Chapter 27
Twenty-Seven
The Blades of Saint-Mitre
L’Hostel Borvo bore the footprint of disorder and disarray that had been there ever since a confraternity called the Order of Saint-Mitre came to be.
Finding any sense of order or direction that evening was a fool’s errand.
The poor owners were forced to host not only the infamous confraternity, but their friends, and friends of friends, there and present for little reason beyond the fact that multitudes of people had a tongue they could flap and a taste for wine.
Scant few had even been present in the Palais earlier that day, where the actual cause for the ruckus came and went with little fuss and issue.
The humble affair was blown well out of proportion, which did, perhaps, suit the rest of their beloved France.
Another war was falling right into place, with the same causes as the last.
Perhaps it was never meant to make sense.
A familiar figure slid into the chair across from Oste, Dorotèa, Jeanne, and Eflamm at the corner table.
The night had begun to resemble some crooked version of the recent wedding; their grape-wearing companions and otherwise had taken to depositing food, drink, and baubles atop the worn grain of the wood.
The newest couple was amassing a bounty, with everything from bottles of wine and pouches of Camargue salt to a singular, lovely looking acorn making up the pile.
The acorn had taken on a following in its own right, with the drunken fools out and about leaving little seeds and sous in front of it.
They allowed the fun; it was all going to be dispersed at night’s end anyway.
“Allow me to officially offer my condolences,” professed a frowning Jehan, last to join the table.
The lieutenant’s capacity to remain atop his throne of grace and authority was as worthy of study as ever.
He looked as full and bright as he had before his brush with death, and even that had come and gone with little fuss.
His father, the elder Monsieur de Filhou, Sieur de Paly, had been none-too-pleased that an Arab had operated on his son, but when the young officer had gone from death’s door to leaving with nary a fever or cry of pain, the old man had conceded.
Al-Anezi’s technique and Jehan’s composure were a match made in heaven.
Oste sat back in his chair and sighed. Dorotèa leaned up against the side of him, a gesture made easier by their wooden chairs sitting so close that they touched. She rocked slightly when he moved, but continued to hang off his shoulder when he spoke. “We’re in suspense.”
Jehan set his hand over his heart. “I regret to inform you that you’ve gone and made yourselves important. Boudiou, it’s a grievous thing. You’ll get no peace.”
Their gaggle snorted. That had been obvious enough, even though the business in the Palais today was short and sweet.
It happened that hunting down a murderous lunatic and defeating him in a duel did numbers for one’s reputation, however controversial the starting point was.
Those who either looked past Oste or directly at him with disdain had begun to nod politely.
Random people thanked him in the streets.
He’d been clapped on the back and told he proved himself as a Lézin, which was all the sweeter when his father and mother attended the courthouse earlier to watch him receive a brooch and thanks for his service.
“Civic physician or civic defender? Ha, ha,” the First Consul had drawled when he pinned it.
How quickly things could change had always seemed so strange to him.
There was no such brooch for Dorotèa. She’d not have expected anything of the sort on account of her status and that, as she claimed, she hadn’t done anything but get herself whacked in the head.
That was something that Jeanne had said was rubbish, and the other girls, besides. No, there was no brooch to be offered for the woman in the waterway, but word spreading that she’d gotten every woman out of there and gave them the chance to save themselves earned no shortage of merit.
People called them both protectors. It was a new feeling. Fulfilling, and sweet.
“Star pupils often get punished with more work,” Dorotèa affirmed.
She angled her body slightly to reach up and pat Oste’s cheek.
Her touch lingered in the wake as she followed it up by grazing her fingers along the little scar Tirel’s blade had left behind.
He’d fretted until she called it rugged and handsome, though now it had begun to lose a little more color and distinction as it healed.
Oste shrugged. “I like work.”
“We know,” the table answered together.
He let out a huff and straightened again. Before Dorotèa could fully move back to allow for his position to change, he caught her hand falling away and pressed it to his lips for a brief kiss. She smiled, looking well-sated and gleeful.
“Eflamm gets no peace for being good at painting.” Jeanne inclined her head in support of the claim.
The artist, for his part, shrugged.
“He’s famous enough to be allowed to refuse,” Dorotèa laughed, then gestured with her finger for Jehan to come closer.
He obliged, albeit with a slow, hesitant step.
She continued to reach forward until she gingerly gripped the chain hiding behind his collar and lifted out of it the grapevine brooch that all the others wore. “I thought I saw a little silver.”
“It looks good on you,” added Oste.
“I wasn’t going to leave it at home.” Jehan flushed a little pink and rubbed the back of his neck. “God, you lot. When next the good of France’s will must be done you shall have me, and for company’s sake you shall have me too.”
“Then lend us your company for a while longer.” Dorotèa laughed and gestured across at Jehan’s diminished glass of wine. “You ought to try the white. I think it’s even better than the red.”
“Who am I to refu—” Jehan began, but a chorus of voices by the door preceded a shove from one man to another as soon as they managed to turn their heads. Jehan sighed and straightened his hat. “I will refuse you for a moment. My pardon. The good of France must start at home.”
“Godspeed,” Oste called out. Jehan returned a rude gesture, and quickly slipped out of sight into the crowd.
Dorotèa wasted no time in tangling her hand into his. He peered down at it, bright and comfortable, and gave it a squeeze right back. Their pinkies brushed against each other when Oste turned to regard the rest of the table and tavern that he could see.
There was Eflamm, quietly watching the crowd from his opposite.
He looked far more awake than usual, and it was easy to owe that to the time he spent with Oste that morning working on his study for Saint-George.
A project always lifted his spirits. There was Jeanne, whispering into her beloved’s ear some hushed comment that had them both rising to their feet and winking as they departed.
Two bottles of wine on the table exposed the elusive drop-in from Balac and al-Anezi on their own time.
Even if l’Hostel Borvo was frequented by them, neither, like their protégé, ever liked being away from the hospital for too long.
And how could he have missed Martin and Clotilde Lézin sending his way a quick wave as they, too, made their departure?
Between their presence and Dorotèa at his side, Oste could not have felt more full.
His lips tickled Dorotèa’s neck when he spun her closer and angled his head down. She loosened a gasp of surprise, but he beat her to speaking. “I’m working late tomorrow.”
She eased herself into his hold as she accepted his affections. She giggled quietly, playful as ever. “Mmh?”
Oste kissed her there, then up on her jaw. “I’ll not need to leave until lunchtime.”
“Is that so?”
“Verily.” Oste withdrew his mouth and replaced it with the tip of his finger. He traced circles across her skin and prayed that he might compel his caress to go as far as her heart. “Which means I have a command for you.”
Dorotèa draped her arms over his neck. “Do tell me.”
“After we wake up,” hummed Oste, “I’ll need for you to join me in the pasture with that sword of yours.”
“I take it you’ll bring yours, too?”
When his smile tickled her neck, the embrace she delivered filled every empty.