Chapter 22 #3
Dorotèa shrugged. “If I wanted to make him cross, I’ve many fine options. All I’d really have to do though is make the cream and green pillows on the bed switch off instead of keeping the cream ones in the middle, and the green ones to the outside.”
“That’s it?” Jehan retorted.
He clicked his tongue in response. “I’m a creature of habit. Now, you were saying something about the case? And borrowing me?”
Dorotèa’s fixation fell upon the lieutenant. She didn’t spare the straying of a singular thought, it seemed, for her brown eyes bore the hungry intensity that they always took on in the moment before a fight.
“Ah, yes.” Jehan tapped his chin. “It concerns that clever finding of yours, Docteur. Regarding the wounds inflicted from—” He cut himself off, then shuffled uncomfortably on his feet. “I’m just now realizing that perhaps it may be an inappropriate topic for certain company…”
Dorotèa blinked. “Is discussion somehow worse than me laying my eyes and hands on those girls?”
“Fair enough,” said a sheepish Jehan. He combed his dark hair with his fingers and straightened.
“The stab wounds and lacerations. You pointed out they all appeared to have been done with the same weapon, save for the musket. Very clever. Hooray. But so too did you begin to paint a picture of our monster’s baselard.
The viguerie was intrigued by your report, and I raised the possibility of a hunt for the dagger instead of the man. ”
Oste crossed his arms and felt himself becoming a whole lot more interested. “Don’t stop there, Lieutenant.”
“If you have identified unique and observable traits in the manner of the killings, then it goes to say that the weapon would be identifiable in the eyes of someone who knows what they’re looking for.
” Jehan, too, was rising in fervor. All three inched closer together to match the quickening of his speech.
“The crossguard inlay. The small chip along the blade. If I were to show you a baselard in possession of the characteristics that you recorded were left behind on the girls’ bodies, do you suppose you’d recognize it? ”
Oste clamped his molars tightly and thought for a moment. Each second did nothing to change his answer. “I believe I would, yes.”
“That’s what I argued with the viguerie.
” Jehan rubbed his brow. “Well, not argued. They believed the same—were quite amenable, actually. We discussed it at length. Camsas is our best suspect, to be sure, but what we know is little more than conjecture. Our culprit could be any number of men in service to the city, and that’s why I’ve a mind to look over a great number of daggers. ”
Oste narrowed his eyes. “Tell me plainly what you mean?”
“I received a written order to conduct kit inspections.” There was no mistaking it; Jehan looked downright giddy.
That was the excitement Oste witnessed more readily when his old friend started on the path of policing.
“Personal effects in the armory, and those on one’s person whilst out on patrol.
They aren’t warned in advance, and I wouldn’t, besides.
It’s a simple weapons check in Cordeliers, and elsewhere, if need be, and you’re going to come along with me. ”
“You madman,” Oste chuckled. “When is this supposed to happen?”
“Soon,” he shot back. “Soon as I can manage. Flassans and the Aixois Royalists are mustering men again, I hear. I fear we’re one incident away from more fighting, and if any of these men go off to war I don’t presume we’ll ever have the chance to make an arrest. At least half the men who patrol Cordeliers marched with the army last time, so… ”
“Then there’s no time to waste,” Oste agreed.
Dorotèa stepped sideways to center herself between the two. They turned, and Oste couldn’t miss the scrutiny that drew new lines on her face. “Is it dangerous? Would some men take offense?”
“It’s a part of their duties,” said Jehan.
“Though, if we find the bastard in the flesh, of course, there’s always some manner of risk.
Rest assured, I’d not jump into an arrest unless the circumstances dictated it happening then and there safely.
I am fond of making use of my authority to summon more watchmen. Rather lessens some possibilities.”
“I’d feel better if I could be there.” Dorotèa frowned and fidgeted with her sleeve. “Just in case.”
Jehan loosened a merry laugh. “I admire your resolve, Dorotèa, but civilians ordinarily make situations even more dangerous. Lest, perhaps, we had the Duelist of Aix-en-Provence as the special guest.”
