Chapter 14

“CATHERINE . . .” BLANCHE CURLED A ribbon around the tip of her finger in a dreamy manner. “Catherine, do you think the Viscomte Visser particularly handsome?”

Catherine looked down at her needlework and hid her smile. Her sister was young. Just past her fourteenth birthday a few days ago, and they had two days until they were to be presented at court, but Blanche was already attracting notice. How else could it be? The girl was beautiful and merry, and had also a kind heart. What man could resist?

“Mmmm. The Viscomte Visser. Which one of the hundreds of your admirers is he?”

Blanche blushed lightly and shook her head. “I do not have hundreds! If you mean the gentlemen who come to visit, you know they are Adrian's friends, not mine.”

“Any of whom may become your suitor.” Catherine smoothed her hand over her embroidery. It was a skill she suddenly remembered upon gaining the rest of her memories, and she was glad to put her hand to it again. It kept her occupied, and kept her mind from horrors and nightmares and the future.

“So, tell me of this viscomte,” she said. Her sister's chatter amused her, and helped pass the hours until the evening's entertainment. Catherine glanced out of the window at the afternoon sky. No clouds marred the deep blue, and she had noticed a few brief wisps of warmer air from time to time. She was glad. She would like to see spring once again.

If she lived long enough.

She dismissed the thought from her mind and gazed at her sister, giving her an encouraging look.

Blanche smiled dreamily. “I am sure you must have seen him. He has black hair, and blue eyes so dark they look violet. He is tall, and very handsome, and Marie says he is too handsome to have any virtue in him, but I do not think she is right! He has always been polite, and has never been pressing in his attentions.” She sighed. “I am sure he only sees me as Adrian's little sister.”

“Perhaps,” Catherine said, and smiled. “But you have now turned fourteen, and I am sure it will only be a short time before he—or another, better suitor—will notice you even more than you are noticed now.” She shuddered as if intimidated. “I do not know what we shall do when we are then mobbed in the streets by all your suitors. We shall have to hire guards, no doubt.”

Blanche laughed. “You are silly! That will not happen.” Her expression sobered. “We are not well off, after all, and I know by now that one must have a good dowry to attract suitors.”

Catherine lowered her eyes. She felt trapped; she knew what she planned to do to the marquis would put her family into jeopardy if she did not execute it well, and even then, families of good repute might not wish to marry into a family that was associated with such trouble. But she did not see any other way out of ridding the world of such an evil as the Marquis de Bauvin.

She felt Blanche's hand on her arm and she looked up, grateful for the look of deep affection on her sister's face.

“Thank you,” Blanche said.

Catherine raised her brows. “For what?”

“For consenting to be betrothed to the Marquis de Bauvin again.”

Catherine shrugged and made herself smile. “He is handsome, rich, and will help restore our fortunes, I'm sure.”

Blanche nodded, but looked at her searchingly. “But you do not love him.”

Catherine bent her head to her needlework again. Dieu me sauve. No, she hated the man. But at least she would not have to marry him. She forced a smile on her face again. “No, but very few women do fall in love with their fiancés. At least his . . . manners are without fault.”

Her sister nodded, but her expression was still doubtful.

“Besides,” Catherine continued. “You are still young to be married.”

“But Adrian did not think so!” Blanche protested.

“You are thinking of your viscomte again, I am sure.”

Blanche's blush confirmed Catherine's assertion.

“Well—if he is the one I am thinking of—he is young, also, and he will wait a few years before he thinks to wed anyone. Adrian thought to marry you off to restore our fortunes, because I . . . had been kidnapped. Now that I am here, it is not necessary that you wed so soon.” She cast Blanche a laughing look. “Besides, think of how many years you have left to flirt with gentlemen before you must be married. Indeed, I wonder if it is at all good that you are to be presented to court in two days, instead of next year.” She gazed at Blanche a little more sharply. The girl seemed not so animated as she had been at home, and perhaps more pale and tired. “I am beginning to think that the parties we have attended are fatiguing you more than you admit.”

Blanche shrugged. “It is nothing. I have not been sleeping well and have had . . . disturbing dreams.” She looked away, as if embarrassed.

Unease uncurled in Catherine's stomach. “Dreams?” She did not discount anything that might be of supernatural nature. “Unpleasant ones?”

“Oh, no!” Blanche said, then blushed very pink. “That is . . . they are nothing, to be sure, only dreams.”

