I glance down once more before tucking my skirts up into my belt. The Mouse was able to climb the wall, and he is not any smaller or lighter than I am. And if the be-damned Mouse can do it, so can I. I toss a leg over the sill, then begin the long, treacherous climb down into the courtyard.
Chapter 21
By the time my feet make contact with the flagstones, my toes and fingers are cramping and my arms are as weak as wet straw. Ignoring the irate flapping of Fremin’s livid soul, I stay pressed against the wall until I am certain no one has seen my descent.
When I am sure, I hurry over to check the body. The soul follows closely, as if it still had a physical body and could intimidate me. His neck is broken. Keeping an ear out for approaching heartbeats, I place le Poisson’s knife in Fremin’s hand, then remove the length of rope from my belt and tuck it into his. It will look as if he came armed for an abduction.
Outraged by my actions, his soul crashes against the barriers I have erected.
“Begone,” I hiss.
It retreats enough that I can examine my handiwork. That is when I feel another heartbeat. As my hand reaches for my dagger, a voice calls softly through the darkness, “Don’t need your knife. It’s only me.” Lazare steps through the narrow gateway that leads toward the stable yard.
“Well, if this isn’t a most pleasant surprise,” I say, and mean it. “What are you doing here?”
“Beast said to watch your back. You don’t ignore an order from Beast.”
My heart warms. Of course Beast would have left someone to have a care to my well-being. Lazare cranes his neck to gaze up at the window. “That was a bit of a climb.”
Reflexively, I stretch my cramping toes, then shrug. “How much did you see?”
“I saw the clumsy ox reach out too far to close the window and lose his balance.” Whatever else can be said about Lazare, one cannot fault his sharp wit.
“It was a true tragedy.”
“Why d’you think he’s carrying the rope?”
“Because he meant to abduct me, of course. Like he had my sisters.” Our eyes meet, and silent understanding—and admiration—passes between us.
The shared moment is interrupted by the sound of another heartbeat coming. Fast, by the sound of it. I grab Lazare’s arm and pull him back into the shadows near the wall just as Genevieve appears. When she reaches the bottom of the stairs, Fremin’s soul rushes her, and she begins swiping and ducking in an attempt to avoid it.
“Merde,” I mutter.
“Who is she, and what is she doing?”
“That is our five-year-missing assassin from the convent. And I don’t know if she has had any experience with the souls of the dead.” I step from my hiding place, calling out softly, “Genevieve.”
She glances briefly at me, her face relaxing somewhat. She was worried. For me. “Close your mind to it,” I tell her. “As you would a shutter.”
“I’m trying!” she says. With one final swipe of her arm, she seems to be able to repel Fremin’s soul, who moves to squat above his body, glowering at us.
When I reach her side, I study her to see if she is unnerved. “That was a soul.”
“I know.” She doesn’t quite snap, but her words are clipped. “I’ve seen them before. Once before. But I was unprepared for this one.”
“I don’t know that we are ever truly prepared for any of them,” I murmur. “Is anyone with you?”
“No. I was summoned to the king’s chamber when I heard the beating of a heart.”
“You mean you heard it stop?”
“No.” She examines my face in the darkness. “I mean I first heard the heartbeat. I hear them just before they die. Don’t you?”
“No. I hear the heartbeats of the living.”
“A far more useful skill,” she mutters. “You decided to act without my help?” A faint note of hurt seeps into her voice, but is quickly chased away when the angry soul swoops down upon her again.
“No.” I bat at the thing. “Fremin came to my room. An opportunity presented itself, and so I took it.”
Lazare steps out of the shadows. “Seems to me we have some cleanup to do before the two of you get out your stitching and settle in for a nice cozy chat.”
At the sound of his voice, Genevieve whirls around, her hand going to the dagger hidden at her waist. I am pleased to see that her reflexes are good. I give Lazare a shove to get him out of range of Genevieve’s knife. “The only stitching I’ve got in mind is to shut your sneering lips. Genevieve, this is Lazare, one of the charbonnerie who accompanied us to France. Lazare, this is Genevieve.”
“A charbonnerie?” She gapes slightly.
“It’s a long story, one the charbonnerie in question has reminded me we do not have time for.”
Lazare smirks. “So what’s your plan, my lady?”
I gaze up at the night sky, at the darkened windows and the empty staircase. “I think we will leave him here until morning and let others find him.”
“How will you explain that to the guards who let him into your room?”
I tap my finger on my chin, thinking. “I will not be in my room.” I look back at Genevieve. “I was never in my room. The queen requested I attend her the entire night.”
Lazare whistles through his teeth. “Got to admire a queen as accommodating as that,” he says. “I bet this fellow had a horse and a spare saddle in the stables, since he was planning on abducting you.”
“I am sure you’re right.”
Lazare hooks his thumbs in his belt. “I’d best go get to the stables and arrange for such horses to be found.”
“Very well. And you—” As I turn to tell Genevieve what she should do, I see her dodging the soul again. Wondering if she is incompetent or the soul is especially enraged, I let down my own shields and am immediately accosted by a sense of malevolence and a thirst for vengeance so profound it leaves my own throat dry. “We cannot leave this here,” I mutter.
“What?” Genevieve says.
“I said you are to hurry to answer the king’s summons. We can’t risk raising any extra questions tonight. Go back to the palace and continue your evening as if nothing has happened.”
“Of course,” she says, relishing, I think, this chance to be involved even in a small way.
I kneel beside Fremin’s body and take out my knife. “What are you doing?” she asks.
“I can’t leave a soul this angered to flit about, hoping to attach itself to any susceptible passersby. Especially with the queen being with child. It is far too risky.”
“The queen is with child?”
“Yes. One bit of good news.”
“What part of the not having time for stitching and chatting did you not understand?”
I glare at Lazare. “I thought you’d left. Surely you’d best be on your way.”
“Depends on what you’re going to do next.”
What I do next is swipe the edge of my dagger across the pad of my littlest finger. I close my eyes and try to remember exactly how I did it with the murdered sentry back in Rennes, which seems a lifetime ago. Then I reach out and smear the faintest bit of blood across Fremin’s brow. His face is bloody from the fall—cobblestones are not kind to soft human flesh—and one more smear will not draw undue attention. I hate to grant him anything remotely like grace, but it would be worse to leave his soul to turn into a vengeful ghost.
The moment my blood touches his skin, Fremin’s soul comes rushing back to his body, but is caught up, as if in some great, invisible bird’s beak. And then it is gone.
“What was that?” Gen asks.
“I don’t have time to explain,” I tell her, not certain that I can. “Now go. Hurry back to the king. See if you can keep him distracted for the entire evening.”
She shoots me a look filled with disappointment. “No! Not like that.” I wave my hand. “Some other way.”
Mollified, she picks up her skirts, casts one lingering glance at Fremin’s empty body, then hurries
toward the stairs. Lazare stares at me with a bemused expression.
“What?”
He shakes his head. “You are just a never-ending source of tricks, aren’t you? You sure it’s Mortain you serve?” And with that, he saunters off to the stables.
No, I want to call after him. I am not sure at all any longer.
Chapter 22