Chapter 18 #2
“Hunter’s rings.” I hate the feel of them, but they’re a tool I should make use of now.
The bands are golden, but the ornaments on top are all iron.
Questions swirl in my mind: If the queen wouldn’t answer my questions, does that mean there are people within the court with glamours?
Are there faeries in this world? Is the queen compromised in some way?
“Your dress,” Clarissa says, motioning to the heavy gray gown I must don.
I quickly slip a ring on each of my hands, on my smallest fingers.
It leaves my thumb, first, ring, and middle finger naked, but if I am to brush against people, this feels like the most subtle option.
It seems wrong, but if I am at a party surrounded by nobles .
. . I am desperate for clues, and I don’t want to wait for a fourth dead man to get them.
Once I am dressed, Clarissa helps affix my mask, the same one I wore to the palace. I have a twinge of worry about whispers, since I left the dance with the cursed duke while wearing this, but my reputation is not my focus today.
“May I touch you with this?” I wiggle the finger with the ring.
“Of course.” Clarissa extends an arm.
I practice casually bumping against her with the ring a few times. “The trick seems to be brushing against wrists as I walk. Lower your arm.”
I practice a few more gestures before I depart and walk to the Chathams’ house.
As I join the swirl of dancing, mingling nobles, I keep tapping my rings against bare arms and wrists.
When I accept small sandwiches from servants, I do the same.
My gaze clocks the crowd of people as I sip an aperitif.
I cannot imagine how much I’d need to dance to try to check each noble—and doing it when they are masked does little to eliminate suspects.
I need to be at the theater or the museum or an unmasked ball.
As I plot how to eliminate the nobles strategically, I listen to conversations rise and fall. Sometimes I think people forget that those around them can hear their words. Other times, I am certain they simply don’t care that they are rude.
“Did you hear? Both the duke and the earl? Dead. Chest complaints both.”
“Something wrong with the game over there? Were they poisoned?”
“Two commoners murdered over there, too,” a third, raspy voice joins in.
“No sons either one of them,” the first voice stresses. “All those women with plenty of money and no man to help them manage.”
A woman’s voice cuts in, “Since when do we need a man to manage our money?”
“A lot of deaths is all I’m saying,” the raspy voices rejoins.
I walk away from the group. Nothing they say brings any new clue or comfort to me.
The weight of being the Hunter, of protecting my mother and sister, of fulfilling my duty, of telling Isabeau, of learning what truths the queen hides, of researching to understand Isabeau’s curse, of commanding soldiers .
. . It all spins like unfamiliar words in my mind.
And I want to make it all pause.
Not stop.
Not quit.
Not fail.
I simply want to set aside the weights that are crushing me for a few scant hours.
With a muffled expletive, I pull off the rings and shove them deep into the hidden pocket sewn into my gown.
They clatter softly against a small, sheathed knife, because even at a ball, even in my mourning period, I am always armed.
I take another aperitif and drink it too fast to taste the bitterness. Then I ask another servant, “Wine? Something more numbing?”
And while I’m waiting for the young man to return, my thoughts falter as Isabeau appears and cuts through the crowd.
My father’s rules for conduct in public call out loudly in my mind: Rule the first, ladies do not gallivant; rule the second, ladies do not place themselves in peril; rule the third—the most critical rule of all—ladies are delicate. Smile demurely. Flutter. Float.
Outside of society, the gallivanting, the peril, the delicacy are all the opposite of what I am to be.
But knowing the rules is sometimes all that keeps me from giving in to wild impulses, and those impulses are even more prevalent when I see Isabeau.
I wonder if that is exactly why my father disliked her.
As the Hunter-in-Training, I was to obey him, not follow her.
But as a girl, when I saw Isabeau, all sense of decorum vanished.
Now, as Isabeau stops in front of me, I sound anything but decorous as I ask, “May I help you?”
“Lords above, I hope so.” Isabeau blows out her breath loudly. “You must have mercy on me, Gabrielle.”
“So bold.” I lick my lips, thrilling at the way her gaze is now fixed on my mouth. Not even rich liquor has made me feel as brash and impulsive as Isabeau’s mere presence.
