Serpent & Dove

I woke long before my wife. Stiff. Sore. Aching from a fitful night on the floor. Though I’d argued with myself—reasoned vehemently that she’d chosen to suffer in the tub—I hadn’t been able to climb into bed. Not when she was injured. Not when she might wake in the night and change her mind.

No. I’d offered her the bed. The bed was hers.

I regretted my chivalry the moment I stepped into the training yard. Word of my new circumstance had obviously swept through the Tower. Man after man rose to meet me, each with a determined glint in his eye. Each waiting impatiently for his turn. Each attacking with uncharacteristic belligerence.

“Long night, huh, Captain?” my first partner sneered after clipping my shoulder.

The next managed to hit my ribs. He glared. “It isn’t right. A criminal sleeping three rooms from me.”

Jean Luc grinned. “I don’t think they were doing much sleeping.”

“She could cut our throats.”

“She consorts with witches.”

“It isn’t right.”

“It isn’t fair.”

“I heard she’s a whore.”

I bashed the handle of my sword into the last one’s head, and he sprawled to the ground. Extending my arms, I turned in a slow circle. Challenging anyone who dared confront me. Blood ran from a cut on my forehead. “Does anyone else have a problem with my new circumstance?”

Jean Luc howled with laughter. He in particular seemed to enjoy my trial, judgment, and execution—until he entered the ring. “Give me your best, old man.”

I was older than him by three months.

But even battered, even exhausted, even old, I would die before yielding to Jean Luc.

The fight lasted only a few minutes. Though he was quick and nimble, I was stronger. After a good hit, he too crumpled, clutching his ribs. I rubbed the blood from my freshly split lip before helping him up.

“We’ll need to interrupt your conjugal bliss to interrogate her about Tremblay’s, you know. Like it or not, the men are right.” He touched a knot under his eye gingerly. “She does consort with witches. The Archbishop thinks she might be able to lead us to them.”

I almost rolled my eyes. The Archbishop had already confided his hopes to me, but I didn’t tell Jean Luc that. He enjoyed feeling superior. “I know.”

Wooden swords still clacked, and bodies thudded together as our brothers continued around us. No others approached, but they shot me covert looks between rounds. Men who had once respected me. Men who had once laughed, joked, and called me friend. In only a few hours, I’d become the object of my wife’s rejection and my brethren’s scorn. Both stung more than I cared to admit.

Breakfast had been worse. My brethren hadn’t allowed me to eat a bite. Half had been too eager to hear about my wedding night, and the others had studiously ignored me.

What was it like?

Did you enjoy it?

Don’t tell the Archbishop, but . . . I tried it once. Her name was Babette.

Of course I hadn’t actually wanted to consummate. With her. And my brothers—they would come around. Once they realized I wasn’t going anywhere. Which I wasn’t.

Crossing the yard, I threw my sword on the rack. The men parted for me in waves. Their whispers bit and snapped at my back. To my irritation, Jean Luc had no such scruples. He followed me like a plague of locusts.

“I must confess I’m anxious to see her again.” He ensured his sword landed on top of mine. “After that performance on the beach, I think our brothers are in for a real treat.”

I would’ve preferred the locusts.

“She isn’t that,” I disagreed in an undertone.

Jean Luc continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “It’s been a long time since a woman was in the Tower. Who was the last—Captain Barre’s wife? She wasn’t anything to look at. Yours is much nicer—”

“I’ll thank you not to speak of my wife.” The whispers peaked behind us as we neared the Tower. Uninhibited laughter rang across the yard as we stepped inside. I gritted my teeth and pretended I couldn’t hear them. “What she is or isn’t is no concern of yours.”

His eyebrows shot up. “What’s this? Is that possessiveness I detect? Surely you haven’t forgotten the love of your life so easily?”

Célie. Her name cut through me like a serrated knife. Last night, I’d written her a final letter. She deserved to hear what had happened from me. And now, we were . . . done. Truly done this time. I tried and failed to swallow the lump in my throat.

Please, please, forget me.

I could never forget you.

You must.

