Once Genevieve is gone, I lean against my door, grateful for the solid wood at my back as I fight down the sour taste of panic.
What has she done?
Even though I am furious with her, I must acknowledge the part my own hand played in this. If I had not evicted Lady Katerine from the king’s bed, he may not have resumed his interest in Genevieve. If I had approached her in the chapel or followed her once I guessed who she was . . . but I was consumed by my own worries and obsessions.
And what part does Count Angoulême play in all this? In spite of my anger, my heart aches for Genevieve. For the journey she has set herself on. A journey that I can only pray will lead her through her own anger and bitterness. A journey I recognize all too clearly, having made a similar one myself. I do not envy her trying to put this aright.
But the sympathy I should feel for Genevieve is overpowered by my fear of what may come of her actions. She has only the faintest inkling of what she has set in motion. Of whom she has endangered.
My sisters are gone from here, I reassure myself. Beyond Fremin’s greedy grasp, beyond the king’s reach, and the regent’s machinations. Beast, Aeva, and the entire queen’s guard are with them and have sworn by the Nine to keep them safe.
But it won’t be enough, not if the king decides to act on the information Genevieve has shared with him. There is a very good chance that all of them—Annith, Ismae, the older nuns, and the youngest novitiates—could be in harm’s way. I would pray for them all, but who, now, do I pray to?
I shove away from the door, cross the room to my small trunklet, and open the lid. The holly berry still appears bright red, and the leaves a vibrant green—until I bring it closer. Then I see the edges have begun to brown. Why? Why now? Is it simply the miracle of Mortain fading, much like he himself eventually will? Or is it a reflection of my own wilting faith?
Afraid I will break the sprig in its new fragile state, I place it carefully in the trunk. As I do, my fingers brush against the black pebble Yannic gave me. Bewildered, I touch it again. It is not my imagination. The pebble feels warm, as if it has been out in the sun.
I had thought it blessed by Mortain, but Yannic had indicated I was wrong. Blessed by whom, then?
It is as smooth as polished glass, and I close my fingers around it, letting the warmth comfort me. It speaks of mysteries that still exist in this world. The mysteries that have come to me before and may yet again.
I move to put the pebble back in the trunk, then pause, deciding to slip it into the pocket at my waist, savoring its gentle heat against my leg through the silk of my skirts. I will need every bit of comfort I can muster for the conversation I must have with the queen.
* * *
It is too late to disturb the queen—she has already retired for the night. I am too restless to go back to my chamber. My thoughts keep circling back to Beast and the girls, even though I know he will get them safely to the convent. But saints, I miss him already—and it has only been three days. I told Beast the girls were my heart, but that was only partly true. He is my heart as well, and it feels as if I have carved off a piece and dared rabid wolves to feast upon it.
He would be greatly insulted by my worrying. And in truth, it galls me somewhat, even though I can no more stop it than I can halt the blood flowing in my veins.
I am not surprised when I find myself standing outside the servants’ chapel. There is only one person with whom I can share this disaster. Only one sworn to silence by virtue of his priest’s robes.
Father Effram looks up from the brace of fresh candles he is lighting, smiling as if he’s been expecting me. I head directly for the confessional booth. He slips into the other side.
“Have you heard?” I murmur as soon as his door is shut.
“The palace does seem to be in a mild uproar this afternoon.”
I quickly fill him in on Genevieve’s arrival and subsequent actions. “Yes,” he says when I have finished. “She paid me a visit earlier. You just missed her.”
Just missed her. The words poke at my memory. “You were the one who led me to the chapel that day. I had no intention of praying. You knew who she was, didn’t you?”
I hear the faint whisper of fabric as he shrugs. “Let us say suspected.”
So he, too, played a part in all this. “Do you think she is telling the truth?”
“I do. She has asked to meet with the queen, is eager to make her apology and offer whatever aid she can to set things right.”
“Or she wishes to get close enough to harm her,” I mutter.
“You don’t truly believe that.”
His calmness scrapes on my nerves like a rasp. “She’s not simply made some little mistake that is easily fixed. Monsieur Fremin has reported his missing henchmen to the king and has accused me of being responsible for it. With Genevieve’s confession, he has made a shrewd guess about me and is now inclined to give serious weight to Monsieur Fremin’s claims. And if anything happens to my sisters, she will pay for it with her—”
“It is not her fault.” Father Effram’s voice is no longer gentle, but a bracing slap.
“Of course it is her fault. It no longer matters that she meant well—she has set in motion the ruin of everything, including the lives of those I care deeply about.”
“You think she is more powerful than the gods and saints?”
“No, but since you speak of them, shouldn’t Mortain have foreseen this before he gave up his godhood?”
“How do you know that he didn’t?”
I feel like a rabbit stunned by a hunter’s club. “Are you saying he knew?”
“I’m saying that what the gods set in motion is not knowable to mere mortals. We are simply caught up in the movement of their dance and there are still eight gods, each of them more than willing to meddle in the affairs of mortals for their own purposes.” The thought is terrifying. My fingers drift to the small weight resting against my leg and the faint warmth it gives off. “Does the Dark Mother meddle in the affairs of mortals?” The words bring not a chill, but a faint wash of heat along my skin. “Is she behind this?” There is a rustle of woolen cloth as he shrugs. “I would not say she meddles so much as when one thing dies and gives way to the new, it is she who guides that process. If we let her.”
I am quiet a moment before saying, “The holly branch is dying.”
“What holly branch?”
“The one I brought with me from Rennes. It stayed green this entire time, until this morning.” A thought floats by, and I grasp at it. “Could it be that it’s simply too far removed from its source? Where the remnants of Mortain’s power cannot reach? Or is it simply his power withdrawing from the world, just as he has done?”
The question renews the familiar anger I have carried since that eventful battle. “Did Mortain know that by choosing life, he would leave his faith and followers to the jackals?”
“Did he know it would fade? Yes. The passing of the Nine has been coming for a long time. We have all known it. Ever since we signed the original agreement with the Church.”
Agreement? What agreement? But before I can voice the question, he continues.
“Do not begrudge him love, child. That love provided him something to move toward rather than simply cease is a gift beyond measure. One I’ve no doubt the Dark Matrona herself had a hand in.”