Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove, #1)(39)

His mouth thinned. “I said stop talking.”

“Maybe a library?”

“Stop talking!”

“I’d love to go outside. Bit of fresh air, bit of sunshine.” I motioned to his pretty skin. “You might want to wear a hat though.”

“As if I’d take you outside,” he sneered. “I’m not stupid, you know.”

I sat up earnestly. “And neither am I. Look, I know I could never get past you. You’re much too, er, tall. Great long legs like yours would run me down in an instant.” He frowned, but I flashed him a winning smile. “If you don’t want to take me outside, why don’t you give me a tour of the Tower instead—”

But he was already shaking his head. “Reid told me you were tricky.”

“Asking for a tour is hardly tricky, Ansel—”

“No,” he said firmly. “We’re not going anywhere. And you will address me as Initiate Diggory.”

My grin vanished. “Are we long-lost cousins, then?”

His brows furrowed. “No.”

“You just said your surname is Diggory. That’s also my unfortunate husband’s surname. Are the two of you related?”

“No.” He looked away quickly to stare at his boots. “That’s the surname all the unwanted children are given.”

“Unwanted?” I asked, curious despite myself.

He scowled at me. “Orphans.”

For some unfathomable reason, my chest constricted. “Oh.” I paused in search of the right words, but found none—none except . . . “Would it help if I told you I don’t have the best relationship with my own mother?”

His scowl only deepened. “At least you have a mother.”

“I wish I didn’t.”

“You can’t mean that.”

“I do.” Truer words had never been spoken. Every day of the last two years—every moment, every second—I’d wished her away. Wished I’d been born someone else. Anyone else. I offered him a small smile. “I’d trade places with you in an instant, Ansel—just the parentage, not the dreadful outfit. That shade of blue really isn’t my color.”

He straightened his coat defensively. “I told you to stop talking.”

I fell back on the bed in resignation. Now that I’d heard his confession, the next part of my plan—the, uh, guileful part—left a sour taste in my mouth. But it didn’t matter.

To Ansel’s annoyance, I began to hum.

“No humming either.”

I ignored him. “‘Big Titty Liddy was not very pretty, but her bosom was big as a barn,’” I sang. “‘Her creamery knockers drove men off their rockers, but she was blind to their charms—’”

“Stop!” His face burned so vivid a scarlet it rivaled my husband’s. “What are you doing? That—that’s indecent!”

“Of course it is. It’s a pub song!”

“You’ve been in a pub?” he asked, flabbergasted. “But you’re a woman.”

It took every drop of my willpower not to roll my eyes. Whoever had taught these men about women had been heinously out of touch with reality. It was almost as if they’d never met a woman. A real woman—not a ludicrous pipe dream like Célie.

I had a duty to this poor boy.

“There are lots of women in pubs, Ansel. We aren’t like you think. We can do anything you can do—and probably better. There’s a whole world outside this church, you know. I could show you, if you wanted.”

His expression hardened, though pink still bloomed in his cheeks. “No. No more talking. No more humming. No more singing. Just—just stop being you for a little while, eh?”

“I can’t make any promises,” I said seriously. “But if you gave me a tour . . .”

“Not happening.”

Fine.

“‘Big Willy Billy talked sort of silly,’” I bellowed, “‘but his knob was long as his—’”

“Stop, STOP.” Ansel waved his hands, cheeks flaming anew. “I’ll take you on a tour—just, please, please stop singing about . . . that!”

I rose to my feet, clasping my hands together and beaming.

Voilà.

Unfortunately, Ansel started our tour with the vast halls of Saint-Cécile. More unfortunate—he knew an absurd amount about each architectural feature of the cathedral, as well as the history of each relic and effigy and stained-glass window. After listening to his intellectual prowess for the first fifteen minutes, I’d been mildly impressed. The boy was clearly intelligent. After listening to him for the next four hours, however, I’d longed to shatter the monstrance over his head. It’d been a reprieve when he’d concluded the tour for dinner, promising to continue tomorrow.

But he’d almost looked . . . hopeful. As if at some point during our tour, he’d started enjoying himself. As if he weren’t used to having anyone’s undivided attention, or perhaps having anyone listen to him at all. That hope in his doe-like eyes had quashed my urge to inflict bodily harm.

I couldn’t, however, be distracted from my purpose.

When Ansel knocked on my door the next morning, my husband left us without a word, disappearing to wherever it was he went during the day. After the rest of my wardrobe had been delivered, we’d suffered a tense, silent evening together before I’d retired to the bathtub. His journal—and Célie’s letters—had both mysteriously disappeared.