Dorotèa and Oste immediately turned to look at each other in a perfect mirror of tense bafflement. Oste gave a small shake of his head, which caused Dorotèa to spring up a brow and squint at Jehan. The lieutenant, now shuffling on his feet, looked back and forth across the two.
“What?” he asked. “What did I say?”
“Uhm…” said Oste.
“Erm…” said Dorotèa.
Jehan gasped. “Do you know who he is? Damnation, I’ve been trying to write a ticket for carrying without a sword license for an eternity, the slippery viper. It even crossed my mind he could be the killer. He’s masked, he’s capable, he obviously knows Cordeliers…”
“The duelist isn’t the killer,” Dorotèa blurted. “It’s physically impossible.”
“How do you know?”
Dorotèa turned to look at Oste. “Do we still trust him?”
He felt a warm swell in his chest at being asked for guidance. It took Oste by surprise at first, and he coughed into his fist before answering. “I do, but it does get to his head.”
“I’m feeling quite left out!” Jehan snapped.
“I say this for the sake of adjacent reputations,” Dorotèa continued. “The duelist is not a murderer. I’m certain I’d remember if I killed someone.”
“I don’t—” Jehan began, but he immediately silenced himself.
His eyes narrowed at Dorotèa, who appeared wholly unmoved as she hovered there with her hands tucked behind her back.
His eyes drifted left and right many times over before a strangled gasp was wrenched from the lieutenant, and he hobbled back a step like he’d taken a blow.
“Merciful Jesus! Boudiou!” Jehan crossed his heart. “What do you mean? What do you mean?”
Dorotèa shook her head. “I only wanted to be able to practice with people. I didn’t mean anything by it, mostly. I—”
Oste wrapped an arm over her shoulders at the same time that Jehan jerked out of his belt his small swatches of bound paper.
He felt Dorotèa bristle under him when the lieutenant then procured his small quill and portable inkpot, but he only stalked over to the nearest lectern and started to write.
His teeth gritted from the extent of his seething.
“What… What are you doing?” Oste called out.
Jehan didn’t answer. He scrawled out several lines, then blew on the wet ink. Once the bottle was closed, and his deed complete, he put his materials away and walked back with the paper brandished. The little thing was shoved without ceremony at Dorotèa.
“What’s this?” she asked, then took it.
“Your ticket and fine for carrying without a permit.” Jehan accompanied his statement with a spot of flair, tossing his cape back over his shoulder.
“But it doesn’t have the seal on it?” Oste questioned out loud. He traced a finger down its side.
“I obviously can’t name a woman on a ticket for this in the Palais,” Jehan hissed between his teeth.
Dorotèa looked up brightly. “Am I being blackmailed?” There was a note of excitement in her voice.
“It seems that way,” Oste agreed. “He must have terms. Oh—here, he’s written it down.”
Dorotèa quirked a smile when she read it out loud. “‘A custom sword by Maistre Galoup?’ Now that’s bold. Those sell for much more than the fine for my crime, but oh well, the old man will eat that cost. I’ll pull it off.”
Jehan stuck his thumbs into his belt and bit his lower lip.
He couldn’t quite stand still, with every movement appearing like he was trying to shake a burr out from somewhere.
“I can’t believe it. A woman—an old friend—merde, there’s far too much to process.
The Palais could make a show of you, easily.
I take back what I said about having the duelist present; the duelist needs to be even more careful than I thought.
You’re smart enough to know what I could do, and I’m not the only one. ”
“Oste trusts you,” said Dorotèa quieter this time. “And if he trusts you, then I do. And maybe you might get the others not to hunt me too much for my lack of a permit?”
Oste squeezed her closer after she finished speaking. The smile he wore was obscured by her hair when he leaned down and kissed the top of her head.
“I’ll still not have you along on a kit inspection,” Jehan huffed. “It’s out of the question.”
“I understand,” she compromised. “I know the two of you know what you’re doing, just… just, I’m used to the city turning things from bad to worse. I worry.”
“Bad to hellfire,” Jehan corrected. “But like I said, it ought to be routine.”
