Rook(42)

“I’m not going to break my word. Not without reason.”

Spear sat back, chair creaking in the quiet. The look on his face made her heart twist. Tom was a brother to him, too. He couldn’t be worried any less than she was.

“But I will be careful. Very careful. I can promise you that. All right?” She waited, and when he didn’t reply, she put a hand on his shoulder and kissed the top of his head, the same as she’d done after the incident of the oak tree. She left him in his chair, taking the stairs as fast as she could with heavy limbs, hand against the pain in her side.

She made the turn at the narrow landing and saw a figure in the dim, hair so red there could be no wondering who it was. René leaned against the wall at the top of the staircase, arms crossed, waiting for her. She came up the last step before she whispered, “You were eavesdropping, weren’t you?”

“Yes. But I am a very honest eavesdropper, as you can see.” He was also holding his voice low, but she could hear the anger in it, loud and clear, like she’d heard in the dilapidated bedroom. “Do you think I am lying to you?” he asked. “Do you?”

“Yes.” She was surprised by the question. He had to be lying about something.

He took a step closer, voice a growling whisper. “I had a part to play, Mademoiselle. As did you. But I am not playing one now, and I have told you nothing that was not true. I swear that.” The fire-blue eyes searched hers. “Do you believe me?”

She didn’t know what she believed. She was tired, and upset, and this anger of René’s seemed to have come out of nowhere, just like the direction of Spear’s conversation below.

“Do you believe me?” he said again.

The only light was from a ceiling lamp hanging farther down the corridor. Much of his face was in shadow, but something about the line of his jaw was making her thoughts pause, like in the sanctuary, when she’d forgotten pain in favor of inquisitiveness. She wondered what stubble would feel like beneath her palm.

“Listen to me. I told you once that you do not see because you will not look. Open your eyes. Why might Hammond tell you Tom said those things? What does Hammond want? Think!”

She shook herself awake, wishing she could take a boot to her own shin. What was wrong with her? “Spear would not lie to me. Not about Tom.”

A smile moved across René’s mouth, a smile that did not do one thing to lessen his fury. She was instantly angry that she’d noticed it at all. “Then tell me this,” he said, the words barely a whisper. “If I handed you your precious marriage fee right now, would you take it? Or no?”

She met his gaze. “No.”

“Then I would say, Miss Bellamy, that between the two of us, I am not the liar here.”

And now it was anger rather than embarrassment heating her face. “I think you should listen to me, Monsieur, and let me give you a word of advice. You wish to be believed? You wish to appear trustworthy? Then maybe you should get out of my bloody way and stop listening in on other people’s private conversations!”

She pushed past and marched down the corridor, opening the first door she came to. When she found St. Just inside, she turned and slammed the heavy oak behind her, shaking the walls. In another moment, René had done the same to his door directly across the hall. And done it a little more thoroughly.



The floorboards shuddered beneath Benoit’s feet as he peeked out his door. His questioning gaze met Orla’s, who was just emerging from the dark end of the corridor, where the hanging light could not reach, a water pitcher in her hand. They considered each other in silence, and then together looked down the hallway, toward the two doors that had slammed.

“Ce sera une longue séjour,” said Benoit, who spoke no Commonwealth.

“I agree, Mr. Benoit,” said Orla, who understood no Parisian. “I think we are in for a very long stay.”



Spear stayed in his chair for a long time after the doors above him had slammed, watching his hands, where a piece of paper, much folded and marked with the seal of the Sunken City, now rested between two fingers. He turned the paper over and over, thinking of lips in his hair, listening to the groan of Sophia’s footsteps moving across his ceiling.



LeBlanc pulled the heavy wooden door of Jennifer Bonnard’s prison hole shut, listening to it echo in the Tombs. An unfamiliar shudder traveled down his limbs. It was unthinkable that this was fear. The girl must be lying; what she had said wasn’t possible. It was inconceivable that he, Albert LeBlanc, could have made such a mistake. And if he had? Surely Fate had not removed the blessing of Luck from him?

He dropped to his knees, disregarding the filth and his pressed suit, and drew a hasty circle with his finger in the sandy, torchlit dirt. From his pocket he removed a coin and a small stoppered vial, then pulled the cork from the vial, hands shaking, and tossed Jennifer Bonnard’s blood across the circle. He held the coin between two clasped hands, bowed his head in supplication, and flipped it high into the air. The coin turned, LeBlanc watched, breathless, and then the coin landed, the bronze relief of Allemande’s profile looking up at him from the blood-spattered dirt. Face. Fate’s answer was yes.

LeBlanc dropped to his elbows in the bloody, dusty grime. Luck was still with him; his mistake was not insurmountable. But he would need to retain the Goddess’s favor. From now on he would be careful. He would inquire often. And he would take Bellamy blood as well, so that such a misstep could never be repeated.