Catherine relaxed. It was clear they were not at all unpleasant dreams. She grinned. “Of the viscomte, I assume?” she teased.

Her sister's blushes spread past her cheeks to her ears, confirming Catherine's suspicions. “Oh, they are only dreams! Although . . .” Blanche's face grew concerned. “Although sometimes I think they must arise from sinful thoughts, and cannot be good.”

Catherine winced. She knew exactly what kinds of dreams they were. She herself had them, and they reflected everything she had done with Jack on their travels. But Blanche had just turned fourteen, and only recently had come from a very strict convent. Any carnal dreams she might have could not be much more than fantasies of dancing and kissing. She remembered the viscomte of whom Blanche spoke; he was a well-spoken and handsome young man of no more than seventeen years, too young, she thought, to set up a nursery, but not too young to attract a girl's fancy. He also had in his favor no association that Catherine had been able to discern to the marquis, but had been introduced by the mother of one of Blanche's convent school friends. Surely there could be no objection there.

She gave her sister a reassuring smile. “Most girls dream of young men. I am sure it is only that. If it concerns you, you may make your confession when we next go to Mass, and then think on purer things.”

Blanche looked relieved, and Catherine suppressed a wince at her own hypocrisy. She had certainly not thought of purer things . . . but it was, after all, all that she would have of Jack.

She pushed the thought away, for it depressed her. Better she keep to her plans, which had worked so far. What she had revealed of her powers to the Marquis de Bauvin had definitely intrigued him; that he renewed his suit for her hand proved that he still wished to seize the power he had seen in her when he had—

She would not think of that part of the past. The future of her family was more important, as was any clear proof she could present of his sorcery.

She looked up at her sister to see her yawn and rub her eyes. Catherine shook her head. “I think our frivolities have taken their toll, indeed. Go up to your room and rest, Blanche.” She smiled. “I think your suitors will be put off if they see shadows under your eyes. Although, if you are to dream of your viscomte again . . .” she teased.

Blanche shook her head and laughed, then rose, not reluctantly, and left the room.

Catherine watched after her again in concern. Perhaps she was worrying overmuch, and made too much of what she saw, but it seemed Blanche had gone to her room with an eager light in her eyes, and her movements were almost sensual.

The tendril of unease within Catherine unfurled into dread. Her sister was growing up, of course, and was experiencing the first urges of a woman. But the girl had been well protected, unlike herself. She was an innocent, and had not until recently been around many men at all.

Her hand grew still over her needlework, and she stared out the window to the building in which the marquis lodged. She did not know how far de Bauvin's sorcery could reach, or what exactly it could do . . . except for what she herself had experienced. She looked down at her lap to find she had misstitched a pattern in her work, and she forced herself to undo it and stitch again, for the discipline gave her mind focus.

De Bauvin's sorcery could reach far. After all, he had sent the demon to Paris while he had been at his home near Rouen. She had defeated the creature, but not easily. The marquis was that strong, at the very least.

Therefore, it would be nothing at all for him to affect her family from across the street.

Fear seized her, and she rose hastily, dropping her needlework heedlessly to the floor. Blanche. No. Mon Dieu, let her not be cursed, as well.

She ran up the stairs as quickly as her skirts allowed and threw open Blanche's door. The curtains had been drawn against the light, but at least a dim reflection of the light outside should have shone through. There was no light but the weak, fluttering flames in the hearth, which should have let the cold outdoors in, but did not. It was hot and humid, as if all of summer had poured itself into this small room, and a heady, musky scent permeated the very air.

A moan from the bed made Catherine look toward the sound. She shuddered. A mist floated above it, above Blanche, who lay on the bed, her eyes closed, her head moving restlessly on the pillow. The mist moved down, taking the shape of a man, and little strands of grey curled down from it and touched Blanche's lips, breasts, and thighs.

Catherine swallowed down bile and clutched her cross in her hand. She ran to the bed and struck at the mist, but aside from a brief disturbance of the form, her hand passed through it. Her cross . . . she took her cross in her hand and punched her fist through the mist again.

The mist-man twisted as if in pain, but it was not enough—he clutched at Blanche as if she gave him life. Frantically she searched for Blanche's cross—it was not on her neck! It sat, tossed on the end of its necklace, on the table next to the bed. Catherine seized it and flung it over Blanche's head.

A shriek sounded in the room, and it tore into her heart, for she feared it came from Blanche. But the mist-creature seemed to take a more solid form, looking very much like the Viscomte Visser, and then faded. The room's air became cooler, and the fire in the hearth began to flicker normally on the wood that was piled within. The heavy, seductive scent was gone.

