Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(113)

Jean Luc watched it weave between their ankles with suspicion. “Nothing is just anything in La F?ret des Yeux.” Hearing a disgruntled sigh, he waved the Chasseurs onward. “The Chateau could be near. Keep your eyes sharp, men, and your knives sharper.”

I waited several minutes until daring to breathe. Until their footsteps had long faded. Until the fog swirled undisturbed once more. “That was too close.”

Madame Labelle clasped her fingers together and leaned forward on her stump. The cat—our unexpected savior—rubbed its head against her feet, and she bent to give it an appreciative pat. “I would argue it wasn’t close enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“We don’t know what awaits us at the Chateau, Captain Diggory. Surely there is strength in numbers—”

“No.” I shook my head, unwilling to hear more, and stalked back to my spot against the tree. “They’ll kill Lou.”

Danger averted, Ansel burrowed deeper in his blanket. “I don’t think the Archbishop would let them. She’s his daughter.”

“And the others?” I remembered Jean Luc’s frightening smile, the way his eyes had glinted with secret knowledge. Had he told our brethren, or had he kept it to himself, content in his new position of power? Waiting to reveal the information until it best suited him? “If any suspect she’s a witch, they won’t hesitate. Can you guarantee her safety from them?”

“But the Archbishop warned them,” Ansel argued. “He said if she died, we would all die. No one would risk harming her after that.”

“Unless they know the truth.” Rubbing her arms against the chill, Coco sat back down beside him. He offered her half the blanket, and she wrapped it around her shoulders. “If Lou were to die before the ceremony, there would be no ceremony. There would be no danger. The royal family would be safe, and a witch would be dead. They’d kill her just to be rid of her blood.”

Madame Labelle scoffed. “As if the Archbishop would ever incriminate himself with the truth. I’d bet my beauty he hasn’t told them she’s a witch. Not after Ye Olde Sisters. The implication would be too damning—not that it matters. Auguste will be forced to reprimand him regardless, which is probably why he and his merry band of bigots took to the forest so quickly. He’s postponing the inevitable.”

I hardly heard her. Jean Luc’s smile taunted my mind’s eye. He was close. Too close.

Keep your eyes sharp, men, and your knives sharper.

Scowling, I stood once more and began to pace. Touched each knife in my bandolier, the Balisarda against my heart. “Jean Luc knows.”

“Isn’t he your best friend?” Coco’s eyebrows knitted together. “Would he really kill the woman you love?”

“Yes. No.” I shook my head, rubbing a frozen hand across my neck. Restless. “I don’t know. I won’t risk it either way.”

Madame Labelle sighed impatiently. “Don’t be obstinate, dear. We’ll be grossly outnumbered without them. Between the five of us, I’m sure we’ll be able to whisk Lou away before this Jean Luc can touch her—”

“No.” I silenced her with a curt swipe of my hand. “I said I won’t risk it. This conversation is over.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. Wisely. Bending low to scratch the cat’s ear, she muttered something under her breath instead. The creature stilled—almost as if it were listening—before slinking away into the fog.





Drifting


Lou


I woke to Manon stroking my hair. “Hello, Louise.”

Though I tried to jerk away, my body didn’t so much as twitch. Worse—stars dotted my vision, and the world spun around me. Forcing myself to breathe deeply, I focused on a golden leaf directly above my head. It was one of the many metallic blooms that crept across my ceiling and rustled in the breeze. Despite the open window, the room remained balmy and warm, each flake of snow swirling into silver glitter as it crossed the sill.

I’d once called it moondust. Morgane had gifted it to me on a particularly cold Samhain.

“Careful.” Manon pressed a cool cloth against my forehead. “Your body is still weak. Morgane said you haven’t eaten properly in days.”

Her words spiked through my pounding head, accompanied by another dizzying wave of nausea. I would’ve gladly never eaten again for her to shut up. Scowling, I fixated on the golden light inching steadily across the room. It was morning, then. Two days left.

“Something wrong?” Manon asked.

“If I could move, I’d puke all over your lap.”

She clucked sympathetically. “Morgane said you might have an adverse reaction to the medicine. It’s not meant for such prolonged use.”

“Is that what you call it? Medicine? That’s an interesting word for poison.”

She didn’t answer, but the next moment, she waved a blueberry oatmeal muffin under my nose. I closed my eyes and resisted the urge to gag. “Go away.”

“You need to eat, Lou.” Ignoring my protests, she sank onto the edge of the bed and offered me a tentative smile. “I even made a chocolate hazelnut spread—with sugar this time, not the beastly kind I used to make with salt.”

When we were children, Manon and I had loved nothing more than playing tricks, usually involving food. Cookies with salt instead of sugar. Caramel onions instead of apples. Mint paste instead of icing.