Rook(113)

LeBlanc bowed slightly. “I will see if Renaud has completed them.”

“I mean all the forms, Albert. All your files.”

LeBlanc hurried into his office. Renaud had not, of course, prepared any forms for the Hasards, or been ordered to prepare any, and he was not here now. Why was Renaud never here when he was needed? LeBlanc smoothed his white streak, trying to slow his ragged breath. He would make one out himself, for show, and give Allemande the rest of the files while he forged more. He readied his pen and ink, pulled open the left-hand drawer of his desk, and stopped. The nest of velvet where his signet ring resided was empty.

He opened the drawer farther, felt all the way to the back of it. And then his smile came out, curling to the corners of his mouth. He had no prisoners in the Sunken City. Not anymore. His search would have to extend to the coast. How had any of them thought they would get away with this and live? Because they were not going to live. But his smile left him when he glanced at the door to his private rooms, where Allemande’s shadow crossed the open doorway. And yet … Perhaps Fate had willed this night for a reason.

He hurried to the other end of the room, the bound cuts on his arms burning, and opened the plastic ritual box in the corner. There was no time for the fire and the bottles, or any of the solemn ceremony that should accompany such a question. But the Goddess would require more of him than the toss of a coin.

He selected a thick piece of paper, cut round, one side white, the other black, the swaths of color curling into each other, and laid it carefully on the center of the chalk circle he’d drawn before. Then he picked up a knife. He closed his eyes and plunged the tip of the knife into the soft pad of his forefinger. Blood welled. He opened his eyes and flicked his bleeding finger across the paper.

He leaned over and quickly counted the spatters, no matter how tiny, mouth moving, his finger dripping blood onto the floor. When he was done LeBlanc straightened, closing his pale eyes once more, this time to enjoy a moment of ecstasy. Twenty-seven drops in the black, only eleven in the white. The answer was clear, and it was death. Fate had given her permission.

“Thank you, Goddess,” he whispered, going back to his desk to snatch up a clear glass vial from his drawer. The time for this was now, before the dawn. He concealed the vial in his hand and strode purposefully to the door of his private rooms.

“Premier,” he said respectfully. “Renaud is finishing and needs just a few more moments while I gather the files. May I offer you more wine? Yes?”



“I die at dawn,” Sophia whispered, as if trying out the idea. “Is it wrong that I don’t feel terribly upset about that right now? That it almost seems easier?”

“Yes, that is most definitely wrong,” Tom replied, his voice like rubbing sandpaper. “And if I thought you meant it, I’d scold you. Severely. But if it does have to be, Sophie … then I’m glad … that I got to see you again.”

Sophia laid her head back down on his shoulder. She had always been so afraid of losing Bellamy House, her father, the Red Rook, of living with no reason to live at all. But for just a little while, she’d caught a glimpse of something different. It was the loss of the dream rather than the reality that was leaving her empty and aching.

“Did you really get all of them out of the prison, sister?”

“Yes. They should be away by now, Cartier and the twins with them. But there won’t be any ships when they get to the coast.”


“Some of them will get away, though.” Tom settled his head against the stone pedestal. “I think that makes it worth it.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I do.”



“Yes,” said Renaud. The words came from his mouth like water dripping from a rusting pipe. “Agreed.” The big blond man he’d met in the street near the Saint-Denis Gate nodded, and they completed their transaction.

It was obvious this man knew he was LeBlanc’s secretary, but Renaud didn’t care who the man was or what he knew. LeBlanc had finally descended all the way to madness, and Renaud had decided to be his secretary no more. He was on the run. And he had just made a glorious trade. The keys to LeBlanc’s office plus certain passwords for a horse and a forged pass out of the gate. He had intended to bluff his way past the guards on LeBlanc’s authority and travel on foot through The Désolation, at least until he could hire transportation. But this was much better, much less traceable.

Renaud mounted the horse, throwing his small bag of possessions across the saddle. He smiled, an expression almost as rusty as his voice, and galloped for the gate, horse hooves loud against the paving stones.



Claude’s boots clattered against the stairs of the flat, knocking one by one as he was dragged down from the gallery, across the scene of battle, and into one of the interior, windowless rooms off the lower-floor corridor, where he was deposited with the rest of the gendarmes, none of which had their uniforms anymore. René was sweating, flushed, and still filthy, but the fight had made him feel the slightest bit better. There were some small wounds among them, though not many. LeBlanc’s gendarmes were no match for the seasoned criminals of a Hasard family engagement party.

“Where will they bring her out?” émile asked, tossing his breeches to the floor of the corridor, replacing them with the uniform René threw at him. The entire hallway was jammed with uncles and men and dropped articles of clothing. “Which door?”