Chapter 4 #2
Dorotèa held her breath as surprise etched its way into her features.
Her brow twitched, then settled. Something in her sighed and warmed at Oste saying Marie’s name instead of calling her ‘that dead woman’.
And though what was underneath the sheet had disturbed her in more ways than she could voice, some part of her wanted to be there too, to witness what came next.
She wanted it despite the discomfort; justice itself was uncomfortable, for it was determinant on someone being wronged.
Still, it might have felt worse if it wasn’t for Oste’s assertion that their history together hadn’t been erased.
“Consider me honored,” Dorotèa swallowed, but let her thoughts spin with none of that same composure. I will behave myself for the Lézins. I will not inquire after their son’s fencing prowess.
He nodded her way, then stepped aside to grab the final pieces of his attire.
Dorotèa’s eyes widened when she realized he was strapping his rapier to his belt.
He usually walked with it, being licensed to do so, but she’d seldom seen him wear it since that horrible evening.
It suited him perfectly: a beautiful long blade with a green gem transfixed to its swept hilt, and finished with a dark leather grip. Workmanlike with a subtle flair.
Dorotèa swallowed and asked after the weapon before she could still her tongue. “Have you practiced lately?”
“Ah—” Oste remarked in surprise, like he’d been caught with his hand in a jar of sweets.
He shook his head right as he procured his fine wooden cane and exited.
Dorotèa followed right after. “Not really. I’m too slow for its needs right now.
The Duelist of Aix-en-Provence must think I’m a lazy wretch. ”
Dorotèa would have shot up into the stars if nerves and excitement could have spirited it alone. She accidentally became much too loud again. “Oh! Oh, I’d not be so sure. I think the duelist would be happy to see you regardless!”
“I’d not wish to insult him. His skills are the finest I’ve ever seen, so he deserves the respect of proper form.”
Dorotèa’s eye twitched. Him? She wanted to both laugh and scream, but of course that’s how Oste would see it. People were often blind to what was right in front of them if they didn’t know what they were looking for.
“It’s possible the duelist is more concerned with the fun of it than any true test of talent.”
“Have you ever actually seen the duelist yourself?”
Her eyes darted back and forth. “Erm… once or twice. What a funny little mask.”
“I presume he’s a Venetian.”
“That’s a good theory.”
“I haven’t thought to ask, but then again, he doesn’t speak.”
“Oh, mmh, that does pose a problem.”
“Venetian or not,” said Oste, “he’s extraordinary.”
Her heart soared, but Dorotèa wondered if he’d believe the same if he knew his rival was a Provencal woman.
Her.
They glided past the west most district’s smattering of blocks on their way out the Gate.
The main road carried the stench of the many tanners and dye-makers who made Cordeliers home, so it was some wonder the nearby bathhouses and thermal waters got as much traffic as they did; some of them being underground certainly helped.
It was even more of a wonder that, with all the abbeys and churches on the same walk, the Protestants had dared to set up some of their hidden places of worship right there in that company.
There was a whole world in Cordeliers and its depths.
Oste knew where to find the healing waters underneath the buildings, and he knew where to find those secretive little chapels, too.
Even if Saint-Mitre hadn’t walked the line between the two vehemently opposed parties, Oste would have managed to weasel his way in anyway, between getting a little too close to some Huguenot patriots and overseeing Eflamm’s tender-hearted decorating of their hidden Cordeliers church.
His submission of an overly realistic lamb for an Agnus Dei request had not, as it so happened, gone over well with the Aixois Catholics in Saint-Sauveur Cathedral. At least the Huguenots liked it.
What a winter it had been.
Yet matters had been dangerously nonsensical for years now. Oste felt his dear friend Eflamm deep in his heart every time the aloof artist frowned and said, “I just don’t get it.”
He supposed being able to understand the conflicts and massacres and the bitter taste of hate meant that he was too far gone.
There was no sense to entering adulthood with the familiar sight of the dead and damned lying in the streets or hanging from a rope on one’s daily commute.
The conflict didn’t discriminate between Huguenot and Royalist; any Catholic or Protestant could say the wrong thing and become the next unlucky corpse.
Oste was grateful for Aix being so walkable, even when his parents lived in their cottage just outside the city gates.
