Hidden Huntress
Page 112
I met his eye, and neither of us needed to say anything to know he referred to his own brother as much as the long-dead queen.
A knock sounded at the door. “It’s me,” Sabine’s muffled voice called through. “Let me in.”
Once inside, she pulled back her hood, snow falling to dust the floor. “I swear this is the coldest winter I’ve ever known,” she muttered, pulling off her cloak and draping it over a chair. “Build up the fire, would you?”
The fireplace burst bright with pale troll-fire as Tristan followed Sabine into the sitting room, his expression intent. “Well?”
“There’s nothing,” she said, sitting on the chair across from me. “No talk of a murder, much less one where the individual died in an … unusual fashion. Not even a whisper.” Pouring a cup of tea from the pot on the table, she took a mouthful and grimaced and held out the cup to Tristan. “It’s cold.”
He shot her a black look, but a second later, the cup was steaming.
“I went to the opera house to see if by some chance no one had found the body, but it was gone. There was still some blood under the snow, but it looked like someone had put in a bit of effort to make it appear as though nothing had happened, albeit a sloppy one.”
Tristan sat down heavily next to me. “Your father’s doing?” I asked.
He gave a slow shake of his head. “If it was his doing, it wouldn’t have been sloppy.”
“Then who?”
“I’ve no notion.”
Sabine leaned back in her chair. “I stopped by your mother’s home. She hasn’t returned yet, but she sent word that she’ll be back in Trianon tomorrow morning. Apparently Julian’s gone to join her.”
I grimaced. “It makes me nervous having her running around the countryside, given the danger we know she’s in.”
The door abruptly flung open, and Chris flew in. “I found him!”
“The necklace? Did he have it?” Tristan demanded.
“No, but…”
Tristan swore and stormed over to the window to rest his forehead against the cool glass.
“But,” Chris continued. “You won’t believe who he sold it to. He said a woman came at dawn with a purse full of gold asking about it. Said it was of sentimental value and that the girl who sold it was a fool.”
I winced, because that much was true. “Did he recognize her? Did he describe her?”
“He said she was wearing a hood that obscured most of her face.”
The temperature of the room burned hot, and Sabine sat up straight in her chair, eying Tristan with unease.
“I should have gone myself,” he growled at the window. “I might have caught her and all this would be done.”
“Tristan, I missed her by a good hour,” Chris said. “It would have made no difference if you’d gone. But listen to this: the stockman said she arrived and left in a carriage marked in the Regent’s colors.”
I sat up straight and Tristan swung around to face us.
“There’s more,” Chris said. “The man at the front desk gave me this when I came back in.” Walking swiftly around the chairs, he went to Tristan and handed him an envelope. “It can’t be a coincidence.”
Tristan broke the seal, his eyes scanning the card. “It’s an invitation to Lady Marie du Chastelier’s Longest Night ball.”
I blinked. “That’s where my masque is to be performed. It’s the most exclusive event of the year,” I added, getting to my feet. “The invitations to this went out weeks ago, and only the upper crust of Trianon nobility will be there. Not bourgeoisie boys riding high on their fathers’ wealth.”
“It’s not addressed to a bourgeoisie boy riding high on his father’s wealth,” Tristan said quietly, handing me the invitation.
My heart accelerated as I took in the words, His Royal Highness, Prince Tristan de Montigny is cordially invited to… “It’s a trap.”
“Undoubtedly,” Tristan replied. “And she’s confident enough that she’s not even trying to hide it.”
“Why take so much risk?” Sabine asked. “There will be countless people there to witness what she does. People who will remember her face and who she was. There are better places to kill you.”
“Agreed,” Tristan said. “But both Cécile and Genevieve will be there, and I cannot help but think that means something.”
Longest Night… I exhaled a ragged breath. “It’s the solstice.”
Chris, who had learned more about magic in the previous months than he probably ever wanted, nodded. “Witches can draw on more power during moments of transitions like the solstices and…” He broke off, turning toward the window and then back to me. “The full moon. Cécile, tomorrow night is a full moon.”
“How often do they occur together?” Sabine asked.
“I don’t know.” I glanced at Tristan, but he shook his head. “I never spent much time studying astronomy – there wasn’t much point. Pierre would without a doubt know, but asking him is obviously out of the question. But what difference does it make? Her magic won’t work against me.”
An idea began to tickle my mind and with it came fear. “Do you have my map? The list of dead women that was tucked into Catherine’s grimoire?”
He silently retrieved the paper from a locked chest and handed it to me. My eyes roved over the names, and the years that they had died. Nearly always nineteen or thirty-eight years apart, with a few exceptions. A weak and baseless pattern. Unless it wasn’t. I set the paper on the table and pressed a hand to my mouth. I’d left my mother alone, thinking that we had years before she was in any danger. But what if we’d been wrong?