Catherine sat suddenly on the edge of the bed and put her hands over her face. Mon Dieu. It was different from what had happened to her, and it was clear that Blanche did not object to it. But the girl thought it was only a dream, and did not know what was happening. If her sister's fatigue and shadowed eyes were signs, it surely meant that once again de Bauvin sought to steal the power he had tried to force from her those many months ago.

She raised her head and let her hands fall to her lap as she turned to gaze at her sister. The girl rested quietly now and breathed more evenly—a natural sleep, she thought. She touched Blanche's cheek gently—it was cold, as if she had been walking in a winter storm.

Catherine's heart beat wildly, and she felt for a pulse—yes, it was there, very slow and faint, but steady. She let out a breath. She did not want to think what would have happened had she not stopped this . . . this thing. Gently she drew up the bedcovers over the girl, tucking them in firmly around her, then went to the fireplace and put more wood upon the fire. The flames licked at the dry timber, and the light grew brighter in the room.

She went back to Blanche, sitting on the bed again. She had failed to protect her sister, although she supposed that she should be glad Blanche had not been violated as she had been. She let out a shuddering breath, and shuddered again, and then found that her cheeks were wet, and she could not control her weeping.

Pressing her hand to her mouth, she managed to keep down the sounds her sobs tore from her heart, but the tears did not stop. She gazed at Blanche, so still in the bed, and was glad her sister was so deeply asleep. She did not want to have to explain her sorrow, her fears, or why she was here in this room.

She let herself weep a little longer, then dried her face. Gazing at Blanche, she touched the cross that she had found on the bed table. It was very like hers, plain, with a tiny ruby and small pearl set in it. She turned it over, then set it down on Blanche's chest again. Had her Tante Anna also given one to Blanche? Perhaps. It comforted her a little to think that she and her sister had crosses that were alike.

She would tell Blanche tomorrow that she had bad dreams and that she wanted to share a room until the nightmares disappeared. She did not really need her sister's presence, but she was sure Blanche would need hers. She would also make sure her sister wore her cross at all times.

Catherine rose and went to her room. Soon they would be presented to court, and the marquis would be there, as well. It would be her opportunity to accuse him of sorcery and of being a possible traitor. She had no tangible proof of the latter, but she could send a message to Felice and she at least could be a witness to the sorcery.

She gazed again at Blanche, at how very still and pale she was, and once again felt her pulse. It was there, and steady, but the girl still did not move except to breathe very slightly.

Catherine swallowed. She hoped she had done the right thing and that Blanche would awaken after a few hours. Closing her eyes, she focused her mind, concentrating on any sensation that might indicate evil. The air remained cool and the scents she smelled were only those of woodsmoke and the faint lavender scent that Blanche always wore. No prickling sensation touched her hands, or sharp ache came to her back.

She opened her eyes. For now, all was safe. Blanche would be better for some rest. In another hour she would check on her sister again, and then if she was still not awake, she would have Marie watch over her. Unless Adrian insisted and unless Blanche awoke, she would not attend any balls or parties tonight.

Adrian. Fear hit her sharply again. Her brother, also, had looked tired and worn . . . perhaps it was not only estate affairs that had made him seem so weary. Dear heaven. Did de Bauvin sap Adrian of his life, as well? She thought wildly of taking her brother and sister away quickly, but she knew it would be of no avail; de Bauvin would only follow them. She had to expose his sorcery as soon as possible. But how? How?

She shook her head. For now, she needed to pretend she suspected nothing. Now that it was possible Adrian was also under some kind of spell, he might tell de Bauvin of her suspicions if she revealed them. Despair tugged at her spirits at the thought of one more obstacle, but she suppressed it. She could not give in to hopelessness.

Catherine left the room, going down to the parlor again, for it was possible they might still have visitors. But there were no more, and she was glad to be alone. She was content plying her needle and plotting the downfall of the Marquis de Bauvin.

However, the next morning, Blanche was the same as before. Catherine had thought that perhaps sleep would help her recover, but if so, she was far from recovering. She gazed at her sister resting peacefully. Blanche still had not moved from the tucked-in position that Catherine had set her. Even at her most fatigued, the girl had never slept so long or so still.

“Mademoiselle, she has not moved except to breathe—I would almost think her dead if not for that,” Marie said, when Catherine had summoned her.

