His expression hardened, though pink still bloomed in his cheeks. “No. No more talking. No more humming. No more singing. Just—just stop being you for a little while, eh?”
“I can’t make any promises,” I said seriously. “But if you gave me a tour . . .”
“Not happening.”
Fine.
“‘Big Willy Billy talked sort of silly,’” I bellowed, “‘but his knob was long as his—’”
“Stop, STOP.” Ansel waved his hands, cheeks flaming anew. “I’ll take you on a tour—just, please, please stop singing about . . . that!”
I rose to my feet, clasping my hands together and beaming.
Voilà.
Unfortunately, Ansel started our tour with the vast halls of Saint-Cécile. More unfortunate—he knew an absurd amount about each architectural feature of the cathedral, as well as the history of each relic and effigy and stained-glass window. After listening to his intellectual prowess for the first fifteen minutes, I’d been mildly impressed. The boy was clearly intelligent. After listening to him for the next four hours, however, I’d longed to shatter the monstrance over his head. It’d been a reprieve when he’d concluded the tour for dinner, promising to continue tomorrow.
But he’d almost looked . . . hopeful. As if at some point during our tour, he’d started enjoying himself. As if he weren’t used to having anyone’s undivided attention, or perhaps having anyone listen to him at all. That hope in his doe-like eyes had quashed my urge to inflict bodily harm.
I couldn’t, however, be distracted from my purpose.
When Ansel knocked on my door the next morning, my husband left us without a word, disappearing to wherever it was he went during the day. After the rest of my wardrobe had been delivered, we’d suffered a tense, silent evening together before I’d retired to the bathtub. His journal—and Célie’s letters—had both mysteriously disappeared.
Ansel turned to me hesitantly. “Do you still want to finish your tour?”
“About that.” I squared my shoulders, determined not to waste another day learning about a bone that might once have belonged to Saint Constantin. “As thrilling as our excursion was yesterday, I want to see the Tower.”
“The Tower?” He blinked in confusion. “But there’s nothing here you haven’t already seen. The dormitories, dungeon, commissary—”
“Nonsense. I’m sure I haven’t seen everything.”
Ignoring his frown, I pushed him out the door before he could protest.
It took another hour—after feigning interest in the Tower’s stables, training yard, and twenty-three cleaning closets—before I finally managed to drag Ansel back to the metal spiral staircase.
“What’s up there?” I asked, planting my feet when he tried to lead me back to the dormitories.
“Nothing,” he said swiftly.
“You’re a terrible liar.”
He tugged on my arm harder. “You’re not allowed up there.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re not.”
“Ansel.” I stuck out my lip, wrapping my arms around his skinny bicep and batting my lashes. “I’ll behave. I promise.”
He glowered at me. “I don’t believe you.”
I dropped his arm and frowned. I had not just wasted the past hour waltzing about the Tower with a pubescent boy—however adorable he might be—to trip at the finish line. “Fine. Then you leave me no choice.”
He eyed me warily. “What are you—”
He broke off as I turned and dashed up the staircase. Though he was taller, I’d guessed correctly: he wasn’t yet used to his gangling height, and his limbs were a mess of awkwardness. He stumbled after me, but it wasn’t much of a chase. I’d already raced up several flights before he’d worked out how to use his legs.
Skidding slightly at the top, I peered in dismay at the Chasseur sitting guard outside the door—no, sleeping outside the door. Propped up in a rickety chair, he snored softly, his chin drooping to his chest and drool dampening his pale blue coat. I darted around him to the door, heart leaping when the handle turned. More doors lined the walls of the corridor beyond at regular intervals, but they weren’t what made me lurch to a halt.
No. It was the air. It swirled around me, tickling my nose. Sweet and familiar . . . with just a hint of something darker lurking underneath. Something rotten.
You’re here you’re here you’re here, it breathed.