nd drawing me closer. I open my mouth to him, pressing my hands against his chest, feeling the heat of him and the racing of his heart.

He pulls his mouth from mine. “Sybella.” It is a wish, a vow, a prayer.

I do not know when I will see him again—?if I will see him again. I want my body to remember this—?the press of his flesh, the cording of his muscles as he holds his strength in check, the desperate hunger of his mouth that is both gentle and demands my very soul.

Wanting the imprint of this moment to stay with me forever, I reach up to unlace the bodice of my gown, slip my arms from my sleeves and press my body along the length of his.

When our skin touches, I am reminded of the Dark Mother and how she causes life to rise up out of our darkest moments. Surely that is true, for the touch of men once brought nothing but shame and despair. But now it brings hope and light, even when I have no reason to believe in either. I wrap my arms more tightly around Beast’s neck until I can no longer be certain where my soul ends and his begins.

Chapter 87

Genevieve

hen I descend into the grand hall for dinner, I am dressed in Perrette du Bois’s best finery. I try to ignore her as she glares daggers at my back, not only for relieving her of her best gown, but for having come so firmly under the personal attention of Madame Regent.

The hall is aglow with candlelight and flames from the fires roaring in the giant fireplaces. Music plays in the background. The king sits at his high table, and I cannot decide if I am sad or relieved that the queen is not in attendance. I would like to see her for myself, at least once. Through the convent, I have served her all these years. I cannot help but feel that if I could see her face, take her measure, I would better understand why she chose to abandon the convent. If it was her choice.

The fact that she is not present confirms my assumption that she and the king have already grown tired of each other’s company—?if they ever cared for each other to begin with. It is admittedly less awkward to pursue my designs on the king in her absence.

I am placed with Madame’s other attendants at one of the lower tables. None of them speaks to me much—?offended as they are on Perrette’s behalf and threatened by the favor the regent has shown me. Ignoring them, I pretend to be absorbed in the fine food and the entertainment.

In truth, the food is as tasteless to me as dirt, and the music fair gives me a headache. No, not the music, but the din of the voices and laughter of the courtiers. I have been gone from Cognac for less than ten days, but it feels a lifetime ago, and my taste for the pomp and hypocrisy of court life has run dry.

That I actually prefer the raucous and coarse company of the mummers or even Maraud’s mercenary friends should not surprise me. Those are my roots, after all. And these gathered nobles and sycophants cannot see past their own interests or station. The entire spectacle feels as shallow as a poorly dug grave.

The king, alone at his table, is not as subtle in his interest as he should be. Perhaps it is due to boredom—?for who wishes to sit alone at the dinner table? While it is intended as a reflection of the king’s status, to someone who was raised such as he was—?shut away in a castle with naught but his mother and a few men of mediocre wit or intelligence for company—?it would feel far more like a punishment. One more way to announce to the world his loneliness.

Our eyes meet, and I look away. I do not even have to pretend to blush, for my cheeks grow red at having been caught thinking of him thus.

Our exchange of glances is quickly noted by the other ladies in waiting and does nothing to further endear me to them. I can already imagine their plots to inform the regent of this development.

I smile into my goblet. If they are looking for her to intervene, they will be sorely disappointed.

When the final dishes have been cleared, four of the lower tables are removed to make room for dancing. As the first chords strike up, the king rises from his table and makes his way to me. Could he not have at least waited until the third or fourth dance? Or until the dance floor was full of others before approaching?

In a rustle of bows and curtsies, the crowd parts before him, and curious whispers follow in his wake. When he stops in front of me, I curtsy deeply. Without a word, he smiles and takes my hand to lead me to the dance floor. As if by some silent arrangement, other courtiers follow suit, remaining a respectful distance away.

We take our positions, standing side by side. “You look beautiful in that gown.”

I raise my hand to his, our fingers lightly touching. “Your Majesty is too kind,” I demur.

We take three steps forward and rise up on our toes before he speaks again. “I cannot help but hope you are as happy to see me as I am you.”

I glance up at him, my eyes wide with surprise. “But of course, Your Majesty! I am honored that you even remember me, let alone wish to spend time in my company.”

