Grave Mercy (His Fair Assassin #1)(114)

I try to rest as he does, but I cannot. I can hardly accept this gift I’ve been given, although I dare not question it for fear my doubts will cause it to evaporate. Instead, I focus on the sense of unending possibilities I had when in the presence of Death and hold on to that.

In the morning, I am up with the birds and we are off again. I am a light load for my horse, accustomed as he is to long marches with heavily armed knights, so we reach Guérande in excellent time.

I rein in just outside the city. The gates are open, and people are coming in and out. No one seems to be subjected to any extra scrutiny. even so, I cannot bring a warhorse through the gates; that would raise unwelcome questions. In the end, I leave him with one of the cottagers who live outside the city, giving him a handful of coins to keep the horse safe for me.

And promising him retribution if he does not.

As we make our transaction, his wife stands in the corner of the yard where she had been taking her laundry from the line. I throw in an extra two coins and my own fine gown in exchange for the homespun dress she has hanging there.

I slip out of my own clothes, eager to be free of the convent’s finery. As I step into the rough brown garb, something inside me shifts. I am no longer a creature of the convent but my own true self, naught but a daughter of Mortain.

Leaving the trappings of the convent behind, I depart from the cottage on foot dressed as the peasant I am. I keep only the weapons.

The guards at the gate hardly glance at me as I pass into the city. These are not guards I have seen before, but as I have passed through the gates only a handful of times, that means nothing. They do seem to be paying closer attention to those who are leaving rather than to those who enter.

My heart races as I move through the city. I long to break into a run and hurry to Duval’s side, but that would draw far too much notice. Instead, I force myself to walk sedately and keep my head down, as a modest serving woman would. But it is hard. So hard.

I approach the palace from the back, where the kitchen deliveries are made. I pause long enough to grab a basket of cabbages from a wagon and then carry it inside. No one pays me any heed — truly all my actions seem god-touched — and I slip into the palace unobserved.

It is a long, tense walk from the west wing to the north tower, where my old chamber is, but that is the only entrance to the hidden tunnels that I know.

I keep my head down as I move through the hallway, but even so I can see much has changed. The pages stand at rigid attention, no longer cheerful and good-natured. The servants hurry on their business, all of them with glum countenances.

I am filled with relief when I finally reach Duval’s apartments, especially when I see they are deserted. There are no servants, no Duval, nothing.

I let myself into the main chamber, then quickly cross to my own room. Once inside, I shut the heavy door and bolt it.

My bed is empty but messed, as if it has not been made since the day I left for Nantes. There are candles but no fire in the hearth from which to light them. I waste precious minutes setting flint to tinder so I can have some light in the dark corridors beyond. My hands are trembling so badly that it takes five tries before the tinder catches. when at last a small fire burns in the grate, I light a candle, then head for the wall near the fireplace.

I stare at it, wishing I had thought to ask Beast how he got it to work. I poke at the bricks one at a time until one gives way, just a little bit, but enough to release the spring that holds the stone door so tightly shut. I put my shoulder to the revealed door and push. It gives perhaps an inch. Grunting, I push again, bracing my feet on the floor and throwing my whole body into it until it finally moves enough for me to slip through.

I am not sure where to begin my search, for if Duval was up and walking, he could be anywhere. He could even, I realize, be gone from here. Although if Crunard had caught him, surely I would have seen his head on a pike at the city wall.

The thought has my heart plummeting like a stone, and I push away from the door and cast out my senses, searching for Death, afraid I will find it. when I do not, I allow myself to draw my first deep breath since reaching my chamber. Thus encouraged, I begin winding my way to the spot where de Lornay and Beast found Duval the first time we came here. A sharp lance of pain bites through me as I think of those two, but I push it aside. Saving Duval is my goal now.

I get lost twice, then finally the feeble light from my candle shows a corner of a blanket. Afraid to hope, but unable to stop myself, I drop to my knees beside him. He still breathes, but it is a shallow, labored breathing. I feel the beat of his pulse. It is thin and going faster than a hummingbird’s wings. “My lord,” I whisper.

His head turns toward my voice and his eyelids flutter weakly.

Not too late, not too late beats in my breast and pounds through my veins. I do not know if it is a prayer or a plea or a demand.

I put my hands on the sides of his face, savoring the rough scratch of his whiskers. I lean down and place my lips on his and kiss him.

His lips are dry and cracked, but I do not care. I can taste the poison. I cover his mouth with my own, deepening the kiss, kissing him as Beast kissed me — thoroughly, wantonly, as if I am gulping the finest wine from a silver goblet. My heart soars when I feel him stir beneath me.

Then he opens his mouth and our tongues meet, a shocking sensation as I allow him in. My hands upon his cheeks grow numb, as do my lips. I kiss him and kiss him, wanting to draw every drop of poison from his body into mine. when his eyes finally open and he murmurs my name against my lips, I laugh, and the exhilaration I feel spills from my mouth into his. Needing to look at him, to see his face, I pull back — but not too far.