight of us. Her eyes met mine, and she flashed a mischievous grin. With an imperious toss of her wheat-colored hair, she lifted her hands to the crowd. “Joyeux No?l à tous! Our guest of honor has arrived! Quiet, now, so we might begin our special performance!”
The crowd instantly quieted, and eyes everywhere turned to her in anticipation. She paused, arms still spread wide, to bask in their attention. For someone so young, she held an uncommon amount of confidence. Even the Archbishop stood transfixed. At her nod, the other actors darted into one of the wagons.
“We all know the story of Saint Nicolas, bringer of gifts and protector of children.” She spun in a slow circle, arms still wide. “We know the evil butcher, Père Fouettard, lured the foolish brothers into his meat shop and cut them into little pieces.” She sliced her hand through the air to mimic a knife. Those near her drew back with disapproving looks. “We know Saint Nicolas arrived and defeated Père Fouettard. We know he resurrected the children and returned them safe and whole to their parents.” She inclined her head. “We know this story. We cherish it. It is why we gather every year to celebrate Saint Nicolas.
“But today—today we bring you a different story.” She paused, another naughty smile touching her lips. “Lesser known and darker in nature, but still the tale of a holy man. We shall call him an archbishop.”