The letter had left with the post at first light.

“Have you told her yet?” Jean Luc kept hard on my heels, just tall enough to match my stride. “Did you go to her last night? One last rendezvous with your lady?”

I didn’t answer.

“She won’t be pleased, will she? I mean, you chose not to marry her—”

“Lay off, Jean Luc.”

“—yet now you’ve married a filthy street rat who tricked you into a compromising position. Or did she?” His eyes flared, and he caught my arm. I tensed, longing to break his grip. Or his nose. “One can’t help but wonder . . . why did the Archbishop force you to marry a criminal if you’re innocent?”

I jerked my arm away. Fought to control the anger threatening to explode. “I am innocent.”

He touched the knot at his eye again, lip curling into a grin. “Of course.”

“There you are!” The Archbishop’s curt voice preceded him into the foyer. As one, we lifted our fists to our hearts and bowed. When we rose, the Archbishop’s gaze fell on me. “Jean Luc has informed me you’ll be interrogating your wife today about the witch at Tremblay’s.”

I nodded stiffly.

“You will, of course, communicate any developments to me directly.” He clasped my shoulder with an easy camaraderie that probably drove Jean Luc mad. “We must keep a keen eye on her, Captain Diggory, lest she destroy herself—and you in the process. I would attend the interrogation myself, but . . .”

Though his voice trailed off, his meaning rang clear. But I can’t stand her. I empathized.

“Yes, sir.”

“Go and fetch her, then. I shall be in my study, preparing for evening Mass.”

She wasn’t in our room.

Or the washroom.

Or the Tower.

Or the entire cathedral.

I was going to strangle her.

I’d told her to stay. I’d presented the reasons—the perfectly rational, easily understandable reasons—and still she’d disobeyed. Still she’d left. And now who knew what foolish antics she was up to—foolish antics that would reflect back on me. A husband who couldn’t control his own wife.

Furious, I sat at my desk and waited. Mentally recited every verse I could on patience.

“Be still before the Lord, and wait patiently for him; do not fret over those who prosper in their way, over those who carry out evil devices.”

Of course she’d left. Why wouldn’t she? She was a criminal. An oath meant nothing to her. My reputation meant nothing to her. I sat forward in my chair. Pressed my palms against my eyes to relieve the building pressure in my head.

“Refrain from anger, and forsake wrath. Do not fret—it leads only to evil. For the wicked shall be cut off, but those who wait for the Lord shall inherit the land.”

But her face. Her bruises.

I have many enemies.

Surely being my wife couldn’t be worse than that? She would be cared for here. Protected. Treated better than she deserved. And yet . . . a small, grim voice in the back of my mind whispered that perhaps it was good she had gone. Perhaps this solved a problem. Perhaps—

No. I had made a vow to this woman. To God. I would not forsake it. If she wasn’t back in another hour, I’d go out and find her—ransack the city if I must. If I didn’t have my honor, I didn’t have anything. She would not take that from me. I wouldn’t allow it.

“Well, this is a fun surprise.”

I jerked my head up at the familiar voice. Unexpected relief swept through me. Because there, leaning against the doorjamb and grinning, stood my wife. Her arms were crossed against her chest, and beneath her cloak, she wore—she wore—

“What are you wearing?” I shot up from my chair. Stared determinedly at her face and not . . . elsewhere.

She looked down at her thighs—her very visible, very shapely thighs—and parted her cloak farther with the brush of her hand. Casually. As if she didn’t know what she was doing. “I believe they’re called pants. Surely you’ve heard of them—”

“I—” Shaking my head, I forced myself to focus, to look anywhere but her legs. “Wait, what surprise?”

She strode farther into the room, trailing a finger down my arm as she passed. “You’re my husband now, dear. What sort of wife would I be if I couldn’t speak your language?”

“My language?”

“Silence. You’re well versed in it.” After tossing aside her cloak, she threw herself down on the bed and stuck a leg up in the air to examine it. I glared at the floor. “I’m a fast learner. I’ve only known you a few days, but I can already interpret the very angry, slightly doubtful, and frankly worried silence you’ve been fretting in all morning. I’m touched.”

