The Blood Spell (Ravenspire, #4)(66)
Blue intended to escape into her garden, but her legs refused to hold her. She sank onto the front steps, pulled her cloak tight, and focused on breathing.
In.
Out.
No walls collapsing in on her. No memories waiting to swallow her.
In.
Out.
The delicate scent of puffer blooms, Mama’s favorite flower and the source of Blue’s nickname, wrapped around her, and the soft, salt-washed air pressed close.
She didn’t think about Dinah. About the price she’d pay for running away. Didn’t think about the cellar and all its awful memories.
Instead, she thought of Papa. Of his warm hands and big smile, and the love in his eyes when he looked at her. Grief bubbled up, drenched in the residue of the panic that had driven her out of the cellar, and she let it take her. Let the hot, sharp thing inside her burst into sobs that shook her entire body.
As the stars spun slowly across the night sky and the sea crashed against the not-so-distant shore, Blue curled up against the porch rails and cried herself to sleep.
TWENTY-EIGHT
THE QUEEN SENT guards to notify the other head families of Marisol’s death so that extra precautions could be taken for the daughters and nieces who were vying for the betrothal, but Kellan couldn’t rest until he’d seen for himself that all of them were safe.
He’d sworn to keep this betrothal period free of bloodshed, and he’d failed.
Not that he took responsibility for someone choosing to kill Marisol. That was on the shoulders of the killer. He knew that. But knowing that didn’t stop the horror of Marisol’s death from leaving a wash of sickness in Kellan’s stomach. And it didn’t stop the weight of guilt that sat on his shoulders like a stone. He’d been going back over his every action, his every word for the past few weeks, hunting for a misstep that could have led to this.
Had he paid her more attention than anyone else? Looked at her too often at the expense of the other girls?
He didn’t think so, but maybe his actions hadn’t mattered. Maybe it was simply a matter of narrowing the field of potential queens, and nothing Kellan said or did would’ve changed the intentions of the killer.
One of the head families was behind it. They had to be. No one else could possibly have benefited from Marisol’s death. And since the weapon of choice was a knife instead of a spell, he doubted the rogue witch was to blame. His mother had assured him that she’d asked the royal magistrate to investigate, and the man had connections throughout the kingdom. Someone would know who was hired to kill the Evrard girl. Those ties would eventually lead back to the family responsible. It was just a matter of time before they figured out the truth.
Kellan was afraid the other girls didn’t have that much time left. If someone was willing to kill one of the betrothal contenders, they were willing to kill more. Taking a contingent of royal guards with him, he’d ridden through the streets of Falaise de la Mer, stopping at each head family’s home, including those without anyone vying for the betrothal, to discuss the murder, additional protection, and his expectations moving forward.
For the families with girls of eligible age, he’d checked on their security protocols and encouraged them to change their habits, their patterns, to throw off any additional attempts at murder. He’d comforted distraught mothers and anxious fathers without once losing sight of the fact that one of those who leaned on him for reassurance might be the person who’d ordered Marisol’s death.
And for every family, both those who were in the running for the throne and those who weren’t, he’d stated in unequivocal terms that when he learned who was behind Marisol’s murder, he would charge them with treason against the crown and ask the magistrate to sentence them to death.
The cathedral in the Gaillard quarter was tolling midnight when he rode up to the Gaillard mansion. He had Gen’s security to see to, and the security of Lord Gaillard’s nieces, and then he’d leave the city proper and head to the farmhouse to check on Jacinthe and Halette.
He frowned. He hadn’t seen any of the Chauveau staff, including guards, when he’d visited the farmhouse just after they’d moved in. Perhaps the guards had remained hidden at their stations across the property, and Kellan simply hadn’t seen them. He certainly hadn’t been looking for them at the time. It would be immensely foolish of Dinah to allow her daughters to be unprotected, and Dinah was anything but foolish.
Still, he decided to make his visit with the Gaillards as quick as he could manage. Looping his horse’s reins over the hitching post at the top of the drive that led past the Gaillards’ front door, he motioned for his guards to remain behind and jogged up the steps. The door opened before he could raise his hand to knock.
The Gaillards’ butler swept into a bow as he backed into the entrance hall to give the prince room to enter. His voice shook as he said, “I will ask my lord and lady to join you in the receiving parlor in the east wing. If you’ll follow me, please.”
There was a palpable hush pervading the house as Kellan followed the butler through the halls. He caught sight of a maid rushing past, her arms full of white sheets, tears on her cheeks, and his throat tightened.
“Genevieve Gaillard,” he said as the butler opened the door to the parlor. “I want to see her too.”
The butler’s lips trembled. “I’m afraid . . . That is, I will ask that her body be prepared for visitors.” He broke off, and looked at the ceiling, his jaw clenched.