“Hush! Do not say such things,” Catherine said, for a shiver of dread crawled up her spine at the maid's words.

“I wonder if she is ill, mademoiselle.”

“I . . . I do not know. We must find a physician immediately. Go, call a footman, and send for one.” Marie left.

Catherine sat on the edge of the bed and took Blanche's hand in hers. It was lax, but warm. She leaned over and shook the girl's shoulder, then slapped her hand. No response came from her, only the still-steady breathing. Desperation choked Catherine, and she seized both of Blanche's shoulders, shaking her whole upper body. “Please, please, Blanche, wake up. Please!”

The girl responded no more than a rag doll might, her head rolling back, and her arms flopping to each side.

No. No. Catherine clenched her hands into fists. This was her fault. She should have insisted on leaving Blanche behind in Normandy . . . but if she had, for all she knew, the marquis would have done worse. She did not know what to do. Pressing her hands over her face, she moaned, rocking herself back and forth. She needed to do something, something to revive Blanche.

A knock sounded at the door; it was the doctor, and Adrian followed him, gazing at Blanche with clear worry.

The doctor was a portly and intelligent-looking man, who bowed in a competent manner and looked with concern at her sister sleeping so still in the bed.

Hope rose. Perhaps it was something of natural origin—perhaps it was something easily cured by cupping or bleeding, with some medicine. Quickly, she told him of Blanche's condition the night before, leaving out the supernatural aspects, for she was not certain the man would believe her.

She watched as the doctor bent and listened to the girl's heart, felt her pulse, but after the long, silent examination, he shook his head.

“I can find nothing wrong, Mlle de la Fer, other than her unresponsiveness. She does not even seem to have a fever.”

Catherine nodded.

“It could have been a fever the night before.” He shook his head again. “I will give you a tisane in case the fever returns, and then I will bleed her only a little, since she is not in a fever now.” He looked at her and Adrian kindly. “Do not worry. She should awaken soon, I think. If she still does not, then send for me again and I will see what can be done.” He nodded toward Blanche. “If you will help me with the bleeding, I will be most grateful.”

Catherine stepped forward and held the bowl, and she closed her eyes briefly and gritted her teeth at the sight of the blood that dripped slowly down her sister's almost snow-white skin. Anger and grief pounded behind her lips, wanting release. But she swallowed it down, waiting for the doctor to be done with the bleeding.

It was, indeed, only a little blood, but it seemed to Catherine to take too long. The doctor seemed satisfied, however, and she helped press a small pad to the wound as he wrapped a bandage around it securely.

He bowed again before he left. “I will admit I have not seen the like,” he said, shaking his head. “But she is only a little pale, her breathing is normal, and her temperature is neither too high nor too low. If I did not know any better, I would say she is merely sleeping.”

“But she does not waken when I shake her,” Catherine said.

“Yes,” the doctor replied. “That is the thing. She does not waken.” He hesitated. “It would not hurt, I think, to have a priest say prayers over her.”

Dread chilled her. “Are you saying she might die?” There, she said it.

He shook his head, smiling kindly. “No, I do not think so. But prayers would not hurt. I have seen many strange things, and even seen such evils as the plague strike some and avoid others who lived in the very same house. For all that we doctors learn what we can of the body, there are things that are also beyond our knowledge.” He sighed. “As I say, having a priest pray for her cannot hurt.” He bowed once more, then left.

She turned back to the bed and found Adrian sitting there, Blanche's hand in his. The room's drawn curtains cast a shadow on his face, making him seem aged, even skeletal. He was thinner than he had been before, Catherine thought, alarmed. He looked up at her, clear grief in his eyes. “Will she be well, do you think, sister?”

He does care for us. The thought brought a certain relief to her, for at least what influence de Bauvin had over her brother had not stripped him of affection. Adrian cared at least for Blanche.

“I wonder if you are feeling well yourself, Adrian. I think I shall ask the doctor to return to attend you,” she said.

He waved a dismissive hand. “I am well, only tired. Do not concern yourself with me—I need only rest for a while, after I am sure Blanche is well.” Stubbornness sounded clearly in his voice, and she remembered he would argue into the night if he felt he was right. She gazed at the shadows beneath his eyes, and grief filled her heart. She could not weary him any more than he already was; he needed whatever strength was left to him.

Perhaps Adrian's care for their family was stronger than his loyalty to de Bauvin. Perhaps he would help her if she revealed to him that the marquis was behind Blanche's illness and that she suspected the man of sorcery.

