“And Ismae’s lover.” Sybella’s whisper in my ear just as I sink into a curtsy causes my head to snap up. So that is why she wrote to me asking whether or not the convent allowed initiates to have lovers.
“This is Annith,” Ismae continues. “One of Sybella’s and my sisters from the convent.”
“Good,” Duval says with a firm nod. “We can always use another assassin as this hornets’ nest thickens.”
I am warmed by his quick easy acceptance of me as well as by his obvious pleasure at having another assassin at court. I will need to gather as much support as possible to avoid being summarily sent packing by the abbess.
A small tempest erupts behind me. It is not movement or even noise—it is more as if a windstorm of violent displeasure has arrived. I am not at all surprised when I turn around and see the abbess. Her face is bone-white and her brows drawn down into two furious slashes. “Sybella.”
Sybella’s face goes eerily still, then she slowly turns to the other woman. “Reverend Mother.” Her voice is as flat as a blade of trampled grass.
The abbess waits for a moment, expecting Sybella to come to her. When Sybella does not, the abbess’s jaw twitches, but she lifts her skirts and descends the stairs so that whatever she is about to say will not be heard by the entire courtyard full of people. It does not work, however, for all of them can sense the storm brewing in their midst, and they all stop to watch.
Her eyes are as frigid as ice. “You disobeyed me?” Her voice is terrible in its softness, as if she has slipped velvet over a hammer just before she intends to use it.
Keeping her gaze fixed on the abbess’s, Sybella grips either side of her shabby gown and dips into a perfect, reverent curtsy. When she rises, she lifts her chin, ever so slightly. “Count d’Albret is dead. My duty to the convent is fulfilled, and I will no longer serve you.”
I gasp; I cannot help it. Beside me, Ismae stiffens, but the abbess does not so much as blink. Indeed, I think I discern a small glint of triumph in her gaze. “You no longer wish to serve as Death’s handmaiden, then? You no longer wish to be a daughter of Mortain?”
“Oh, I am His daughter, and I plan to serve Him all the rest of my days. I simply do not need you or the convent in order to do so.” And with that, she loops one of her arms through Ismae’s and the other one through my own and pulls us away from the abbess. I can feel the roar of victory thrumming through her as she leads us toward the palace door.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
ONCE WE ARE INSIDE, Ismae leads us toward a different part of the palace than I have been in before. She stops in the hall to order a servant to have a bath prepared in the room. As the maid hurries away, Sybella gives me a sly, knowing smile. “Has she told you of her lover?”
I spear Ismae with an accusing look. “No, she has not.”
Greatly discomfited, Ismae blushes and glances around to see if anyone overheard, but we are alone. “He is not my lover.”
Sybella raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “So, you have not lain with him and—”
“He is my betrothed.”
Sybella and I both stop walking, our linked arms forcing Ismae to stop as well. “Your what?” I ask at the same time that Sybella says, “Praise the Nine! He’s convinced you, then?”
“Shh!” Ismae glances around once more, then lengthens her stride, pulling us along behind her like a farmer dragging stubborn sheep to market. Finally, she reaches for one of the closed doors, opens it, and fair shoves us inside. “Yes.” She blows out a breath. “He’s convinced me. We’ve agreed that if—when—the duchess has this French threat well behind her, we will marry.”
So many questions crowd my tongue that they become entangled and all I can manage is a sputtered “You? Married?” I cannot believe this of Ismae, Ismae who hated men so much that it was the very promise of killing them that had her embracing her role at the convent.
She turns to me. “I told you we have much to catch up on.”
“But wait.” I put my hand on her arm. “Aren’t you already married? I mean, to the pig farmer?”
“No. The abbess had that annulled my first year at the convent.”
“B-but . . .” I still cannot wrap my mind around this. “You said you would never—”
Ismae huffs out a sigh. “You do not need to remind me what I said. I have had plenty of occasions to eat those words.”
“But what of your other concerns?” Sybella asks quietly as she begins unwinding the linen coif from her head. “Your worry of giving someone so much power over you?”
Ismae crosses to the fireplace, takes up the poker leaning against the wall, and stirs the embers to life. “I trust him,” she says. “It is that simple.”
Sybella barks out a laugh, but it is not as sharp as it once would have been. “Trust is never simple.”
“Do you trust Beast?”
Sybella pauses in her undressing. “With my life,” she says.
Ismae had warned me, but seeing Sybella’s face soften with love as she speaks of Beast drives home the force of her feelings for him in a visceral way.
Ismae glances at me in sorrow and then looks down. “I am sorry, but like Sybella, I cannot in good conscience serve the convent any longer. Not after what the abbess has put her through, and not after what you have told me. I will continue to serve Mortain all the rest of my days, but I am not beholden to the convent, only to my god and myself.”
“As His mercy,” Sybella murmurs.
Ismae’s head snaps up. “What did you say?”
Sybella looks over to meet her gaze. “You will serve as His mercy, and I His justice. Those are the roles He has chosen for us.”
“How do you know this?”
Sybella shrugs. “I too came face to face with our Father, and it was exactly as you said. He loves us with a love beyond our imagining, a love of such acceptance and grace that nothing we do—not even turning away from Him—can destroy it.”
The world tilts dizzily as I am assailed by an entire host of conflicting emotions. Joy, that Sybella has clearly found such peace and happiness. Relief, that yet another one of His handmaidens has seen Him, thus removing the possible significance of my own brief sighting years ago. But I am also filled with a nearly unbearable sense of loss. My seeing Him is no longer a sign of any uniqueness on my part. Not only that, but my two friends have been given roles as His instruments here on earth, whereas I have yet to receive a single order from Him.
The knock at the door pulls me from my self-pity, and a bevy of maidservants enter, carrying a tub and kettles full of s
teaming water. As they bustle about their duties, I turn my mind to the puzzle of the convent. It is a relief to see that Ismae and Sybella are plagued by the same doubts and concerns that I have, but they are willing to walk away from it. I do not see how I can abandon Florette and Lisabet and Aveline and Loisse to the abbess’s machinations. Besides, Ismae and Sybella each have something—someone—to walk to.
A sudden pang of loss twists sharply in my side, and an image of Balthazaar’s dark, brooding eyes fills my mind. I should not miss him so. Not only is he likely hunting me, but his long penance hints at crimes too terrible to speak of. He is a creature of the Underworld, trapped on his path to redemption for who knows how long. There is no future for us, and even the present puts me in jeopardy. And yet I do miss him. He fits so comfortably into the contours of my own silences and doubts.
When the tub is finally full, Ismae dismisses the maids and the room is once again silent. She turns to Sybella. “Enough of such small talk. I want to know how your mission went.”
A cloud passes over Sybella’s face, then she slips her arms out of her gown and lets it fall to the floor. She pulls her shift over her head then walks to the tub. I marvel at how easily she moves in her nakedness; she always has.
“Tell us,” Ismae says once she has settled in the water.
Sybella’s eyes grow bleak and she busies herself with the soap and sponge. “It is done,” she says. “Count d’Albret is as good as dead—would be dead, but Mortain Himself refused to accept him into the Underworld, a promise He made to my mother and others whom d’Albret has killed. D’Albret’s black soul has been sundered from his body, which will wither and rot like a corpse for Mortain Himself only knows how long. So the duchess is safe from him.”
“And you?”
I do not understand the gentleness in Ismae’s voice, for Sybella has never been squeamish and I cannot imagine why she would be racked with regret. But Sybella’s smile looks so fragile that I fear she might shatter.
“I will be fine. I got to my sisters in time, so they are safe. But Pierre is still alive and will no doubt take up the d’Albret mantle.”