Vespertine (Vespertine #1)(57)



He opened his mouth, but he never got the chance to speak. Outside, someone screamed.

I recognized the scream. Not long ago, I had been the cause of it on a nearly daily basis. “Marguerite.”

Charles gripped his sword’s hilt and hurried outside at my heels. Marguerite had been avoiding me since yesterday; I hadn’t seen her since we had eavesdropped on the curists last evening. We found her in the courtyard in front of the infirmary. A crate lay broken at her feet, its load of glass jars and the straw they had been packed in spilled across the cobbles. She was clutching one arm to her chest in pain. Jean’s massive silhouette loomed over her, backlit by the low winter sun. A crowd had already gathered around them, muttering restlessly.

“He tried to hurt her!” someone called.

“No,” she protested weakly. “He just surprised me, that’s all—he was trying to help—”

Her objections were lost in the rising din of angry voices. “I saw it—he grabbed her! He nearly broke her arm!”

It wasn’t difficult to piece together what had happened. Marguerite had been struggling to carry the heavy crate, and Jean, likely waiting outside for Charles, had noticed and tried to lift it from her arms. But that wasn’t the picture everyone else saw. Ugly, swathed in bandages, a full head taller than a normal man, Jean looked like a monster threatening pretty, blue-eyed Marguerite. He didn’t show any sign of being aware of what was going on, except for the way he had backed up, his huge fists balled and a muscle clenching rhythmically in his jaw.

“That strength of his, it isn’t natural,” the woman in front of me whispered. Another was saying, “Not right in the head, I heard… possessed…”

I didn’t think the situation could get much worse. Then Charles shouldered his way forward, and Jean’s eyes fell on the sword. He let out a bellow like a wounded animal and flung out an arm, knocking someone over. They went down with a cry of pain.

Charles swore and began unbelting his sword, but the damage had been done. “Calm down,” he urged. “He isn’t going to hurt you,” but no one was listening. I could see that he was trying to help, but it was only making Jean more upset. At least one friend had already died because of him, and the agitated mob too closely resembled another battle.

“Stop,” I grated out. No one heard me, either. I shoved my way through the crowd until I reached the space in the middle and planted myself in front of Jean. “Stop!”

I couldn’t remember the last time I had shouted. It hurt, as though my voice had been torn raw from my chest. Everyone quieted and looked at me in confusion.

Thankfully, no one was staring at Jean any longer. Unfortunately, now they were all staring at me instead.

After what they had lived through, I couldn’t blame them for being afraid. Some of them had seen groups of possessed soldiers ransacking their towns, killing people they loved. I knew what it felt like when something reminded you of terrible things that had happened to you. But more than that, I knew what it felt like to be Jean.

The mutterings were starting up again. My harsh question cut through them like a knife. “Do you know how he got like this?”

No one answered, but at least they went quiet again.

“He was a soldier,” I said. “He was fighting to save your lives.”

That seemed to penetrate. Shame colored many of their faces; a few people looked away. Then a defiant voice piped up, “Artemisia of Naimes saved us.”

I searched the crowd until I found the man who had spoken. “Maybe. But if he hadn’t fought for you first, you would have been dead by the time she got there.”

I hadn’t meant for that to sound like a threat, but apparently it did. He took a step back, bumping into the person behind him. Then he muttered something that sounded like an apology and slunk off with his head down.

“Oh, I really need to see what you look like when you do that,” the revenant said.

As quickly as it had formed, the crowd’s remaining energy evaporated. They weren’t bad people, just people who had been through too much. They left quietly, helping up the bystander who had been knocked to the ground, some shooting guilty looks at Jean, who was hunched over with his arms in front of his face as though to fend off a blow, unresponsive to Charles’s careful efforts to lower them. I was watching everyone disperse when my back prickled—the telltale warning of a stare boring into me.

It was Marguerite. She was looking at me with wide eyes and a slightly parted mouth, as though she wanted to say something.

Whatever it was, I didn’t want to hear it. I had the uncomfortable feeling that I wouldn’t be able to bear it. I turned away and vanished with the crowd.



* * *



“Artemisia.”

It was dark, and Marguerite had woken me by shaking me. At first I had the mortifying thought that she wanted to talk about what had happened with Jean. I considered pretending to still be asleep, but that wasn’t possible because I had flinched violently when she’d touched me, and she definitely knew I was awake.

I felt her silent, hesitant presence hovering over me. I braced myself and rolled over. The lanterns burned low behind her, turning her hair into a frizzy glow around her darkened face. It was the dead of night, and everyone else was asleep.

“You need to hide,” she whispered. “Leander is here. He’s searching for something.”

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