Chapter 23
Twenty-Three
The Night We Saw Angels in the City of Fountains
Le Dauphin was in full swing come evening.
Word of the murder inside its doors did not have the anticipated outcome of people staying away; instead, it caused the opposite.
Patrons flocked inside for little more than morbid curiosity—men who had nothing to fear and everything to claim they saw or gained.
Even if they failed to catch a glimpse of the closet where a life was snuffed out too soon, they’d at least be able to return home with massaged shoulders and a lavender scent.
The bathhouse girls moved back and forth between the main chamber and private rooms. Even behind walls, Dorotèa could hear their trained laughter and purposeful strides granting every request from customers.
To go on like nothing had happened was impossible; she knew they carried every awful vestige from the brutality inside.
But Dorotèa understood their vibrant chuckles and determination not to leave a single bath unfilled or drink undelivered.
If she sat and did nothing herself, all those shreds of the reality that hurt, and rotted, and frightened her grew and grew until they stood at risk of injecting her with fresh insanity.
She needed something to do at all times.
Idleness led to overthinking, and her overthinking led to misery.
The monastic orders had made their displeasure of women openly partaking in the baths known many years back, so Dorotèa and Jeanne found themselves in one of the back rooms often used for noble clientele, or for those who ordered flesh alongside Aix’s healing waters.
Ragonde, Symonne, and Flourie consistently returned to run in pitchers of water, or repeat the best gossip from the men who had just left.
They all were stalling and they all knew it.
As soon as the last client stepped out the door, they’d slide the bath and furniture to the wall and practice the art of surviving—this time not in L’Hostel Borvo but in Le Dauphin.
Jeanne sat on the bed behind Dorotèa and braided flowers into her hair.
Whatever cream and oil little Flourie had used when she washed her reddish locks earlier had left Jeanne claiming that there was no choice but to take advantage of the impossibly soft curls it created.
Dorotèa lounged in a chair in front of her and yawned.
Oste doubtless had the more tiresome of tasks this evening, but she’d come to enjoy and take advantage of opportune moments of leisure.
“I spoke with a lawyer,” Jeanne hummed while she threaded a finger into Dorotèa’s locks. “Mmh, that came out rather serious. Melchion de Mazargues. I had a word with him.”
“He’s not your usual.”
“I didn’t want my usual. I wanted a dear friend of ours.” Jeanne worked another flower into the pin she was carefully fastening into place. “I still didn’t, you know, go so far as to name you, but I did ask about this little arrangement of ours.”
Dorotèa turned her head to look behind her, which made Jeanne scoff, grasp the top of it, and angle her back forward. She pulled out the pin and started over again. “What about it?”
“I promised I’d help you make the most of it, didn’t I? And I know you’ve been nervous about all this—don’t try to deny it—so by God, yes, I’ll go and find a lawyer.” Jeanne started to work the flower in more carefully this time. “It actually went a lot better than I expected.”
“Mmh?”
“If we’re tactful about it, we’d not even truly need to hide practices at all.
Melchion combed through all the edicts. There’s nothing that women’s exercise is in violation of; why, we’d have no France if that was the case, with how many ladies go and labor in the fields and the like.
If we were to rent a room, or use our personal property, and simply tutor our fellow ladies in strengthening activities for our minds and bodies, why, at most we’d just be called eccentrics.
At best, we may be praised for improving our constitution to bear French soldiers of the future. ”
Dorotèa took a careful sip of water while Jeanne tugged her tresses. “You’ve not said ‘fencing’ or ‘fighting.’”
She laughed. “Heavens, no. That’s the rub.”
“That’s when we begin to sound heretical?”
“Verily. Our dear Monsieur de Mazargues said as much. Even if a woman may be allowed to handle a sword on her own property, put them in the hands of ten, and… well… I’m sure the Palais would find something to exploit about it, if they noticed.
Not to mention that level of scandal. No, no, framing our sessions as women’s exercise—dancing, even!
—would see us guilty of no true wrongdoing.
You can go about teaching your tricks. Everyone wins. ”
Dorotèa looked out the window thoughtfully.
“Hmm…” She was silent for some time as she considered it.
