Chapter 46
XLVI
I deliberately threw my first round of backgammon.
This was not easy—I was matched against Monsieur Ferret, whose strategic skills were on par with his hunting prowess.
Antoine did the same in his match against Monsieur Cat, and we excused ourselves from the competition.
It was clear, in any case, that Rosalie Mimet was poised to conquer them all.
Even the shrewd Bauterne struggled to match her.
Antoine and I fairly bolted upstairs, where we did indeed put the grand feather bed to good use.
“We’ve never shared a bed before,” Antoine said languidly, as we lay together afterward. He had his head on my chest, with the warm length of his body resting deliciously against my side. “Not a proper bed, I mean.”
“I could certainly get used to it.”
“You will,” said Antoine. “I’ve been thinking.”
We both looked up as the blizzard gusted mightily against the roof, causing the eaves to sob.
The fire guttered momentarily and then surged back into life.
I tried to stuff my misgivings further toward the back of my mind.
The chamber was warm and cozy and it was ineffable pleasure just to lie there with Antoine.
There was no need to think about the monster in the cellar, or the mortally wounded man screaming in the chamber down the hall, or the Beast about his murderous business somewhere, hidden by the night and the blizzard.
“I am scared to ask,” I teased.
He nipped playfully at my throat. “When this is over, we will have need of men like you in Gévaudan. With the bishop torching the farms—may he burn along with them—and half the villagers killed or fled, the rebuilding will be difficult.”
I smiled. “You would have me extend my stay when the hunt is finished? Provided we do not die, obviously.”
“Precisely.”
“Make me a convincing offer and I may consider it, Lord Ocerne.”
He laughed. “Very well. I am to be married in the spring, and my father will be eager to start the work of restoring the farmlands. You could bring Madame Grave to Ocerne; we would host you at the chateau until you find a suitable residence of your own. And then, when we have the chance . . .” He raised his mouth and whispered erotic filth into my ear, liberally interspersed with brushes of his lips and tongue.
I laughed at the tickling sensation and rolled atop him, pinning his arms to the bed. “A baron’s paramour?1 Is that any sort of life for a respectable professor?”
“Not at all. But for an abominable sorcerer? Yes indeed.” He smirked at me, sighing as I leaned down and nuzzled my face against the side of his neck, the hair of his chest and the exposed, musky hollow under his arm.
“Well, as I am supposedly here at your invitation, what would you have me do, my lord? How should I turn my blasphemous powers to the benefit of Gévaudan? Will I be conjuring newborn lambs from rams’ teeth?
Or calling down the rain from blue skies?
Shall I cause the fields to sprout sugarcane and cinnamon, that you may be both baron and trade prince? ” I jested.
Just so we’re absolutely clear, I will not be party to any of this, said Sarmodel. Now, come—it’s time to put some clothes on and take care of the business at—
“Yes,” Antoine sighed, looking up at me. “Yes. All of it. For as long as you will.”
I stopped. My smile fell.
If there was a moment when I knew—when I knew I had taken things too far with Antoine and it would all end in disaster—it was then.
He was looking at me with love and desire, yes.
But he looked at me also with hope. I had shown him tricks and called them miracles, and now he imagined a future filled with them. He saw in me not only a lover, but a savior.
Hope. Of all my deceptions, it is always the worst.
“We shall see,” I said, kissing him one more time. “Now sleep. With any luck, this storm will clear by morning and we can take our leave of Monsieur Chastel.”
“‘We shall see’? That’s your answer?” His eyes narrowed. “You’re up to something.”
“What do you—”
“Sebastian. What devilish business do you have planned tonight, while I lie here sleeping?”
There was no point in denying it. “It’s probably better that you don’t know.”
“You’re going to see who’s in the Royal Suite, aren’t you?” he asked, his eyes sparkling.
“Yes,” I said truthfully. I was fairly certain I knew who our mysterious neighbor was, but I planned to get confirmation.
“Let me come!”
“You have many great gifts, Antoine; stealth is not among them.” I shook my head. “No, it’s far less risky for me to go alone.”
I rose from the bed and began to dress.
Antoine’s eyes burned into me impishly, lingering on my skin as I began to button my breeches. “Sebastian. What else are you planning? A visit to Mademoiselle Mimet?”
“With her uncle in the next chamber?”
“Some dark ritual, then? Tell me!”
“Very well. A mercy killing. Perhaps two,” I said gravely.
He looked as though he might laugh, and then his eyes widened. He sat up in the bed. “Enneval. My God, you’re serious.”
“I am. Now please, sleep.”
“Sebastian, you can’t just—Wait. Who else? Enneval and who else?”
“Soeur, Antoine. Soeur is here. Bauterne is keeping her in the cellar. If she escapes—as she surely will—the lieutenant’s favorite will become a menace to rival the Beast.”
“Sebastian, you can’t, not alone!”
“I can, and it will not be the first time. Just pretend you don’t know, please.”
“It’s dangerous, Sebastian—let me come—”
“Antoine. No. I will speak of it no more. Now—please—sleep.” I kissed him on the forehead.
He said nothing more, but my young lover was not placated. After a short while, he began to snore gently. It was an endearing sham which I indulged for a few minutes. Antoine’s anima was racing beneath his skin; he was certainly not sleeping.2
I took time to make sure I was prepared with pistols, ammunition and my poisoned hunting knife. Finally, I secured my brandy flask to my belt, and then I turned to Antoine one more time.
“Antoine, do not dare follow me. Try to get some sleep—real sleep—and when you wake in the morning, I will be there beside you again.”
The snoring stopped abruptly and a spasm of irritation crossed his features. He opened his eyes. “Will you promise?”
“Will you?”
No promises were made, and I left him there in the grand feather bed.
1. No, I was not surprised or offended that Antoine did not propose a more exclusive arrangement; it was quite unthinkable at the time.
Almost every marriage in the 1700s was a matter of practicality, and people usually indulged their true desires—homosexual or otherwise—discreetly and in their own time.
For me, itinerant tomcat that I am, this arrangement was eminently suitable.
2. In case you are wondering: no, I cannot force sleep on the unwilling, at least not without pharmacological help. The Litany of Rest only works on a subject who is already sleeping.