He throws back his head and laughs. For one brief dizzying moment, a different laugh echoes in my ears, one accompanied by dark stubble and white teeth. “Ah, Genevieve.” The king’s voice quickly chases away the memory. “You do yourself a disservice by underestimating the hold you have.” His eyes capture mine again, commanding my attention, his face growing serious.

I avert my gaze. “Your Majesty. Please. You will have the entire court talking.”

The music causes us to step toward each other and bow. He leans in close. “Let them talk. If a king cannot incite his own courtiers to gossip, he is not truly a king.”

The truth in his words causes the corners of my lips to turn up in a reluctant smile. “Touché, Your Majesty.” And then the moves of the dance force us apart; I go to the gentleman on my right and the king to the lady on his left. I ignore my new partner’s open curiosity and focus instead on the movements I must perform.

We change partners twice more until I am once again paired with the king, his hand holding my fingers in a firm grip rather than the light touch dictated by the dance. “Tell me, Genevieve.” His voice is a low murmur. He does not look at me but straight ahead. “If I were to send for you, would you come? You broke my heart once. I do not think I could stand for you to do it again.”

Before I can reply, the music stops and we must all bow and curtsy. As I kneel before him, my gaze flies to his. “Oh, Your Majesty! Surely I could not have broken your heart! I do not think I could bear such a burden. I thought you were simply being kind and chivalrous in paying me such honor.”

The king extends his arm and leads me from the dance floor. “Does that mean you will come?”

I cast my eyes down. “Yes, Your Majesty,” I whisper. “If you send for me, I will come.”

There is a long beat of silence. When I finally look up, he is smiling. He bows deeply and raises my hand to his lips, careful to turn it so that the palm is exposed before kissing it. Then he folds my hand to enclose the kiss.

“I will send for you.” His voice is low and faintly rough with his desire. “You may count on it.”

Chapter 88

Sybella

arly the next morning, before nearly anyone else is up, I bid Charlotte and Louise goodbye. Louise stands near Tephanie, watching with worried eyes as the girl packs a few belongings into a satchel. Charlotte is sitting near the fire, carefully trimming her fingernails with her small knife. It is such a perfect mirror image of what her father used to do that it’s like a fist to my heart. I want to yank the knife from her hand, as if in doing so I can snatch the d’Albret legacy from her slender shoulders.

“But why are we going away? Will Sybella be going too?” Louise asks.

“No, silly,” Charlotte says without looking up. “She is too busy attending to the queen to have time to look after us.”

Her words are another fist to my bruised heart. I have explained it to her. Does she not believe me, or does she simply delight in worrying Louise?

Just then, Charlotte looks up and sees me in the doorway. I hold my finger to my lips and walk silentl

y to Louise, place my hands lightly over her eyes. “Who is speaking ill of the wonderful and magnificent Sybella?” I ask in a low, gruff voice.

She squeals in glee and whirls around, throwing her arms around my waist. “Only Charlotte, and only because she is showing off with her knife.”

I hug her, wishing so much of our lives could be different. That we had oceans of time together. That my duties did not keep me away from her. That my own temperament were better suited to tending children than slaying their foes. But none of that is true, so all I can do is hug her as hard and long as I can when I have the chance.

“It will not be for long, sweeting.” As her face falls, I hurry to explain. “Besides, you are going to visit a princess, a most wise and lovely princess who has a fondness for eating small girls.”

Louise rolls her eyes at me. “Don’t be silly. Princesses don’t eat small girls! Ogres do.”

I clap my hand to my forehead. “Of course. That is it. I always get princesses and ogres mixed up. Don’t you?”

She giggles and shakes her head. After a moment: “Are we really going to visit a princess?”

“Yes,” I say, thinking of Annith. “Of a sort. She lives on an island with her darkly handsome consort and her highly skilled handmaidens. Sister Beatriz will want to dress you in fancy clothes and Sister Widona will let you pet and feed the horses. Besides, aren’t you getting tired of this stuffy old castle?”

Louise looks around the room, which, while pleasant, is also spare. “No,” she says simply. Tephanie looks up from her packing and smiles at me.

Tags: Robin LaFevers His Fair Assassin Fantasy
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