Courting Darkness (His Fair Assassin 4)

“Wha haf you done ter me?” he slurs.

“There, there, now,” I assure him as I get my arm around his waist and steer him toward the door. “It is just a bit of poison.”

“Poyshum!” The garbled word is filled with alarm. Fortunately, the poison has not reached his legs yet and I am able to clumsily guide him out of the sparring room toward the oubliette.

“Ewe poyshumed mme.” His lips have grown numb and are tinged with blue.

“It isn’t enough to kill you. Or it shouldn’t be, at any rate. With luck, you will just sleep for a bit.”

“Can’t schleep. Mussht eshcape.” When we are only halfway to the grate, his entire body stiffens briefly, then grows utterly limp and begins to slip to the floor.

Figs! He is too heavy for me to hold up. I have no choice but to let him fall.

As I fold my arms and stare down at his motionless form stretched out on the stone, a dark swirl of emotions writhes inside my heart. I cannot believe what he has done. Cannot believe that, once again, I have allowed myself to be lulled into trusting someone.

Resisting the urge to kick him, I get down on my knees and roll his unconscious body toward the grate. The only thing keeping me from feeling like a fool is that I have always known this was a possibility and prepared accordingly. It is that very planning that has stopped him today.

It is the hollowest of victories.

By the time I reach the oubliette, I am hot and sweating and angrier than ever.

I briefly consider going down first to make sure his pile of moldy straw is directly beneath the grate to soften his landing, then scoff at myself. He held a sword to my throat and was going to escape—?after all I’d done for him and the assurances he’d given.

I study his sleeping face, trying to see if the signs of his treachery are written upon it. If they are, I cannot see them, even now. I have half a mind to pry open his mouth and inspect his tongue to see if it is forked. Instead, I place my hands on his shoulders and hips and roll him into the opening of the oubliette. He folds in half and disappears down the hole, followed by a solid thunk as he hits the floor.

I sit on my knees a moment, breathing hard, then stand up, slam the grate closed, slide the bolt in, and lock it. Our sparring sessions have come to an end. And I was the one who emerged victorious. Now all that is left for me to do is leave.

Chapter 50

Sybella

e give it a week before we make our move—?enough time for the household to fall into a recognizable rhythm. Waking, mass, dinner with entertainment. In the afternoon, the king pays a visit to the queen. Inevitably, the regent contrives to be there just prior to his arrival.

But this morning when the regent and her retinue arrive to oversee her toilette, the queen is already out of bed, washed, and dressed. I stand on her right, Aeva on her left. Heloise, Elsibet, and the others stand behind us, a solid phalanx. “Good morning, Madame Regent. Would you care to accompany us to the chapel?” The queen’s invitation is delivered in the most dulcet tones, as if she would like nothing more than for the regent to accompany us.

The regent’s mouth crimps in annoyance. “But we shall be quite early if we leave now.” Her faint note of dismay nearly makes up for the extra time I will be forced to endure chapel.

The queen gives her a sunny smile. “That will give us all the more time to pray.” She nods cheerfully to us, and we fall in line behind her as she leads the way. The regent has no choice but to follow or be left behind.

* * *

The next morning, the regent arrives even earlier, but we have anticipated this and are dressed and waiting for her. This time, she gets the message, and when mass is over, we are all yawning our fool heads off. The queen is so tired from our early mornings that she falls asleep immediately after lunch before the king has even come for his daily visit. Disgusted, the regent collects most of her ladies and leaves. As she passes me, she pauses. The spiteful gleam in her eye has my fingers itching for my knife.

Her hooded gaze sweeps over me. “The queen takes great strength from you, doesn’t she, Lady Sybella?” Before I can respond to her observation, she sweeps out of the room. Moments later, the king arrives for his afternoon visit.

Heloise offers to go wake the queen from her nap, but he stops her. “No,” he says. “Let me. I have always wanted to wake a sleeping princess.” The women smile at this bit of romantic foolery as they quietly open the door for him.