Jeanne’s assertions gave her some degree of comfort she didn’t know she was desperate for, to be certain, but her relief gave way for her to then put the matter to additional thought.
“That’s good to know. Though, I wonder if having larger classes may be a hindrance.
Women need more individual attention when they start out.
I think smaller and more frequent groups would be wiser. ”
“Smaller groups would certainly see you experience less scrutiny,” Jeanne agreed.
“But a big one could lead to more than just exercise, no? Imagine. We could have receptions at the end, discuss all manners of subjects. Which I know would make us look even more suspicious, but it’s not like we’re forbidden from reading, either. ”
“When we’d be all tired and hot and sticky?” Dorotèa burst into laughter. “Oh, God. We’d smell.”
“Imagine—” Jeanne spilled into giggles herself. She could scarcely finish what she had to say. “Imagine our husbands when they come to walk us home.”
The two women fell into laughter anew and slapped their legs. Jeanne had to give up on her pin, which clattered to the floor.
“Jeanne, please!” Dorotèa giggled with amused tears in her eyes.
“I’m so sorry!” She hauled Dorotèa into a hug and snickered into the shoulder of her loose dress of alternating green and gold. “Oh, God. Yes, you’re right. We’d smell.”
“You smell wonderful today yourself. Is that wild rose with the lavender?”
“It is! I’m so glad someone noticed.” Jeanne picked up the last flower and pin, then resumed her work.
“Small groups, then. I think having Maistre Galoup as your father would also offer some clout. People wouldn’t think as much of you knowing your way around a little exertion. Would he mind, you think?”
Dorotèa’s smile softened just a fraction. “I don’t think so.”
“That’s good. I thought you might possibly be able to work with the hospital, too. Wasn’t the director going on about… what was it? I don’t understand the need for so many different words for the same damn thing…”
“Aerobic therapy?”
“Yes! That’s the one.”
She laughed again. “It’s for the wounded and sick.”
“Tèa, my dear, have you any idea how many jests I could possibly make about that label for its intended and the application towards our gaggle of women?”
“How wretched we are!”
And joyously did they make merry some more.
Oste might have been suited for this place in another life.
A strong body and a decent sword arm was all a man needed sometimes to make something of himself, so long as he meant to put them to use.
Such had been the expectation. If he wasn’t going to be a wolfcatcher like his father and bear the title ‘Chasseur’, then surely, surely, he’d have come to possess one like ‘Capitaine’, or even ‘Chevalier’, like other Lézins had earned in the past. But he was not that man.
He did not work here, right in the building attached to the Cordeliers Gate, or in any adjacent war rooms.
Walking the rooms with Jehan reminded Oste that this life could never have been his.
Every day spent just waiting for the next fight or war would have ensured his already worrisome nature never managed a single day of peace.
He’d not have been able to tolerate the japes in the barracks or the orders he couldn’t quite agree with.
Not even Jehan’s vocation seemed wholly manageable; he dealt with the worst of mankind when it was already too late to soothe the bodies and sorrows harmed by it.
He wanted to save people. He wanted to prevent harm.
Oste had dressed in black and silver, pulling out one of his best doublets for the occasion, and conceded to Jehan on all fronts of his recommended garb; he groomed and dressed himself to a high standard, and attached the same side cape with the Aixois coat-of-arms that the lieutenant wore.
As someone with a city commission of his own, he was permitted to wear it, even encouraged, for his public service.
He did not much think that city pride and heraldry had much use in a hospital, though, beyond his subtle Saint-Mitre flair; capes made treating and operating much more difficult.
They had a tendency to get in the way and get stained.
For similar reasons did he leave his cane at home, and prayed this didn’t turn out to be a mistake.
His leg had felt strong enough for him to attempt an evening without the tool.
One adornment wasn’t worn yet though, and it near burned a hole in Oste’s satchel.
How the men inside the gatehouse moved aside for him, however, made Oste rethink his stance when it came to his walks outside of his workplace.
A little extra respect didn’t seem so horrible now that he was coming to find what it looked like.
Presence and flair came so naturally to Jehan that Oste felt confident the lieutenant could himself command any room without the cape or emblem, but he couldn’t help but wonder if that was natural from already looking the part or training for his role.