“You have been alone so long your enfeebled mind is conjuring ghosts for company.”
There is a faint whisper of movement, and though I cannot see through the murk, his regard is palpable as it reaches through the dark to take my measure. “While my enfeebled mind has conjured many ghosts these last long months, you are the first to smell of apples.”
I loosen my grip on the fruit in my hand, the full impact of his situation finally registering. He has been locked down here for months. Was near death but a few days ago.
“I do have an apple. Would you like it?”
“Yes.” The force of his hunger causes his voice to crack.
It is a simple thing, to bring such reverence to a man’s voice. The apple is too large to fit through the grate, so I reach for the small knife at my belt and slice it in half. “I will drop it down, one half at a time.”
There is a rustle as he comes to stand beneath the opening. I peer down, but see nothing in all that sooty darkness. “It’s coming through the center,” I tell him, hoping he can catch it rather than have it land in the filth I can smell all the way from here. I drop one half, then the other, holding my breath until I hear the quiet slap of them landing in his palm.
A long silence is followed by a juicy crunch and a grunt of pleasure. As he gulps down the fruit, I am filled with satisfaction. I have helped someone. Even if it is only to keep them from starving one more day. It is the same feeling I had as a child when I found a stray cat behind the tavern and would sneak it a saucer of milk. Although the satisfaction tonight is tenfold.
“Who is Ives?” I whisper, wondering if I should be worried about the guards.
A long pause. “One of the ghosts.”
Something in his voice feels unspeakably sad, and I find myself wanting to change the subject. “And what of you? Why are you not a ghost? You seemed near death but days ago.”
“I was. Until it rained and filled the seep so I was able to quench my thirst.”
So, I did not imagine it. “Does no one bring you food or water?”
“They did. Once.” There is a note of wistfulness in his voice.
“I will bring more if I can.”
I regret the whispered promise before I reach the first corridor leading out of the dungeons, where reality begins to chase away the last dregs of satisfaction. I cannot come back. I have no convincing pretense for being down here. Count Angoulême would ask questions, poke and prod and watch me more closely.
My role in this household is one of a biddable, humble attendant, not someone who possesses such morbid interests or would dare to explore death if she stumbled upon it. Too many years have been spent cultivating that bland demeanor. It is beyond foolish to risk it for some unknown prisoner.
And yet my soul is hungry for such risks. A taste for them was fed to me with my mother’s milk, then nurtured and honed by the convent. To not take them feels like leaving fruit to wither and die on a vine.
?Chapter 6
hen I reach my chamber, the countess of Angoulême sits in a chair by the fire, waiting for me. I hide my surprise with a warm greeting. “My lady.” I sink into a deep curtsy.
She motions me to my feet. “Where have you been, Genevieve?” I cannot tell by her expression how long she has been waiting.
“Roaming the halls. You know how restless I get when cooped up for too long.”
She wrinkles her nose. “I do not understand your need to gallop about. I have always thought it was odd, ever since we were children.”
I nearly laugh. She and I never knew each other as children, but first met when we were twelve years old. She, too, was a ward of the regent, one of the “girls” Madame Regent raised as her own. There were others as well, including the young dauphine, Marguerite, once destined to be queen of France.
“I only gallop when I am outside, my lady. Indoors, I keep to a trot.”
She studies me with thoughtful eyes. Once she would have laughed at my jest, but with her new elevated station, she inspects each word for any sign of disrespect or overfamiliarity.
She moves her hands to her belly. While it is softly rounded with child, she is not as far along as Margot. Does it bother her that her husband’s mistress—her own lady in waiting—will be bearing his child before she does? Deciding to ignore—or forgive—my jest, she says, “My lord husband wishes to see you.”
Caution wars with curiosity. The count has not summoned me in over a month. “Ah, then. Best not keep him waiting.”
Louise’s heavy brow creases faintly as she searches yet again for the sign of disrespect she fears.
I reach down to take her arm and pull her to her feet. “After all,” I say cheerfully, “he is an important man with much to do.”
“Do you know why he wishes to see you?” Her dark brown eyes meet my own, hesitant questions lurking in their depths.
“No.” I allow a faint hint of surliness to color the word. It is a trait of mine she knows well. “I have probably offended or transgressed in some way.” Louise has always been too timid and biddable to do anything improper, but secretly enjoys when others take such risks. Her mouth quirks up in a faint smile, the questions fading from her eyes.
* * *
The thick oak door to Count Angoulême’s room stands open. He sprawls in a chair at his desk with his back to the fire, a decanter at his elbow, a half-full glass in his hand. The room is cloying with the thick, too-warm scent of vetiver, cloves, and wine. I do not go in, but remain in the doorway. “My lord? The countess said you sent for me?”
He waves me forward. “Come in, come in. Don’t hover. And close the door.”
The first several times he asked me to close the door, I hoped it meant he had news from the convent regarding my duties. It did not.
Biting back a sigh of resignation, I do as he commands.
When I reach the chair in front of his desk, he pours a glass of wine, places it in front of me, and motions for me to sit.
I remain standing.
“Where have you been?” My heart pounds for one long, painful moment—does he know about the oubliette? “You’ve been scarce of late.”
“I have been keeping my own company, my lord.”
“That is too bad. I miss your earlier visits. It was refreshing, being interrogated by a young demoiselle less than half my age.”
My cheeks flush at this reminder of my behavior when Margot and I first came to Count Angoulême’s household, nearly a year ago. I had had the misfortune of attracting the king’s eye. Being his older sister as well as the regent, Madame wanted me far away from the French court—and her younger brother. Fortunately for her, Louise was traveling to her new home in Cognac and needed attendants of her own. Margot and I were assigned to accompany her.