But none of those arguments amount to anything when weighed against the pain and despair that sits so heavily upon him, and the knowledge that I, in some way, am able to ease that, just as his presence fills some dark lonely need of my own.
He moves nearer then until all I can see is him—his mail-covered chest, his dark eyes boring into mine as if he could read the depths of my soul. His gaze is too overwhelming, so I focus on the dark stubble along his jaw and wonder what it would feel like against my hand, my fingers clenching into a fist so that I do not reach out and run them along his cheek.
The night breeze shifts, bringing a gust of cool air with it, and I shiver. Balthazaar raises his hands slowly, places them on my arms, and draws me into the shelter of his body. And still I cannot bring myself to meet his gaze, for it moves across my face like a caress. I fear if I look up, na**d hunger will sit as plainly on my face as it does on his. I am content to simply stand in his arms, letting them act as a buffer between me and the rest of the world for these few stolen moments.
And then he moves, lowering his head to mine. With a sharp thrill, I realize he is going to kiss me. I tilt my head up to meet his lips and wonder if they will be cool like the night air or warm like his eyes when he thinks I am not watching.
But before our lips meet, there is a crunch of a boot heel on the catwalk behind us. I leap away guiltily, but he reaches out and grabs my arm. “Say you will return,” he says. “Tomorrow night.”
I pull my arm from his grip and glance over my shoulder. Two guards are making their rounds. Surely they will see the hellequin, and no good can come of that. “I will. If not tomorrow, then the night after.” But when I turn to tell the hellequin he must leave now, he is already gone.
After bidding the guards good night, I slowly make my way down the steps to the palace. My heart does a most inappropriate and ill-advised jig as I walk back to my chambers. Balthazaar has followed me here. It is not like Ismae’s new life with the noble Duval, or even Sybella’s new place at the heroic Beast’s side. But it is a green shoot of a life beyond the convent, and it is wholly mine. For tonight, that is enough.
Chapter Thirty
THE NEXT MORNING, BEFORE THE sun is even up, there is a knock on my chamber door. It is a page, who informs me that the abbess insists that I attend upon her right away. The summons jolts me fully awake. As I hurry to dress, my mind runs over all the arguments I did not have a chance to make during our first meeting. I will explain to her that I know how seeresses are chosen—it does not have to be me. That it is her decision, not Mortain’s.
Then I will force her to tell me what flaw or lack she sees in me that prevents her from sending me out, and I will insist I be given a chance to fix it. If she denies there is any such thing behind her decision, then I will ask if it was she who tore the page with my name from the convent register, and if so, why?
When I am ushered into the abbess’s chambers, a sort of calm settles over me. Now that I am out from behind the convent walls, the power she has held over me for so long has dissipated, like smoke in a room once the door is opened.
“Annith.” Her cool voice reaches out across the room.
I dip a curtsy. “Yes, Reverend Mother?”
She lets the silence between us build. Whether that is because she is choosing her words carefully or because she hopes to unnerve me with her silence, I do not know or care.
To show her I am not unnerved, I glance to the crows on their perches behind her desk. There are three perches but only two crows, and I wonder if she has sent one to the convent with news of my arrival.
“You may sit.” The abbess’s voice is tinged with a hint of warmth, which I do not trust at all.
“Thank you, Reverend Mother, but I prefer to stand.” That way she will have to strain her neck to look up at me.
Her mouth tightens slightly in annoyance before she forces all emotion from her face. “It is your choice.” She leans back in her chair and studies me. “What do you want from me, Annith? To know that I am sorry—heartbroken—about young Matelaine’s death? For of course I am. Her death pains me as does the death of any of our handmaidens. I grieve much as a mother does over her children.” Her face is soft, a look of gentle understanding in her eyes, and her brows are drawn together in an imitation of concern.
“And what of Sybella’s death? Would you have grieved for her if she had died on that mission you sent her on? A mission no seeress had countenanced?”
“Sybella is no concern of yours—”
“You are wrong.” The words fly from my mouth like small, sharp rocks. “She is one of my greatest concerns. As is Ismae and Florette and all the girls that I have been raised with. And you sent Sybella back to that . . . that monster.”
“What makes you think it wasn’t Mortain’s will that she be sent there? How can you be so certain that is not expressly why Mortain put her on this earth—to bring d’Albret down? No one else could have gotten close to him—no one else would ever have been able to gain a position of such trust.”
“But what of her trust in you? She came to us half mad with despair and grief, and she had barely healed before you sent her back into that lion’s den. And Matelaine, she had been there less than two years, not nearly enough time to have learned half of what she needed to know. And Ismae? You sent her out blind, not even telling her who she was being assigned to.”
“I did not want his identity to prejudice any conclusions she might draw.”
“And what of Ismae’s letters?”
The abbess blinks. “What letters?”
“The ones she sent to me that I never received. The one asking if I knew the antidote to a poison.”
Our gazes hold for a long moment before I lean forward and plant my hands on her desk. “You never even told her of the entirety of her gift. How she was able to draw poison from others’ skin, just like Sister Serafina.”
“I had to be certain she was able to fulfill her duties for Mortain without remorse or second thoughts. I feared that her kind heart would cause her to use it without permission, and those fears proved founded when she wrote to you.”
“You had no right to take my letters—”
“No right? What rights do you think you have but those that are granted to you by me? All that you have, the clothes on your back, the food that has filled your belly, and any rights, are at my discretion. You seem to have forgotten that.”
“I forget nothing.”