She went to her brother and laid her hand on his arm. “I think Blanche will recover, but we should also call a priest.”

He frowned, clearly perplexed. “Why a priest? If she will recover, then what is the difference whether a priest attends her or not?”

She wet her lips, wondering if she should tell him her suspicions now. “It . . . it could be sorcery.”

He stared at her, incredulous. “‘Sorcery'? I think not.”

She sat next to him and clasped his hand. “Why not? I tell you, I have seen supernatural things while I lived in Paris, and this smells of the most dark enchantment. En vrai, we have had sorcery very close to us.” As close as across the street, she thought.

He stared at her skeptically. “Catherine, you have been ill, as well, and have lost your memory. I have never seen any such, and to assume that Blanche's illness was caused by some sorcerer is foolishness.”

Anger flared, and she released his hand, moving back from him. “Then what do you think it is? She had no illness before this, and in fact is a very healthy girl. It was not until the Marquis de Bauvin came to live in the rooms across from us that she became ill.”

Her brother stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head. “You are joking, but this is no laughing matter, sister. Are you saying that the marquis—my friend, and friend to our family, your betrothed—is a sorcerer?”

Catherine gazed him firmly. “Yes.”

He rose suddenly, anger clear in his face. “You know nothing, Catherine. You know nothing of what happened in the nearly eight months you were gone.” He walked to the fireplace, his back to her, staring into the fire with his hands clenched into fists.

“I did not tell you,” he continued. “You were ill, and just returned to us.” He cast an unreadable glance at her before he returned to gazing at the fire. “You think that kidnappers beat you and took you away.”

Catherine sat, frozen. Did he know her story for a lie, then?

“I am sure it's not so for I found no trace of strangers when I questioned our neighbors about your disappearance. Our father—” He said the word as if he spoke a curse. “Our father beat you. He beat you severely, before you disappeared.” He waved a dismissive hand. “If you ran away, I do not blame you. I hated him, our father. He was stupid and let our land go to ruin, so that we had nothing but our name to marry off.” Adrian's voice was full of loathing, breaking Catherine's heart. “He beat all of us, except for Blanche, and that was only because she was with the convent sisters from the time she was very small. I think the beatings eventually killed our mother and her unborn child.”

Catherine felt ill. She had thought Adrian too young to have known about their mother. She thought she had protected both her brother and sister, but it was clear she had not. Perhaps that was why she had acquired her affliction—it was punishment for not caring for her brother and her mother well enough. She gazed at Blanche, so quietly asleep on the bed. Or her sister, for that matter.

“If you knew that our father had beaten me, and that he had agreed to my marriage with the marquis, why did you agree to Blanche's betrothal, and then to mine when I returned?” She turned to look at her brother, and saw that he had moved away from the fire, gazing at her earnestly.

“Because you did not seem averse to him, and because it was to reward him.”

Unease seeped into her. “Reward him for what?”

He stepped to her and took her hands, smiling at her. “For ridding us of our father, Catherine, and protecting you.”

Faintness made her close her eyes, but she managed to take a step back and pull her hands away from him. “Protecting. . . . Rid us of him. . . .” She swallowed. “What do you mean, Adrian?”

“What do you think?” His voice turned harsh. “Our father is dead. Did you not wonder about it? The marquis found our father beating you severely, and intervened on your behalf. Father attacked de Bauvin for his trouble, and wounded him badly. I saw the bandages on the marquis myself when I returned home, and he explained it all to me.”

Catherine felt ill. The marquis had explained everything away—the blood, the attack, her disappearance. He was now a hero to her brother. It was no wonder Adrian would hear no ill of the man.

“I . . . I did not remember. I thought perhaps Father had died many years ago.” It was true, at least at first. But then she had not questioned, for she had been too occupied thinking of the marquis's threat to them.

And thinking of Jack. She wished he were here; she wanted his warmth and generosity and strength as she wanted heaven itself. But she had to fight the marquis without him. It was clear that the marquis would attack or use anyone close to her. Jack, at least, was safe; he would be in Breda with King Charles at this moment. As long as he did not return to her, he would be no threat to the marquis, and would no doubt be left alone. She could not even send for Fichet or Felice—they were her friends, and she had burdened them enough.

