Serpent & Dove

Hushed voices drifted toward us from the sanctuary, and firelight cast shadows on the faces of the icons around us. Yawning, I stared at the one nearest me—a plain woman with a look of supreme boredom on her face. I sympathized.

“I still remember my first attempt. I hit the bull’s-eye straightaway.” The Archbishop chuckled, winding up as old men often do when reliving tales of the past. “Mind you, I was fresh off the street—just turned seven—with not a couronne in my pocket or any experience to my name. Hadn’t even held a bow, let alone fired an arrow. The old bishop proclaimed it an act of God.”

My husband’s lips quirked in response. “I believe it.”

I yawned again. The oratory was stifling, and the wool gown I wore—demure and drab and deliciously warm—didn’t help matters. My eyelids drooped.

It would be an act of God if I made it through the service without snoring.

After the library fiasco, I’d thought it, ah, prudent to accept my husband’s invitation to evening Mass. Though I didn’t know if he believed Ansel’s and my story about learning scripture, he’d latched on to the idea, and I’d spent the remainder of the day memorizing verses. The most diabolical of all punishments.

“‘A continual dropping in a very rainy day and a contentious woman are alike,’” he’d recited, eyeing me irritably and waiting for me to repeat the verse. Still peeved from our earlier argument.

“Rain and men are both pains in the ass.”

He’d scowled but continued. “‘Whosoever hideth her hideth the wind, and the ointment of his right hand, which bewrayeth itself.’”

“Whosoever hideth her . . . something about ointment and a hand . . .” I’d waggled my eyebrows devilishly. “Quel risque! What sort of book is—”

He’d interrupted before I could further impugn his honor, voice hardening. “‘Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend.’”

“Iron sharpeneth iron, so you’re being an ass because I, too, am a piece of metal.”

On and on and on it’d gone.

Honestly, the invitation to Mass had been a welcome reprieve.

The Archbishop clasped his shoulder with another hearty chuckle. “I missed the target entirely on my second attempt, of course.”

“You still did better than me. I took a week to hit the target.”

“Nonsense!” The Archbishop shook his head, still smiling at the memory. “I distinctly remember your natural talent. Indeed, you were quite a deal more skilled than the other initiates.”

The clanging from the bell tower spared me from leaping into the fireplace.

“Ah.” Seeming to remember himself, the Archbishop dropped his hand, straightening and rearranging the cloth at his neck. “The service is about to begin. If you’ll excuse me, I must join the other attendants.” He paused at the threshold, expression hardening as he turned. “And do remember what we discussed this afternoon, Captain Diggory. A closer eye is necessary.”

My husband nodded, cheeks flushing. “Yes, sir.”

I rounded on him as soon as the Archbishop left.

“A closer eye? What the hell does that mean?”

“Nothing.” Clearing his throat hastily, he extended his arm. “Shall we?”

I strode past him into the sanctuary. “A closer eye, my ass.”

Lit by hundreds of candles, the sanctuary of Saint-Cécile looked like something out of a dream—or a nightmare. Over half the city had gathered in the vast room to hear the Archbishop’s sermon. Those wealthy enough to procure seats had dressed in jewel-toned finery: gowns and suits of rich burgundy, amethyst, and emerald with golden trim and lace sleeves, fur muffs and silk cravats. Pearls shone luminescent from their ears, and diamonds sparkled ostentatiously from their throats and wrists.

At the back of the sanctuary, the poorer sect of the congregation stood, faces solemn and dirty. Hands clasped. A number of blue-coated Chasseurs stood as well, including Jean Luc. He waved us over.

I cursed silently when my husband complied. “We stand for the entire service?”

He eyed me suspiciously. “Have you never attended Mass?”

“Of course I have,” I lied, digging in my heels as he continued to steer me forward. I wished I’d worn a hood. There were more people here than I’d ever imagined. Presumably, none of them were witches, but one never knew . . . I was here, after all. “Once or twice.”

At his incredulous expression, I gestured down the length of my body. “Criminal, remember? Forgive me for not memorizing every proverb and learning every rule.”

Rolling his eyes, he pushed me the final few steps. “Chasseurs stand as an act of humility.”

“But I’m not a Chasseur—”

“And praise God for that.” Jean Luc stepped aside to make room for us, and my domineering husband forced me between them. They clasped forearms with tense smiles. “I didn’t know if you’d be joining us, given the fiasco this afternoon. How did His Eminence handle the news?”