Refrain from anger. I unclenched my jaw and glared at the desk. “Where were you?”

“I went out to get a bun.”

Forsake wrath. I gripped the back of the chair. Too hard. The wood bit into my fingertips, and my knuckles turned white. “A bun?”

“Yes, a bun.” She shucked off her boots. They hit the floor with two dull thuds. “I overslept the matinee—probably because someone woke me up at the ass crack—”

“Watch your mouth—”

“—of dawn.” She stretched leisurely and fell back against the pillows. Sharp pains shot up my fingers from my grip on the chair. I took a deep breath and let go. “A page boy brought me a rather unfortunate dress this morning—one of the maids’, with a neckline up to my ears—to wear until someone could make it to market. No one had exactly made it a priority, so I charmed the kid into giving me the coin the Archbishop left for my wardrobe and took the liberty of purchasing it myself. The rest will be delivered this evening.”

Dresses. To purchase dresses—not this unholy creation. This pair of trousers looked nothing like the grubby pair she’d worn before. She’d obviously had these tailored with the Archbishop’s coin. They fit her like a second skin.

I cleared my throat. Maintained my visual of the desk. “And the guards—they let you—”

“Leave? Of course. We were under the impression this wasn’t a prison sentence.”

Refrain from anger. I turned slowly. “I told you to stay in the Tower.”

I risked a glance at her then. Mistake. She’d propped her knees up, kicking one over the other. Flaunting every curve on her lower body. I swallowed hard and forced my gaze back to the floor.

She knew what she was doing, too. Devil.

“And you expected me to listen?” She laughed. No—chuckled. “Honestly, Chass, it was a little too easy to leave. The guards at the door almost begged me to go. You should’ve seen their faces when I actually came back—”

“Why did you?” The words came out before I could stop them. I cringed internally. It wasn’t as if I cared. And it didn’t matter, anyway. All that mattered was that she’d disobeyed me. As for my brothers . . . I would need to have a word with them. Clearly. No one abhorred the heathen’s presence more than I, but the Archbishop had given orders.

She stayed. For richer or poorer. In sickness and in health.

“I told you, Chass.” Her voice grew unusually quiet, and I risked another glance. She’d rolled to her side and now looked me square in the eye. Chin propped in her hand. Arm draped across her waist. “I have many enemies.”

Her gaze didn’t waver. Her face remained impassive. For the first time since I’d met her, emotion didn’t radiate from her very being. She was . . . blank. Carefully, skillfully blank. She arched a brow at my appraisal. A silent question.

But there was no need to ask—to have her confirm what I already suspected. Stupid as it was to take a thief at her word, there wasn’t a better explanation for why she’d returned. I didn’t want to admit it, but she was clever. Masterful at the art of escape. Probably impossible to find once hidden.

Which meant she was here because she wanted to be. Because she needed to be. Whoever her enemies were, they must’ve been dangerous.

I broke our eye contact to stare at the bedpost. Focus. “You disobeyed me,” I repeated. “I told you to stay in the Tower, and you didn’t. You broke trust.” She rolled her eyes, mask cracking. I tried to resurrect my previous anger, but it didn’t burn quite as hot now. “The guards will be more vigilant, especially after the Archbishop hears of your indiscretions. He won’t be pleased—”

“Unexpected bonus—”

“And you’ll remain confined to the lower floors,” I finished through clenched teeth. “The dormitories and commissary.”

She sat up, curiosity flaring in her blue-green eyes. “What’s on the top floors, again?”

“None of your business.” I strode to the door without looking back at her, sighing in relief when a maid strode past. “Bridgette! Can my wife, er, borrow a gown? I’ll return it first thing tomorrow morning.” When she nodded, blushing, and hurried away, I turned back to Louise. “You’ll need to change. We’re going to the council room, and you can’t wear those in front of my brothers.”

She didn’t move. “Your brothers? What could they possibly want with me?”

It must’ve been physically impossible for this woman to submit to her husband. “They want to ask you some questions about your witch friend.”