She forced herself to take her brother's hand—it was cold, as cold as that of a man who was on the point of death. She looked into his eyes. There was a feverish look in them, and she knew that she could not tell him of what she knew of the marquis, nor of her dread, knowing that what was left of her family was under dire threat. If the marquis was not drawing out the life force from her brother, as well, at least his influence was still very strong. She would not be able to convince her brother of anything, not even that whatever the marquis had done to kill their father, it was still wrong.

“I am sorry,” she said. “I did not know.”

Adrian's expression softened. “Of course you did not, poor Catherine! I would not be surprised if you lost your memory because of our father's brutal treatment of you. I tell you, I wished to kill him myself when I found what he had done to you. But the marquis told me all would be well, and that he would help ensure our fortunes would rise again.” He paused, his expression looking lost and alone. “I tried to kill father myself after our mother died.” His face suddenly crumpled in grief. “She looked very much like Blanche, you know. But I was too small, and I was in bed a week from our father's beating.”

Tears came to Catherine's eyes, and she took Adrian into her arms, holding him as if he were still a little boy. He was a young man, but younger than she, and had only a month ago reached his nineteenth year. She remembered Adrian being ill in bed, but had been kept away from him because she was told his illness was contagious.

“I am sorry,” she said softly. “So sorry. Forget what I have said. It was foolishness.”

Adrian parted from her, and he smiled. “It is nothing, sister. You could not help any of it—what could a girl do against one such as our father?”

“I was the oldest—”

He held up his hand. “And I was the heir and now the Comte de la Fer. I am almost as old as you.” His expression grew earnest and fierce. “I swear to you, I shall not fail this time. Not this time. Our estate shall grow richer, even if it means I work the fields myself.” He smiled, and humor returned to his face. “Although I doubt it will come to that. Our friend de Bauvin will help us, you'll see.”

It was clear she could say nothing against the marquis to convince her brother of the man's evil. Even if she were to tell him what the man had done to her, he would say that it was because her mind had been disordered . . . and it was clear her brother was as burdened by her father's legacy as she had been. She gazed at Adrian's determined face, and knew that it would kill him to think that he had failed to protect her from de Bauvin, as he had failed—impossible as it was—to protect their mother. It was not his fault, after all; he had been too young, only a child. She took his too-cold hand and brought it up to her cheek in affection. “I am fortunate, indeed, to have a brother such as you,” she said.

His grateful smile was her reward; it warmed her, and she knew that once de Bauvin was exposed, all would be well. She was not at all sure what she planned would succeed. There was a large possibility that she might be killed. But even that would achieve her ends: at least it would show de Bauvin for the sorcerer he was; and if she died in the attempt, it would ensure that the marquis would never bother her family again.

But meanwhile, Adrian needed protection. She thought of the cross she wore, and the one Blanche wore. They were alike, and certainly seemed to banish the spirit from possessing Blanche, in addition to giving her own self a sense of protection and guidance.

She squeezed her brother's hand. “You will think me foolish . . . but do you wear a cross?”

He shrugged. “I did once. But I seemed to have misplaced it.”

Putting her hand to her neck, she held her cross tightly, then took off the necklace. She placed it around her brother's neck instead and smiled. “Wear this for me, and keep it with you always. Never take it off.” He began to shake his head and opened his mouth to speak, but she put her fingers over his lips. “No, say nothing. I know you think it foolishness. But wear it for me. I have nothing to give to you that is my own except this.”

An embarrassed but pleased expression crossed his face, and he took her hand in his. “I thank you, then, and will wear it always, as you say.” He grinned. “I will even find a priest to pray over Blanche. As the doctor said, it cannot hurt.”

Catherine smiled and squeezed his hand again. “Thank you.” He gave her another hug and turned to the door. She looked after him as he left and let out a long sigh.

She felt too, too vulnerable without her cross. But it was necessary that her brother be protected. She should have noted earlier the changes in him, but she had been too concerned with the imminent threat to Blanche.

However, she had changed, as well. She had grown stronger since Jack had found her in the alley, and more skilled with the sword. She knew she was stronger than most women—Jack had said so himself. Tomorrow she would be presented at King Louis's court, and before she went, she would make sure she went to confession and received absolution for her sins. If she were to fight evil, she would have to be in as pure a state as she could be, especially if she did not have the protection of her cross.

Tomorrow she would fight the Marquis de Bauvin and would need all the aid she could gather. Jack would not be there, and she was glad, for it meant he would be safe. She thought of Adrian and went to Blanche's bedside to hold her hand. With luck, her strength and her faith would be enough to save them all.