But as soon as I close my eyes, the image of Margot lying in a pool of her own blood rises up, seared into my vision.

The horror of it shoves me from the wall, forcing me to keep moving.

After a while, I have no idea how long, I find myself standing by the grate, staring down into the oubliette. I want to forget. More than anything right now, I wish to forget.

Exhaustion sets in, and my legs slowly fold under me. I lean forward, pressing my body against the cold stone floor.

“Hello?” the prisoner calls softly. “Is it you?” His voice is laced with concern, but I cannot bring myself to answer, afraid of what will come out of my mouth if I dare open it.

“Are you well?” he whispers now, his voice coming from directly beneath the grate. I lift my hand and place it on the grate so he will see that it is me.

“Another heart wound?” he asks softly.

“Yes.” The word bursts from me, more gasp than answer. Say it, I tell myself. You cannot hide from it forever. “She is dead.” My throat closes up, and my mouth gapes open in a silent wail I can no more stop than I could the storm. I stuff my fist into my mouth, determined that no sound will escape.

I thought I knew death. Understood it. Studied it so that it was familiar to me. But nothing at the convent has prepared me for this—?this pain and desolation and sense of having someone ripped from my heart.

Especially someone I no longer even liked. Who had earned my animosity and was happy to toss it back in my face. “How can I feel this way about someone I have grown to hate?”

The prisoner shifts on his straw. When it comes, his deep voice feels like the most solid thing in a world gone mad. “Sometimes,” he says softly, “the death of those we hate is harder to bear than that of those we love.” A sense of some old hidden pain floats up from the oubliette, mingling with mine. “I think once they are dead, all the things that might have been, all the truces that might have been called, all the broken pieces that might have been mended, are now sealed for all time. It is final, this hate.”

Oh, how he is right. That hate, which should have protected me, does not. The world has been altered in some irrevocable way that I cannot mend or put back together.

“Breathe.” The prisoner’s voice comes again out of the dark. “A slow, deep breath in, then out.”

“I’m trying,” I snap, but my words catch on a sob.

“Just keep trying.” His voice is as patient as the standing stones at the convent. “Your body will remember, even if you cannot. Deep breath in . . . out.” In the silence that follows, I hear him take in a deep breath of his own, then slowly let it out. When he takes the next breath, my own lungs respond, following his lead, filling themselves with air. And slowly, in the darkness, with his words as my guide, I relearn how to breathe in this new, broken world.

Chapter 23

Sybella

ephanie grasps her knife awkwardly, glancing up at me with a hopeful look in her eye. “Like this, my lady?” Her voice is pitched low so as not to wake the girls.

“No.” I reach out and adjust her grip. Her fingers are stiff, but I manage to coax them into the right position. “Like that.” When I look up, she is blushing. I step back and pretend I haven’t noticed. “Do you remember the strike I showed you the first night?”

“Yes, my lady.” Her movements are stilted and leaden, as if she has never used those muscles before and her mind must struggle to direct the movement.

“There you are! You’re getting the feel of it now.”

A quick knock interrupts us, and the door opens to reveal a young page standing breathless in the doorway. “Beast has returned, my lady. He just rode into the stables.”

The relief that floods my body is so complete that for a moment I am as boneless as a piece of old rope. “Thank you.” As he takes his leave, I turn back to Tephanie. “It is getting late, and your arms are trembling with fatigue. It is probably a good time for us to stop.”

“Of course, my lady. That is our reason for stopping. Not because Sir Waroch has returned.” Her eyes gleam with rare mischief that is like watching the sun peek out from behind a cloud. I cannot help but smile. I snag a small linen towel from the back of one of the chairs and toss it at her. “Hush, you.” She smirks happily as she blots her face with the towel.

Beast is back.

I return my knife to its sheath, lift my cloak from its hook, and pull it around my shoulders. “You will likely be asleep when I return, so I will see you in the morning.”