Her answer came immediately. “I’m not interested.”

“It wasn’t a request. As soon as you’re dressed appropriately, we leave.”

“No.”

I glared at her for a full second longer—waiting for her to concede, waiting for her to demonstrate the proper meekness befitting a woman—before realizing who this was.

Lou. A thief with a man’s name. I turned on my heel. “Fine. Let’s go.”

I didn’t wait for her to follow. Honestly, I didn’t know what I’d do if she didn’t. The memory of the Archbishop striking her reared in my mind, and the heat coursing through me burned hotter. That would never happen again. Even if she cursed—even if she refused to listen to a single word I ever said—I would never raise my fist to her.

Ever.

Which left me fervently hoping she followed.

After a few seconds, soft footsteps echoed behind me in the corridor. Thank God. I shortened my strides, so she could catch up. “Through here,” I murmured, leading her down the staircase. Careful not to touch her. “To the dungeon.”

She looked up at me in alarm. “The dungeon?”

I almost chuckled. Almost. “The council room is down there.”

I ushered her through another corridor. Down a smaller, steeper flight of stairs. Terse voices drifted toward us as we descended. I pushed open the crude wooden door at the base of the stairs and motioned for her to step inside.

A dozen of my brethren stood arguing around an enormous circular table in the middle of the room. Bits of parchment littered it. Newspaper clippings. Charcoal sketches. Underneath it all stretched an enormous map of Belterra. Every mountain range—every bog, forest, and lake—had been inked with care and precision. Every city and landmark.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the little thief.” Jean Luc’s eyes swept over her with keen interest. He sauntered around the table to examine her closer. “Come to grace us with her presence at last.”

The others soon followed, ignoring me completely. My lips pressed together in unexpected irritation. I didn’t know who bothered me most—my wife for wearing trousers, my brothers for staring, or myself for caring.

“Peace, Jean Luc.” I stepped closer, towering behind her. “She’s here to help.”

“Is she? I thought street rats valued loyalty.”

“We do,” she said flatly.

He raised a brow. “You refuse to help us then?”

Behave, I pleaded silently. Cooperate.

She didn’t, of course. Instead, she drifted toward the table, glancing at the bits of paper. I knew without looking who she saw. One face drawn a dozen times. A dozen ways. Mocking us.

La Dame des Sorcières. The Lady of the Witches.

Even the name rankled. She looked nothing like the hag at the parade. Nothing like the raven-haired mother, either. Her hair wasn’t even black in her natural form, but a peculiar shade of blond. Almost white. Or silver.

Jean Luc followed her gaze. “You know of Morgane le Blanc?”

“Everyone knows of her.” She lifted her chin and shot him a black look. “Even street rats.”

“If you helped us get her to the stake, all would be forgiven,” Jean Luc said.

“Forgiven?” She arched a brow and leaned forward, planting her bandaged fingers right across Morgane le Blanc’s nose. “For what, exactly?”

“For publicly humiliating Reid.” Jean Luc mirrored her gesture, his expression hardening. “For forcing him to disgrace his name, his honor as a Chasseur.”

My brethren nodded their agreement, muttering under their breath.

“That’s enough.” To my horror, my hand came down on her shoulder. I stared at it—large and foreign on her slim frame. Blinked once. Twice. Then snatched it back and tried to ignore the peculiar look on Jean Luc’s face as he watched us. I cleared my throat. “My wife is here to bear witness against the witch at Tremblay’s. Nothing more.”

Jean Luc raised his brows—politely skeptical, perhaps amused—before he extended a hand to her. “By all means, then, Madame Diggory, please enlighten us.”

Madame Diggory.

I swallowed hard and stepped up to the table beside her. I hadn’t yet heard the title aloud. Hearing the words . . . it felt strange. Real.

She scowled and knocked his hand away. “It’s Lou.”

And there she was again. I stared at the ceiling, trying and failing to ignore my brothers’ indignant whispers.

“What do you know of the witches?” Jean Luc asked.

