He paused, looking between us expectantly.
“I’m listening,” I muttered. The Chasseur nodded stiffly.
“Excellent. It’s quite simple, really—marriage.”
I stared at him, mouth falling open.
He chuckled, but the sound was without mirth. “As your wife, Reid, this distasteful creature would belong to you. You would’ve had every right to pursue her, to discipline her, especially after her indiscretions last night. It would have been expected. Necessary, even. There would have been no crime committed, no impurity to disparage. You would remain a Chasseur.”
I laughed. It came out a strangled, desperate sound. “I’m not marrying anyone.”
The Archbishop didn’t share my laughter. “You will if you wish to avoid a public lashing and imprisonment. Though I’m not chief of the constabulary, he is a dear friend.”
I gaped at him. “You can’t blackmail me—”
He waved a hand as if swatting an irksome fly. “It is the sentence that awaits a thief. I would advise you to think very carefully about this, child.”
I appealed to the Chasseur, determined to keep a level head despite the panic clawing up my throat. “You can’t want this. Please, tell him to find another way.”
“There is no other way,” the Archbishop interjected.
The Chasseur stood very still indeed. He seemed to have stopped breathing.
“You are like a son to me, Reid.” The Archbishop reached up to clasp the Chasseur’s shoulder—a mouse comforting an elephant. Some disconnected part of my mind wanted to laugh. “Do not throw away your life—your promising career, your oath to God—for the sake of this heathen. Once she is your wife, you can lock her in the closet and never think of her again. You would have the legal right to do whatever you please with her.” He shot him a meaningful look. “This arrangement would also solve . . . other matters.”
Blood finally returned to the Chasseur’s face—no, flooded his face. It raced up his throat and into his cheeks, burning hotter than even his eyes. His jaw clenched. “Sir, I—”
But I didn’t hear him. Saliva coated my mouth, and my vision narrowed. Marriage. To a Chasseur. There had to be another way, any other way—
Bile rose in my throat, and before I could stop it, I heaved a spectacular arc of vomit onto the Archbishop’s feet. He leapt away from me with a disgusted cry.
“How dare you—！” He raised a fist to strike me once more, but the Chasseur moved with lightning swiftness. His hand caught the Archbishop’s wrist.
“If this woman is to be my wife,” he said, swallowing hard, “you will not touch her again.”
The Archbishop bared his teeth. “You agree, then?”
The Chasseur released his wrist and looked at me, a deeper blush creeping up his throat. “Only if she does.”
His words reminded me of Coco.
Take care of yourself.
Only if you do.
Coco had said I needed to find protection. I stared up at the copper-haired Chasseur, at the Archbishop still rubbing his wrist. Perhaps protection had found me.
Andre, Grue, the constabulary, her . . . none of them could harm me if I had a Chasseur as a husband. Even the Chasseurs themselves would cease to be a threat—if I could keep up the act. If I could avoid doing magic near them. They’d never know I was a witch. I’d be hidden in plain sight.
But . . . I’d also have a husband.
I didn’t want a husband. Didn’t want to be shackled to anyone in marriage, especially someone as stiff and self-righteous as this Chasseur. But if marriage was my only alternative to spending life in prison, perhaps it was the most agreeable option. It certainly was the only option that would get me out of this theater unchained.
After all, I still had Angelica’s Ring. I could always escape after the marriage certificate was signed.
Right. I straightened my shoulders and raised my chin. “I’ll do it.”
The Ceremony
Reid
Shouts escalated outside the theater, but I barely heard them. Blood roared in my ears. It drowned out every other sound: their cries for justice, the Archbishop’s sympathy.
But not her footsteps. I heard every one of those.
Light. Lighter than mine. But more erratic. Less measured.
I focused on them, and the roaring in my ears gradually quieted. I could hear the theater manager and constabulary now, trying to calm the crowd.
I resisted the urge to unsheathe my Balisarda as the Archbishop opened the doors. My legs locked up, and my skin felt somehow hot and cold at the same time—and too small. Much too small. It itched and pricked as every eye on the street turned toward us. A small, warm hand rested on my arm.