A knock sounded at the door. “It’s me,” Sabine’s muffled voice called through. “Let me in.”
Once inside, she pulled back her hood, snow falling to dust the floor. “I swear this is the coldest winter I’ve ever known,” she muttered, pulling off her cloak and draping it over a chair. “Build up the fire, would you?”
The fireplace burst bright with pale troll-fire as Tristan followed Sabine into the sitting room, his expression intent. “Well?”
“There’s nothing,” she said, sitting on the chair across from me. “No talk of a murder, much less one where the individual died in an … unusual fashion. Not even a whisper.” Pouring a cup of tea from the pot on the table, she took a mouthful and grimaced and held out the cup to Tristan. “It’s cold.”
He shot her a black look, but a second later, the cup was steaming.
“I went to the opera house to see if by some chance no one had found the body, but it was gone. There was still some blood under the snow, but it looked like someone had put in a bit of effort to make it appear as though nothing had happened, albeit a sloppy one.”
Tristan sat down heavily next to me. “Your father’s doing?” I asked.
He gave a slow shake of his head. “If it was his doing, it wouldn’t have been sloppy.”
“Then who?”
“I’ve no notion.”
Sabine leaned back in her chair. “I stopped by your mother’s home. She hasn’t returned yet, but she sent word that she’ll be back in Trianon tomorrow morning. Apparently Julian’s gone to join her.”
I grimaced. “It makes me nervous having her running around the countryside, given the danger we know she’s in.”
The door abruptly flung open, and Chris flew in. “I found him!”
“The necklace? Did he have it?” Tristan demanded.
“No, but…”
Tristan swore and stormed over to the window to rest his forehead against the cool glass.
“But,” Chris continued. “You won’t believe who he sold it to. He said a woman came at dawn with a purse full of gold asking about it. Said it was of sentimental value and that the girl who sold it was a fool.”
I winced, because that much was true. “Did he recognize her? Did he describe her?”
“He said she was wearing a hood that obscured most of her face.”
The temperature of the room burned hot, and Sabine sat up straight in her chair, eying Tristan with unease.
“I should have gone myself,” he growled at the window. “I might have caught her and all this would be done.”
“Tristan, I missed her by a good hour,” Chris said. “It would have made no difference if you’d gone. But listen to this: the stockman said she arrived and left in a carriage marked in the Regent’s colors.”
I sat up straight and Tristan swung around to face us.
“There’s more,” Chris said. “The man at the front desk gave me this when I came back in.” Walking swiftly around the chairs, he went to Tristan and handed him an envelope. “It can’t be a coincidence.”
Tristan broke the seal, his eyes scanning the card. “It’s an invitation to Lady Marie du Chastelier’s Longest Night ball.”
I blinked. “That’s where my masque is to be performed. It’s the most exclusive event of the year,” I added, getting to my feet. “The invitations to this went out weeks ago, and only the upper crust of Trianon nobility will be there. Not bourgeoisie boys riding high on their fathers’ wealth.”
“It’s not addressed to a bourgeoisie boy riding high on his father’s wealth,” Tristan said quietly, handing me the invitation.
My heart accelerated as I took in the words, His Royal Highness, Prince Tristan de Montigny is cordially invited to… “It’s a trap.”
“Undoubtedly,” Tristan replied. “And she’s confident enough that she’s not even trying to hide it.”
“Why take so much risk?” Sabine asked. “There will be countless people there to witness what she does. People who will remember her face and who she was. There are better places to kill you.”
“Agreed,” Tristan said. “But both Cécile and Genevieve will be there, and I cannot help but think that means something.”
Longest Night… I exhaled a ragged breath. “It’s the solstice.”
Chris, who had learned more about magic in the previous months than he probably ever wanted, nodded. “Witches can draw on more power during moments of transitions like the solstices and…” He broke off, turning toward the window and then back to me. “The full moon. Cécile, tomorrow night is a full moon.”
“How often do they occur together?” Sabine asked.
“I don’t know.” I glanced at Tristan, but he shook his head. “I never spent much time studying astronomy – there wasn’t much point. Pierre would without a doubt know, but asking him is obviously out of the question. But what difference does it make? Her magic won’t work against me.”
An idea began to tickle my mind and with it came fear. “Do you have my map? The list of dead women that was tucked into Catherine’s grimoire?”
He silently retrieved the paper from a locked chest and handed it to me. My eyes roved over the names, and the years that they had died. Nearly always nineteen or thirty-eight years apart, with a few exceptions. A weak and baseless pattern. Unless it wasn’t. I set the paper on the table and pressed a hand to my mouth. I’d left my mother alone, thinking that we had years before she was in any danger. But what if we’d been wrong?
