Dark Triumph (His Fair Assassin #2)(10)

Perhaps she is still in the chapel. Please do not let me be too late, I pray as I slip silently from the servants’ quarters and hurry along the quiet stone passageways to look for them there.

The moment I step inside the chapel, I know I am not alone. Two pulses beat somewhere nearby. But that is not my only company. There is also an ice-cold pall that lies over the room. A restless fluttering reminiscent of moths moves silently across my skin. Ghosts. Drawn to the warmth of life like bees are drawn to nectar. Indeed, I do not even need to search for Odette and Tilde; the ghosts hover hungrily above their hiding place.

I hurry over and swat the ghosts away with my hand. Tilde is holding the sleeping Odette, and slowly, she looks up. Her face, pinched and white, goes slack with relief when she sees it is me. “I was afraid you wouldn’t come,” she whispers.

That she did not believe I would do as I’d promised stings, and I scowl at her. “I said I would, didn’t I? I went to the servants’ quarters first. Here. I will hold the girl while you get dressed.”

Tilde frowns in puzzlement. “Why?”

I lay the bundle of men’s clothing—purloined from the slaughtered servants, although I do not share that with her—on the pew and take the sleeping Odette from her arms. “You would not survive the night,” I tell her, careful to keep my voice matter-of-fact. “Not now that you have heard d’Albret’s plans. I must get you both out immediately.”

Her face softens and her mouth wobbles and I fear she will break down in tears. “Hurry!” I hiss. “And you may well curse me before the night is through.”

She slips out of her gown and pulls on the clothing I have brought. When she is done, we wake the sleeping Odette and coax her into the unfamiliar garments. They are far too big, and when I pull my knife to trim the breeches, both she and Tilde shrink back in fear.

“Débile!” I growl. “I have not come this far nor risked this much just to kill you. Stay still.” Fear holding her in place, Odette stands while I saw at her pants until they are short enough that she will not trip on them.

“Be very still now,” I warn her. Before she or Tilde can protest, I reach up, place the edge of my knife against her rich, curly locks, and slice them off.

“My hair!” she cries, one of her hands flying to her cropped head.

“Do not be silly,” I scold her. “It is just hair and will grow back, but it will only get in your way tonight. You must make people think you are a boy. Which of the pages do you like the most?”

She wrinkles her nose. “None.”

Good girl, I think. “Then which do you find the most annoying?”

“Patou,” she says, without hesitation.

“Perfect. Pretend you are Patou. Do all the annoying things he does, walk as he does, spit as he does. All those things you must do tonight.”

She looks at me warily. I lean forward. “It is a game. A trick you must play on the entire palace. To prove that a girl is better than a boy. Can you do that?”

She looks to Tilde, who nods, then turns back to me, and I am relieved to see that some of the fear has left her face. “Yes,” she whispers, so soft and quiet no one could ever mistake her voice for a boy’s.

I turn to Tilde. “Try to see that she does not speak. Her voice will give her away.” Then I lift my knife. “I must do yours as well.”

The serving girl does not falter but steps closer for me to reach. “I cannot ever repay you,” she whispers.

“You have only to get free,” I say as I cut her hair. “That is payment enough.”

An hour later, they are safely tucked up on the seat of the night-soil cart. Odette protests loudly at first. “Bud id stinks!” she says, holding her nose.

I glance slyly at Tilde. “I warned you you might not thank me, but it is the only cart that leaves during the night and can get you into the city without question.”

“It is fine,” Tilde says through the scarf she has brought up to her face to cut the smell. We stare into each other’s eyes for a beat, and the gratitude I see there warms me, makes me think there is some small sliver of good left inside me. I reach out and grab her hand. Squeeze it. “Be strong. Once inside the city, take yourself to the convent of Saint Brigantia. Tell them—tell them the abbess of Saint Mortain has asked that they grant you sanctuary.”

Tilde’s eyes widen at that, but before she can say anything, the night-soil man calls out, “You gonna gab all night or can I be about my business?”

“Hush—you got your payment,” I remind him.

He spits off to the side. “Won’t be worth nothing if I don’t get out of here.”

True enough.

As I watch them leave, I am filled with a nearly overpowering need to follow them. Follow them out of the stable yard, past the guard tower, and into the streets of the city, where I can lose myself among the crowds of people. I take one step, and another, then stop. If I go with them, d’Albret will send a full contingent after us. Tilde and Odette’s chances of escape are much better without me.

Besides, I was sent here to do a job, and like that last knight who held off d’Albret’s men this afternoon, I will not leave the field until it is done.





I have not been in bed but half a turn of a glass when the scratching at my door begins. It is soft at first, no more than the whispering of leaves in the wind or the creaking of branches against the wall. I hold still in my bed, listening more closely. There it is again. This time more distinct. My heart begins to pound, and I lift my head from the pillow.