“Would I be an overbearing wife if I spent the time inside in Cordeliers with the other ladies?” she asked. “Just so I might be closer than our home?”
“I don’t see anything wrong with that,” said Oste. He gave her a rub, then let go. “Just inform me of your arrangements.”
“Lieutenant?” Dorotèa asked for confirmation.
He had returned to gnawing on his lip and positively glowering at one of the stained-glass windows. His flushed cheeks spoke to a brewing unease.
“What? Oh—yes. That’s fine. I don’t care,” said Jehan in short order, but he quieted to a growl when he added: “The nonsense the duelist has pulled off… God… you’d have been put to use, too.”
“I like to be put to use, so it’s a shame, that.”
“I don’t need to hear anything more on that front,” Jehan hastily added. He adjusted his hat and turned on his heel. “Oste, I’ll send word personally when I have the timing finalized. Expect to receive me tomorrow.”
“Sure, but I’m not putting out a cheese plate for you.”
“You’re miserable.”
Oste waved. “Last chance to pin this on the Protestants or Catholics.”
“Last chance for you to shut your mouth!” he waved back.
On the walk back, the heavens saw fit to blacken the stars and set down the rains.
Watery trails darkened the pastel colors of Provencal brick which, beneath the cover of night, turned almost black without the assistance of torchlight.
That there had been no rain on all the nights the girls died was some solace through it all.
They’d not slipped away without the allure of moonlight, and did not come to be smothered by haunting black when their circumstances were already too hellish to put into words.
Oste and Dorotèa walked back in the rainy haze.
The rain came down so forcefully there was scarcely the chance to see the road in front of them, but they knew this city, and knew each other by then.
Feeling safe was a peculiar thing, especially when the world presented enough cause for people to have no business having that sensation.
It was always possible that tomorrow they wouldn’t be, or that the security they had was misplaced.
But oh, how beautiful it was to experience the warm blanket of comfort at least once.
“I suppose I’ll practice with the girls at the baths,” Dorotèa murmured quietly. “I’ll see if Jeanne would like to come. I’m usually better off busying myself.”
Oste nodded. “I’ll find you after.”
They said nothing else. Dorotèa stared straight ahead when she realized that Oste was doing the same.
The thick curtain of rain made everything feel so impossibly far away, even the shadows of other wayward souls wandering the streets; vengeful wraiths they might have been, murderers in civilian garb—but some other night, elsewhere.
But little by little, their hands drew closer.
Reaching, testing, until at last their two water-slick pinkies brushed each other and hooked.
Their skin ought to have been too slippery for them to keep them there, but their conjunction was as constant as the truth that, despite everything, Aix would still be beautiful when they woke up.
Dorotèa wanted to tell Oste that she was nervous for him.
She wanted to say that she had confidence in him, too.
She wanted to take the sides of his face and tell him to go on and fly, and that even though she’d fuss and fret, she wanted nothing else for him but to make it to the greatest heights, and then back into her arms when he was done.
Such sentiments did not so easily translate into words. Every way she might have said it felt like the wrong approach.
I’m frightened, she’d say, but what if he thought she didn’t have faith?
You’ll be fine, she’d utter, but what if he remembered the time when he wasn’t?
You’ll see this through, she’d insist, but what if they never did? Justice didn’t care about feelings.
So, as they made their way further down the road, Dorotèa said nothing at all.
She squeezed her little digit around Oste’s as tight as she could muster, until his warmth was no longer in question despite the cool dampness of the rain, and his strength confirmed by the force he used to return the gesture back.
I believe in you, Dorotèa thought instead, and she let this be her most reverent utterance, greater than any prayer that she’d allowed to leave her lips. I believe in you.
A physician with a heart too tender for the life he chose and wanted for himself steadied his breaths and tried to find his lover’s pulse along her littlest finger.
It possessed an even smaller callus from her years of gripping a sword.
He grazed his own right over it, and the comfort her touch gave made him sigh and steady his thoughts.
You believe in me, Oste thought, so I’m trying to believe in me, too.
I love you.
And I will always love you.