Outside the room, Aeva considers me with an air of suspicion. “Where are you off to at this late hour?”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Not that it is any of your business, but Sir Waroch has returned, and I wish to know what he learned of my brother.” Then I soften. Since they are guarding my sisters, they deserve the whole truth. “It is not widely known, but Louise is the daughter of Sir Waroch’s beloved late sister. He cares for her welfare as much as I do.”

Aeva’s calculating look is replaced with one of understanding.

“Now go inside, sit by the fire, and make yourselves comfortable. I’m sure Tephanie will enjoy the company.”

After they let themselves into the chamber, it is all I can do not to take the stairs two at a time. Joy and relief beat against my ribs. He is alive! And likely unharmed if he was able to ride.

The stable yard is dark and nearly deserted except for a handful of posted sentries. A lone lantern draws my eye. Beast is stripped to the waist, washing himself in icy water that spurts from the pump. Yannic works the lever with one hand while holding a bundle of clean, dry clothes in the other.

Beast cups another handful of water, causing his bulging muscles and sinew to flex. The lantern light reflects off the faint rivulets of water that trail down the myriad scars covering his thickly muscled arms and back. Every time I see those scars, I wonder anew that he has been able to survive so much damage and live. Beast has claimed it is a gift from Saint Camulos himself, that the saint’s followers heal quickly. Perhaps that is so, but I suspect his own iron will and pigheadedness have something to do with it as well.

Beast stops washing and lifts his head, his gaze going unerringly to mine from clear across the yard. He reaches out to Yannic, who lets go of the pump and hands him a towel. After scrubbing himself dry, he trades the towel for a shirt, tugs it over his head, and begins making his way across the yard.

I want to launch myself at him, to feel with my skin and bones that he is whole and safe. I want to fuss and cluck at him like a mother hen, which would only embarrass us both, so I clasp my hands firmly behind me. “You’re back.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed.” Drops of water still cling to his thick, spiky lashes, making his eyes stand out in the torchlight.

Unable to help myself, I reach out and put my finger on his cheek to wipe away an errant drop of water. “Well, you are large and ugly and take up a lot of room.”

He steps closer. “Fortunately, you have more than enough beauty for both of us.” He shakes his head. “I deserve you as much as an ox deserves to drink from a crystal goblet.”

I snort. “Where you see a crystal goblet, the rest of the world sees chipped, cracked earthenware. Trust me,

my beauty is only skin deep. My soul has more lumps and scars than you ever will.”

“Mayhap that is why I love it so.” There is no more space between us, just the immovable solidness of his chest, the planes of his stomach. “Do you wish to know what hap—”

I place my fingers upon his lips. “Later. Now it is enough that you are back.”

“You were worried?” He sounds both pleased and disbelieving.

Worried is far too small a word to contain the all-consuming fear and dread I felt in the days he was gone. “No, you lummox. I would never worry about someone as hardheaded and stubborn as you.”

“You are adorable when you lie.” His voice is naught but a deep rumble.

“I am never adorable.” I place my hands around his neck. “And if you do not kiss me,” I whisper against the side of his jaw, “I will be forced to stab you instead, and that would get blood all over the cobblestones.”

His warm breath grazes my cheek. “The sweetness of your courtship is impossible to resist.”

“It is one of my gifts.” I slowly pull his head lower until his lips are close enough for me to reach. When our lips touch, all the fear and worry and shame and anger I have held close for the last three days vanishes.

Like some great alchemist trick, Beast pulls all of that from me, taking all of it in so that I am left only with joy at his safe return. And wanting. So much wanting. The want curls deep in my belly with velvet hooks. I take fistfuls of his shirt, heat radiating from his skin and the warm, solid muscle beneath it. His hands on me are both heavy with strength and as light as those of a lute player. I want to feel those hands all over my body. To know that he is safe with every inch of my skin. To have there be no more distance between us.

Tags: Robin LaFevers His Fair Assassin Fantasy
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