He does not emerge from her room for the rest of the afternoon, which gives me plenty of time to wrestle with the regent’s words—?were they an acknowledgment that we had won the rout, or a threat?

* * *

During our first week here, I have had time to identify a handful of attendants who might have come from the convent. They are of the right age, with hair that could possibly be described as Genevieve’s was. But that is so little to go on. I do not even know if they are using their real names or have taken different ones.

Instead, I have had to look for contradictions or inconsistencies. Women who keep to themselves, or those who allow themselves to be separated from the group and thus provide opportunities to be approached, have ended up on my list. I have also noted those who seem most interested in the queen, or those who feign exaggerated disinterest—?as both could indicate a spy’s strategy.

This morning as everyone files out of the chapel, I wait for one of the regent’s attendants who is exceptionally devout, outpraying even the duchess.

What better way to keep attention from inconsistencies in one’s own faith?

She also wears an elaborate rosary that reminds me of the one the convent made for me when I was first sent out, its heavy ornate cross easily able to serve as the hilt for a hidden dagger.

Her name—?Honorée—?shows possibilities as well. It is a sly choice for one who has been sent to spy. And Mortain knows we could use a spy’s insight to the regent and her plots.

When she finally rises from her knees to follow the others, I slip out of the last pew where I’ve been waiting. As I fall into step alongside her, she draws back slightly, trying to put space between us.

I give her a warm smile of greeting, but all I receive in return is a cool nod. I press on. “Forgive me for intruding, but I have been admiring your rosary. It is exquisite, and I wondered if you might tell me where you had it made.”

She clutches the string of beads in her hand as if fearing I will take it from her on the spot. “It has been in my family for well over two hundred years. I would not even know where to suggest you look for something of comparable quality.”

My initial disappointment is quickly overtaken by annoyance. “That is too bad, as it has drawn the queen’s eye. But thank you for the courtesy you have shown me. I shall be certain to report your kindness to the queen.” The smile I give her is warm enough to melt butter, but I make certain it does not reach my eyes, wanting the sharp-tongued shrew to stew in the knowledge she has just landed on the wrong side of the queen.

Chapter 51

Genevieve

t does not take long for my conscience to poke at me. I decide to check on the prisoner to be certain he d

id not break something in the fall and has recovered from the poison. Even in small doses, it can be unpredictable.

Besides, I feel I should tell him I won’t be returning. Not that he deserves even that much.

There is no call of greeting or noise of any kind as I approach the oubliette. I pause for a moment and listen in the darkness to see if I can feel an extra heartbeat, wondering if I have miscalculated the poison. But no. There is no heartbeat except mine inside my chest.

When I reach the iron grate, I set my sack of food down and kneel to unlock the padlock. “Are you dead?” I put a healthy dose of cheer into my voice. He need never know how much his betrayal stung.

A deep groan of misery rises up from the darkness. “I wish it were so,” he mutters.

I slide back the bolt and hoist open the grate. Instead of lowering myself down into the hole, I gather my skirts and sit the floor, allowing my legs to dangle into the oubliette as if it were a cool stream on a hot summer day. “What hurts?” I ask. “Your stomach or your head?”

“Everything,” he growls.

“Yes, but which hurts most? I don’t know if you broke any bones when I dumped you back into your hole. If your skull is cracked, it might be best if you don’t eat quite yet.”

There is a faint whisper of movement as he checks his head. “I don’t feel any lumps or cracks. And everything moves more or less as it ought to.”

“Well, that is good news.” I take a pear from the sack and bite into it, letting the fragrant juice drip down into the oubliette.

“What happened? What did you do to me?”

“I stabbed you with a poisoned needle. But don’t worry. It wasn’t a fatal dose. You’ll feel sick for another day or so and then be back to your normal, treacherous self.”

My own voice is jovial, happy even, as if his actions have had no impact on me. “Are you hungry?”

He groans again. “Yes. No. Maybe. My stomach feels ungodly empty, but it also roils like a boiling pot. I’m not sure I could eat.”