“Not much.” She trailed her finger along the series of Xs and circles marring the map’s topography. Most were concentrated in La Fôret des Yeux. One circle for every tip we’d received about witches dwelling in the caves there. One X for every reconnaissance mission that had turned up nothing.

A grim smile tugged at Jean Luc’s mouth. “It would be in your best interests to cooperate, madame. Indeed, it is only by the Archbishop’s intervention that you are here, intact, rather than scattered across the kingdom as ash. Aiding and abetting a witch is illegal.”

Tense silence descended as she looked from face to face, clearly deciding whether she agreed. I’d just opened my mouth to prod her in the right direction when she sighed. “What do you want to know?”

I blinked, shocked at her sudden prudence, but Jean Luc didn’t pause to savor the moment. Instead, he pounced.

“Where are they located?”

“As if she would’ve told me.”

“Who is she?”

She smirked. “A witch.”

“Her name.”

“Alexandra.”

“Her surname?”

“I don’t know. We operate with secrecy in East End, even amongst friends.”

I recoiled at the word, disgust seeping through me. “You—you truly consider the witch a friend?”

“I do.”

“What happened?” Jean Luc asked.

She glanced around, suddenly mutinous. “You did.”

“Explain.”

“When you busted us at Tremblay’s, we all fled,” she snapped at him. “I don’t know where she went. I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.”

Jean Luc and I shared a look. If she was telling the truth, this was a dead end. From the little time I’d spent with her, however, I knew she didn’t tell the truth. Probably wasn’t even capable of it. But perhaps there was another way to procure the information we needed. I knew better than to ask about the man of their trio—the one who’d escaped, the one the constabulary searched for even now—but these enemies of hers . . .

If they knew my wife, they might also know the witch. And anyone who knew the witch was worth interrogating.

“Your enemies,” I said carefully. “Are they her enemies too?”

“Maybe.”

“Who are they?”

She glared down at the map. “They don’t know she’s a witch, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’d still have their names.”

“Fine.” She shrugged—immediately bored—and began ticking names off on her fingers. “There’s Andre and Grue, Madame Labelle—”

“Madame Labelle?” I frowned, remembering the woman’s familiarity with Tremblay the night of the robbery. She’d claimed her presence had been coincidental, but . . . I tensed in realization.

The seal on the Archbishop’s tip—the letter he’d thrown in the fire—had been shaped like a rose. And Ansel’s stammered description of the informant had been clear: She had bright red hair and was very—very beautiful.

Perhaps Madame Labelle’s presence hadn’t been coincidental after all. Perhaps she had known the witch would be there. And if so . . .

I shared a meaningful look with Jean Luc, who pursed his lips and nodded as he too drew the connection. We’d be speaking with Madame Labelle very soon.

“Yes.” The heathen paused to scratch out Morgane le Blanc’s eyes with a fingernail. I was surprised she didn’t trace a mustache in the charcoal. “She tries to lure us into indentures with the Bellerose every few weeks. We keep refusing her. Drives her mad.”

Jean Luc broke the shocked silence, sounding genuinely amused. “So you really are a whore.”

Too far.

“Don’t,” I growled, voice low, “call my wife a whore.”

He held up his hands in apology. “Of course. How crass of me. Do continue the interrogation, Captain—unless you think we’ll need the thumbscrews?”

She fixed him with a steely smile. “That won’t be necessary.”

I gave her a pointed look. “It won’t?”

She reached up and patted my cheek. “I’ll be more than happy to continue . . . as long as you say please.”

If I hadn’t known better, the gesture would’ve felt affectionate. But I did know better. And this wasn’t affection. This was patronization. Even here, now—surrounded by my brethren—she dared to goad me. To humiliate me. My wife.

No—Lou. I could no longer deny the name suited her. A man’s name. Short. Strong. Ridiculous.

I caught her hand and squeezed—a warning mitigated by my burning cheeks. “We’ll dispatch men to interrogate these enemies, but first, we need to know everything that happened that night.” I paused despite myself, ignoring my brothers’ furious mutters. “Please.”

A truly frightening grin split her face.