The servant is back with a glass of a clear liquid. I lift it to my lips and drink deeply, fascinated by the way it burns through my chest and toward my stomach. This is not an aperitif but something stronger.
“Auntie Mor knows I want to marry you,” Isabeau says baldly. “I told her.”
“Truly?”
Isabeau shrugs. “Truly. The first time I told her, we were still children.”
“And were you surprised she refused? Shocked not to be granted your every whim?” I try to keep my voice light, but my heart speeds at Isabeau’s audacity. No wonder everyone finds her alluring.
I should tell her about Emma, I think, but how do I do so without admitting I saw them at the palace?
Isabeau grips my chin, holding me in hand, forcing me to stare back at her as she proclaims, “Whim? Never once think my interest is a mere whim.”
I finish the drink, feeling uncommonly impetuous. “If we can agree on terms, perhaps we can remedy one of your complaints. A kiss perhaps?”
Isabeau pivots toward an alcove and grabs my wrist. “I have earned my kiss.”
“Your Grace!” I stumble as she tugs me after her, but I don’t resist. Laughter feels like a gift, and I am a stumbling, giggling mess as I try to keep up with her. “Your seduction skills are rather unusual.”
“Yet I believe they will gain me what I most desire eventually.” Isabeau moves close enough that her hand can glide over my hip. People surround us, but most eyes will not see. The duke whispers, “I desperately want to touch you, love.”
The queen said I must attend, not that I must stay, a wicked voice reminds me. I can no longer feel the compulsion of the magic that forced me here. I can leave now!
“Be careful what you offer, Your Grace.” My voice sounds like it belongs to a stranger, husky and full of an unfamiliar need. “Do you like that, too? Being touched?”
“I do, but most noblewomen do not—”
“You may notice that I am not quite the same as most noblewomen, Isabeau. Let us leave this place.” I walk quicker than her, even in my heavy dress, leading her outside. “My home is empty. My mother and sister left for the manor.”
We say nothing more as we hurry toward my town house, and I wish we could simply run. The distance is short, and my pace quickens. Isabeau manages to keep up with me, and I am thrilled that she can do so.
“What are you saying?” Isabeau catches my hips in her hands and holds me still before I can reach my door.
“I am saying that I had one lover who left me cold, and that I want you to . . . do what he couldn’t.” My cheeks are on fire, but I pull off my mask so she can see my face. “I leave to rejoin my family in the morning. I have tonight to audition for the role of mistress to the duke.”
“Come nightfall, I am insensible. The curse . . . I cannot stay awake when the sun sets.”
I glance at the sky. Tempted as I am to see whether she really is unconscious with the setting of the sun, today is not that day.
I think back to whatever tonic she drank with the queen.
There’s no love between Morag and the dowager duchess, but both women love Isabeau.
Could they be working together to keep Isabeau from misbehaving at night?
Is this “curse” simply an elaborate ruse because of her debauchery?
I have questions I should pursue, but I also have a beautiful woman who wants to be in my arms.
I speak none of my questions.
“The sun is still high in the sky,” I point out. “That gives us several hours, Isabeau. Come into my home with me.”
“I want more than this,” Isabeau says. “I want to unwrap you, love. I want you, but . . . you’re breaking my heart. I want this to be our reunion, not merely a tryst.”
“Isa . . .”
“Please?” Standing in front of my house, Isabeau drops to her knees, still holding my hips in her hands. “You are everything I’m seeking, and you have given me no reason that we cannot be more. Let me court you. Let me marry you, love.”
“You would give up tonight when I am asking you to seduce me?” I bend down and kiss her, right there on the path outside my home.
No mask on my face, no sense in my mind, I am dizzy with impatience.
“The world is crushing me, and I want you to make me feel alive, Isabeau. No one else can. Only you.”
She swallows, and I see her resolve wavering.
“I will hear your offer once I can,” I promise. “I miss the way we talked and . . . I want to hear your explanations of the night sky, and tell you about my reading, and dance with you. I want to eat tarts that we steal from the kitchen and—”
My words end with a yip as Isabeau stands and kisses me.