Chapter 13 The Duelist of Aix-en-Provence #2
“I only know two,” he breathed, “and they’re good men.
Monsieur Camsas is a veteran. He… He’s defended Aix, fought for the whole of France.
I’ve met him many times. He wanted to stay in the city when his youngest child fell ill; a s-sickly boy, I’ve heard.
But he still wanted to serve, so he offered himself to the militia. ”
“And did he know Marie?”
“I think everyone in Cordeliers had to have seen her face now and again. But I don’t think he knew her.”
“Not like he knows a blade and a musket, mmh?”
Clau looked down. “I suppose not.”
Dorotèa slid down from the desk fully. “And the second?”
“C-Capitaine Tirel.”
“Same story? A good man?”
“Yes,” Clau breathed. “He’s always been helpful. H-He helped the governor clean up the countryside. Escorted me home, even, many times over, when the troubles were at their worst.”
Dorotèa frowned. ‘Cleaning up the countryside’ was a charming way to describe dealing with Protestants, but she figured most men on duty served in that regard at least once. “And?”
“He knew Marie, and he was good to her. After she ignored me, I asked him to help keep an eye out for her in Cordeliers and keep her safe, and he did. Boudiou, he helped me breathe. He saved her once from another man who wanted to have his way. The life she lived was a dangerous one. I prayed for her before, and I s-still will…”
“A dangerous life would never have been her first choice,” Dorotèa breathed against his ear, then pushed off her heel and circled him from behind.
“I’m sorry. I know you said it doesn’t mean anything to you, but I am.”
“I’m sorry too. I’m sorry in very many ways, for her sake.”
“I… I… If there’s anything I could do, if… she…”
“Anything you could do?” Dorotèa repeated with a tilt of her head. She planted her foot on the side of his chair and leaned forward, which made him grab both sides of it to stay balanced.
“Yes. Yes.”
“I suppose,” Dorotèa started thoughtfully, “that you could start by being someone a daughter would be proud of.”
Dorotèa entered Oste’s office just before dawn with her mask and rapier wrapped in her cloak. She stepped silently no longer; her narrow feet slid along the wooden floor and announced her presence before she could say anything. Dorotèa didn’t need to rouse the physician, though. He was already up.
The candle she’d knocked over the day before was lit on his nightstand, and its orange glow illuminated Oste’s form on the side of the bed.
His legs dangled over the side, and he was in the process of tying up his favorite pair of leather boots, worn from use and sporting dark smudges where spurs sometimes sat.
He was no longer in his loose linens from convalescing, and had pulled on a pair of maroon hose and a matching doublet.
It was pulled on as clumsily as the styling of his hair; it hung in messy strands that barely passed for combed.
He tied off his lace and looked up, wild-eyed, and that was when their gazes met.
“Dorotèa,” Oste choked out. “Dorotèa, you said you were getting some air. You didn’t come back when I thought you’d… I didn’t…”
Her voice was a meek whisper. “I know.”
“I had a rest. When I woke up, you still weren’t here. I didn’t sleep the rest of the night. I was going to look for you. I… was about to look for you.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
Oste rubbed his eyes. “I wanted to talk. I… I was going to have the Saint-Mitre boys keep their eyes open, because that was a good idea. And have word sent to Jehan in the morning with suggestions. I thought we could put our heads together after a moment to breathe. I always thought we did a good job of that. But you were gone, and I was worried, and—where were y—”
Dorotèa let her cloak fall from the bundle. It landed in a crumpled heap at her feet and left only the sword and mask in her hands. The candlelight bounced off the surfaces of both and bid each bright strip of metal and gilding to dance. Even in the dark, what they were was unmistakable.
Oste fell silent and froze.
Dorotèa was shaking. “I… was pretending.”
She watched as his face morphed in front of her.
The heavy shadows from the light only served to accentuate what she could only think of as horror.
His jaw slackened and went agape, and his eyes, usually so serene, had widened once again and remained that way.
A new crease formed in his brow when his already arched brows drew up in tightened incredulity. He did not breathe. He did not move.
Dorotèa’s heart pounded in her chest. It skipped along at a more panicked pace, faster and faster with each passing second, until her palms were sweating and she saw spots in her vision.
Dorotèa swayed on her feet, her breath ragged to match the flurry in her chest. She could never forget his face.
Boudiou, she could never forget how she felt.
Oh, no, no, no.
Regret came at her like a knife. And though Dorotèa had sworn she’d stop running, she broke that promise when she dropped her props and frantically fled the room.