Everything was as close as it needed to be, and though many might spurn all the hills, he was glad for them.
Every walk saw his leg get a little stronger, and muscles form where they were before.
It would have been so much easier if he only had the fall from his horse to contend with, and not what had sent him crashing to the ground.
God, he’d been a fool that night. And he was more foolish, still, for having not regretted it at all.
Oste knocked on the wide wooden door of the family home with his cane; Dorotèa hovered just behind him with the still hot daubière, which she’d carried along without a single complaint.
He hardly knew what to make of her. He wondered if this is what it was like to have a loyal hound, only he was afraid of dogs, in truth, and found it probably offensive to think of a woman as one.
He did like horses very much; perhaps she was more akin to a trustworthy steed?
Oh, boudiou—
Martin Lézin, Oste’s father, opened the door just as the young man blushed hotly.
“Erm—” Oste choked.
The aged wolfcatcher took one look at Dorotèa, then quickly diverted his attention back down to his son. He raised the same arched brows as Oste’s, and his eyes, just as green, widened too.
“Oh—” Monsieur Lézin stammered.
Both men swayed in their equally hopeless states. Father and son weren’t built for anything like this, and the other man didn’t even know about the imaginary horse.
Thank the high heavens for Madame Clotilde Lézin, because her appearance and voice shocked them out of their steadily growing misunderstanding.
She swept in behind her husband and immediately made for Oste.
She kissed his cheeks and embraced him tight, always a different woman than how she carried herself outside of the home—quiet to avoid suspicion, quiet to avoid doing anything wrong.
Together, they couldn’t have looked more similar.
They bore the same shade of skin, with hair working in tandem.
Dark, loosely-waved, but Oste’s bore a small undercurrent of a suggestion of a lighter brown, as though his body had tried to give him another trait from his father, but quickly gave up.
They were two people as warm as wildflower honey, and as radiant as the sun that made those flowers bloom.
Clotilde pulled back and noticed Dorotèa. “Is that—”
“Dorotèa Galoup, Madame Lézin!” she said in her characteristic, sing-song hum, and strode forward with confidence.
She raised the daubière up as though her arms weren’t throbbing from carrying it all that way.
“Foolish me prepared a daube thinking Docteur Lézin would be home for the meal. I’d like to share it with the family instead, if that would suit? ”
“I requested she accompany me,” said Oste after clearing his throat. “She is the one assisting with some tasks, if you recall…?”
Clotilde clicked her tongue. “I do, and you’ve got the best girl for it. We’d love to have you, Dorotèa. Come, come. Martin, if you please, the daubière—”
His father returned to the present moment and reached out to clumsily take over the handling of the stew. Dorotèa flashed him a crooked smile, which he returned. Oste stepped inside after them and closed the door.
The table was already set when they arrived.
Cassoulet, it appeared, with plenty of bread, cheese, and preserves.
Oste chattered away in he and his mother’s shared voyageur dialect that she’d outdone herself once more.
His parents had once been determined for him to not learn the language or the customs at all, but he’d begged, and neither of them were ever much good at refusing their children.
Martin set the daubière down on the table and made off, Oste presumed, to get some wine.
As Dorotèa hovered there, unsure where to go or what to do, he almost shuffled back over to rescue her.
Instead, another thought crossed his mind, and he turned back towards his mother to rescue the Dorotèa of the future.
He continued to address her in their language. “Mama, please don’t embarrass me. And don’t let Papa be… well, you know. He’ll ask her if she’s seen a cave bear. I just know it.”
“What if she has?”
“Mama…”
“I’m being silly.” Clotilde offered him a warm smile. “I’ve just never heard you make that demand before.”
Oste drew his brows together. He realized that he didn’t think he had, either, but wasn’t sure why it came up now.
He knew, of course, that bringing friends with him to the company of his parents had been scant since the incident; the fretting from his parents alone was more than enough.
He didn’t know what it was like to not bear some kind of shame, and he’d gone and gotten himself a new one for his collection of worries.
Dorotèa said she wouldn’t judge him, but was that really true?
“She’s been here how many times?” Clotilde kissed his cheek. “My boy, you need to trim.”
“I know. I know.”