“You lied to us.” His voice cut sharply through the silence. Though I continued staring at the book, I could clearly picture the vein in his throat, the taut muscles of his jaw. “Madame Labelle told us the witch’s name is Cosette Monvoisin, not Alexandra.”
Yes, and she’s currently contemplating how to drain all the blood from your body. Perhaps I should help her. Instead, I chucked Twelve Treatises of Occult Extermination at his head. “You knew I was a snake when you picked me up.”
He caught it before it could break his nose, throwing it back at me. I dodged, and it crumpled to the floor where it belonged. “This isn’t a game!” he shouted. “We are charged with keeping this kingdom safe. You’ve seen the infirmary! Witches are dangerous—”
My hands curled into fists, and the patterns around me flickered wildly. “As if Chasseurs are any less so.”
“We’re trying to protect you!”
“Don’t ask me to apologize, because I won’t!” A ringing started in my ears as I stormed toward him—as I placed both hands on his chest and pushed. When he didn’t budge, a snarl tore from my throat. “I will always protect those who are dear to me. Do you understand? Always.”
I pushed him again, harder this time, but his hands caught my own and trapped them against his chest. He leaned down, raising a copper brow. “Is that so?” His voice was soft again. Dangerous. “Is that why you helped your lover escape?”
Lover? Baffled, I lifted my chin to glare at him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“So you deny it, then? That he’s your lover?”
“I said,” I repeated, staring pointedly at his hands around mine, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Bas isn’t my lover, and he never has been. Now let me go.”
To my surprise, he released me—hastily, as if startled he’d been touching me in the first place—and stepped back. “I can’t protect you if you lie to me.”
I charged to the door without looking at him. “Va au diable.”
Go to hell.
Lord, Have Mercy
Lou
Hushed voices drifted toward us from the sanctuary, and firelight cast shadows on the faces of the icons around us. Yawning, I stared at the one nearest me—a plain woman with a look of supreme boredom on her face. I sympathized.
“I still remember my first attempt. I hit the bull’s-eye straightaway.” The Archbishop chuckled, winding up as old men often do when reliving tales of the past. “Mind you, I was fresh off the street—just turned seven—with not a couronne in my pocket or any experience to my name. Hadn’t even held a bow, let alone fired an arrow. The old bishop proclaimed it an act of God.”
My husband’s lips quirked in response. “I believe it.”
I yawned again. The oratory was stifling, and the wool gown I wore—demure and drab and deliciously warm—didn’t help matters. My eyelids drooped.
It would be an act of God if I made it through the service without snoring.
After the library fiasco, I’d thought it, ah, prudent to accept my husband’s invitation to evening Mass. Though I didn’t know if he believed Ansel’s and my story about learning scripture, he’d latched on to the idea, and I’d spent the remainder of the day memorizing verses. The most diabolical of all punishments.
“‘A continual dropping in a very rainy day and a contentious woman are alike,’” he’d recited, eyeing me irritably and waiting for me to repeat the verse. Still peeved from our earlier argument.
“Rain and men are both pains in the ass.”
He’d scowled but continued. “‘Whosoever hideth her hideth the wind, and the ointment of his right hand, which bewrayeth itself.’”
“Whosoever hideth her . . . something about ointment and a hand . . .” I’d waggled my eyebrows devilishly. “Quel risque! What sort of book is—”
He’d interrupted before I could further impugn his honor, voice hardening. “‘Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.’”
“Iron sharpeneth iron, so you’re being an ass because I, too, am a piece of metal.”
On and on and on it’d gone.
Honestly, the invitation to Mass had been a welcome reprieve.
The Archbishop clasped his shoulder with another hearty chuckle. “I missed the target entirely on my second attempt, of course.”
“You still did better than me. I took a week to hit the target.”