“He didn’t blame us.”

“Who did he blame, then?”

My husband’s eyes flicked to me for the briefest of seconds before returning to Jean Luc’s. “The initiates on duty. They’ve been relieved of their positions.”

“Rightfully so.”

I knew better than to correct him. Fortunately, their conversation ended when the congregation stood and began to chant. My husband and Jean Luc joined in seamlessly as the Archbishop and his attendants entered the sanctuary, proceeded up the aisle, and bowed to the altar. Bewildered—and unable to comprehend a word of their dreary ballad—I made up my own lyrics.

They may or may not have involved a barmaid named Liddy.

My husband scowled and elbowed me as silence descended once more. Though I couldn’t be sure, Jean Luc’s lips twitched as if he were trying not to laugh.

The Archbishop turned to greet the congregation. “May the Lord be with you.”

“And also with you,” they murmured in unison.

I watched in morbid fascination as the Archbishop lifted his arms wide. “Brethren, let us acknowledge our sins, and so prepare ourselves to celebrate the sacred mysteries.”

A priest beside him lifted his voice. “Lord, have mercy!”

“You were sent to heal the contrite of heart,” the Archbishop continued. “Lord, have mercy!”

The congregation joined in. “Lord, have mercy!”

“You came to gather the nations into the peace of God’s kingdom. Lord, have mercy!”

The peace of God’s kingdom? I scoffed, crossing my arms. My husband elbowed me again, mouthing, Stop it. His blue eyes bored into mine. I’m serious. Jean Luc definitely grinned now.

“Lord, have mercy!”

“You come in word and sacrament to strengthen us in holiness. Lord, have mercy!”

“Lord, have mercy!”

“You will come in glory with salvation for your people. Lord, have mercy!”

“Lord, have mercy!”

Unable to help myself, I muttered, “Hypocrite.”

My husband looked likely to expire. His face had flushed red again, and a vein throbbed in his throat. The Chasseurs around us either glared or chuckled. Jean Luc’s shoulders shook with silent laughter, but I didn’t find the situation quite as funny as before. Where was my kin’s salvation? Where was our mercy?

“May almighty God have mercy on us, forgive us our sins, and bring us to everlasting life.”

“Amen.”

The congregation immediately began another chant, but I stopped listening. Instead, I watched as the Archbishop lifted his arms to the heavens, closing his eyes and losing himself in the song. As Jean Luc grinned, nudging my husband when they both sang the wrong words. As my husband grudgingly laughed and pushed him away.

“You take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us,” the boy in front of us sang. He clutched his father’s hand, swaying to the cadence of their voices. “You take away the sins of the world, have mercy on us. You take away the sins of the world, receive our prayer.”

Have mercy on us.

Receive our prayer.

At the end of my Proverbs torture session, there’d been a verse I hadn’t understood.

As in water face answereth to face, so the heart of man to man.

“What does it mean?”

“It means . . . water is like a mirror,” my husband had explained, frowning slightly. “It reflects our faces back to us. And our lives—the way we live, the things we do—” He’d looked at his hands, suddenly unable to meet my eyes. “They reflect our hearts.”

It’d made perfect sense, explained like that. And yet . . . I looked around at the worshippers once more—the men and women who pleaded for mercy and cried for my blood on the same breath. How could both be in their hearts?

“Lou, I’m—” He’d cleared his throat and forced himself to look at me. Those blue eyes had shone with sincerity. With regret. “I shouldn’t have shouted earlier. In the library. I’m . . . sorry.”

Our lives reflect our hearts.

Yes, it’d made perfect sense, explained like that, but I still didn’t understand. I didn’t understand my husband. I didn’t understand the Archbishop. Or the dancing boy. Or his father. Or Jean Luc or the Chasseurs or the witches or her. I didn’t understand any of them.

Conscious of the Chasseurs’ eyes on me, I forced a smirk and bumped my husband’s hip, pretending that it’d all been a show. A laugh. That I’d just been goading him to get a reaction. That I wasn’t a witch in Mass, standing amongst my enemies and worshiping someone else’s god.

Our lives reflect our hearts.

They might’ve all been hypocrites, but I was the biggest one of all.