Chapter 31
XXXI.
Love Has No Law
“Good evening, ma petite chou.”
“Good evening, my lord.”
“I do not mean to interrupt.”
“I bathed early. I was working in the garden today.” I stepped out of the tub, keeping my eyes down. I was afraid to have him read the truth. After all this time, I still did not know what he did or did not know. Where he ended and I began. I heard Perchta’s faraway warning.
He took my hand to steady me. The cool leather of his gloves sent a shiver up my spine. I met his eyes then and caught the gleam of his desire.
He pulled me into his chest, kissing the water drops off my neck. “Are you ready?” he whispered into my ear.
“For what?” I asked, pulling back in his arms.
“For your final test.”
“Final?” A terrible dread filled my stomach. I hadn’t expected this. “But … I’ve only been here a few months. I’m not finished with any of my work.”
“You will see what I mean,” he said, holding a robe for me. “Come.”
I didn’t answer right away, allowing my gaze to linger on him.
He liked the memory of what I’d been, dirty and wild and half frozen in the snow.
I understood I was not the prostitute he’d brought here, who had cowered and fallen apart at a simple kindness.
I was fat and sleek and had a sense of my own power now, even if it felt hard-earned and as if I were always chasing its edges.
I was, or might be, a very powerful sorceress one day—one who could cross between worlds and time.
But he did not want any of that. His vision for me would always be the broken prostitute he had saved.
He felt comforted when I was nothing but need and hunger.
I pulled the robe close, my heart pounding through my chest. “I have something to confess. I need your guidance.”
He softened, tilting his head in that animal way. “You may confess to me as if I am your priest. I am listening.”
I did not know if he was serious, but he sat on the edge of the bed, waiting expectantly. And so I kneeled before him, pulling the dampening robe tighter across my chest.
It had been so long since I had confessed.
I had forgotten the feel of being on my knees like this.
Of being so vulnerable. I had only meant to tell him my fears of bringing something terrible and ravenous into this world, but now I felt as though I might accidentally reveal my whole soul, even the parts I desperately wanted to keep for my own.
But I swallowed and crossed myself. “Bless me father, for I have sinned.”
He placed his hand on my wet hair.
“I am afraid I have unleashed a terror into this world.”
“What kind of terror?”
I hesitated, but then I forced myself to speak on. Maybe he would be swayed by my vulnerability—my need for his help. “I am afraid that I am responsible for bringing this devourer into the world. That the villages are unsafe because I have brought darkness upon them. That no one is safe from me.”
He nodded. “Is this all you have to confess?”
I thought of the bandits. Of Perchta. Of the bundle of herbs to walk the halls at night. The ring I’d spelled for Dacia. I knew deep down these were things I wanted to keep to myself, and I ducked my head to hide the shame of it. “This is all I can remember. I am sorry for these and all my sins.”
He sighed deeply and smoothed down my hair.
“You do not have the power to command anything that strong, that powerful. But you are dangerous to yourself because of your power, and you are dangerous to people like me and your precious …” He trailed off in his thoughts, still smoothing my hair. “What was her name? Dacia?”
For some reason, my blood ran cold to hear her name. It felt like a threat—but he was right. I was dangerous to her. And even now I did not know how to save her. I kept my face lowered, not wanting him to see the turmoil of my emotions.
“How could I hurt someone I do not even have contact with? Who wants nothing to do with me?” I asked quietly.
“It is safer for her this way,” he murmured. “And as long as you can continue to surrender yourself to me, I will keep you safe.” He tucked my hair behind my ear. “Now pray, and hope to save her soul.”
The words got stuck in my throat, and when I closed my eyes, all I saw was my old nightmares of pooled blood.
“My God,” I began, barely able to whisper.
“I am sorry for my sins with all my heart. In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good, I have sinned against you whom I should love above all things.”
He gave a low murmur of pleasure and kept stroking my head.
“I firmly intend, with your help, to do penance, to sin no more, and to avoid whatever leads me to sin.”
He stood, the black cloak he always wore even in the fading summer heat falling to the floor. “I grant you pardon, absolution, and remission of your sins. Come with me. We will take care of your penance.” Taking me by the hand, he led me to the chapel.
I steeled myself from trembling and followed him into that clammy stone room. Even the sharp scent of cold night air in the dark could not sweep away the remnants of tallow and sweat.
The ritual was the same as my dreams and hazy memories.
He handed me a chalice filled with a dark liquid, its flat surface reflecting the dark stone cross and flickering candlelight.
He pushed it to my lips, encouraging me.
I obediently opened my mouth and swallowed.
The herbs were strange and bitter. Not green, but dark.
My fear churned up in me again. But I fixed my gaze to him.
We had come so far. I had come so far. I desperately wanted to trust him, and in that moment, I still thought that was enough.
I still thought that’s what it should be.
I swallowed and swallowed. He had not let me down, even when I had not understood him.
So I drained the cup, even though it scared me.
A smile threatened on the edge of his mouth, and I couldn’t help but return it.
“What are you smiling for?” he asked me.
“Because you were,” I said.
“I was not.” But something released in his shoulders, and he relaxed, and the mood shifted. “Strip off your robe,” he ordered. He was in control, in utter command.
A warmth bloomed in my blood, feverish almost, and my tongue seemed thickened.
The brew he’d given me had begun working.
I wondered what those herbs were, but my mind could not hold on to the thought long enough to sort through the tastes in my mouth.
I fumbled with the robe and stripped it off my shoulders.
He gestured to the altar, the waiting stone slab, and I crawled up on his wordless command, clumsily bumping my knee against the edge. I nearly fell from the slow thud of it through my body.
“There we go,” he said, and his gloved hands wrapped around my upper arms, and he dragged me up to where I was trying to go.
I started losing time. My back was on the slab and the shadows in the vaults seemed to move into leering faces.
Join us, they murmured. But I could not.
Would not. At one point I thought I saw the ceiling blink, like the mirrors in my nightmares.
I swallowed and tried to ask Renaud, but I couldn’t seem to move my tongue.
A heaviness descended, yanking me into a dark ether.
I felt it coming. I was relaxed and happy to surrender to it.
But at the last second, I was curious—curious about what Renaud was doing, about the limits of my own power, about what might happen.
It was easier because I was so relaxed; with one breath, I slipped out of my body.
As soon as I left it behind, I left the warm stupor of darkness. Like someone had snapped me out of my drunkenness. I rose above myself, the altar, the empty chalice, the flickering candles, and Renaud’s machinations below me. I watched the ritual take place.
He didn’t—or couldn’t—see my spirit, hovering above there.
And I couldn’t feel anything in my body.
But I watched him dip his fingers in a cup and paint something dark and red, like blood, on my stomach.
Strange symbols like the ones he carved into my thighs.
He began murmuring, and even though I could not tell what kind of words they were, I could tell he was trying to build a spell.
He held his hands over me as he continued to recite words from the book he had propped opened on a stand.
He worked over my body with total dedication—sweating, straining, consulting his book again. After a bit, he paused to mop the sweat off his brow, took a drink of wine, and wiped the drawn symbols off my body. Flipping the pages, he studied it for a moment, then dipped his fingers and began again.
Why had he not explained to me what he was doing? What was he trying to achieve that he needed my body? The fact that he gave me a draught and did not tell me what was happening made me confused and afraid.
As I watched him fail at the spell—for I could tell it was a failure, not just by his frustration but that I felt no magic, no working in that cold chapel—the answer crept up from the back of my mind, undeniable. He was lying. Had always been, maybe. I was in danger.
He finished his work and called me back to my body. I closed my eyes and answered his call. This time, I could not run. I could not panic.
I had to escape.