like you.”
A bitter laugh grated in the stillness. “Aye, my soul is indeed in great need of such concern.”
He stepped toward her, and she had to make a conscious effort not to retreat. “Now, my lady—Sister Madelyne—we are up with the sun and in the saddle anon, and I shall not be as accommodating as my man Clem was to your maid if you should collapse in exhaustion. ’Tis time to return to your bed.” He looked at her closely. “And do you not wander at night alone, else you wish to find yourself in need of more than a chapel for protection.”
His meaning dawned on her, and she looked up at him in shock. “But, my lord, your men would not—”
“Only a fool believes he knows what a man would or would not do, especially when confronted with a beautiful woman.”
Madelyne’s heart bumped out of rhythm, then realigned itself. He did not mean it, she knew, that she was a beautiful woman. He only meant to warn her of her carelessness. And, indeed, she had been foolish to wander unescorted through the monastery. “I will return to my bed, then, my lord.”
Lord Mal Verne stepped toward her and, to her surprise, offered her his arm. “And I will escort you so as to assure myself that you return unharmed. And that you plan no further tricks.”
She reluctantly slipped her fingers around his forearm as she remembered seeing her mother do many years ago at Tricourten. Although her hand barely rested there, she was acutely conscious of the feel of the well-woven linen of his sleeve, and the steadiness of his arm beneath it. Her skirt brushed against his legs as they walked at a comfortably brisk pace back to the women’s chambers.
When they reached the entrance to the chambers, Mal Verne stopped, pausing in front of the door, but making no move to open it. He looked down at her as she pulled her hand from his arm, and Madelyne found herself trapped by his gaze. Something glittered there, in the depths of his eyes, and it made her unable to breathe as they stood in a lengthening silence.
“Do you ever wear your veil—even to sleep?” he asked finally, reaching out a hand as if to touch it.
Unsettled by his odd question, Madelyne looked away, breaking their eye contact and the tension between them. His hand dropped back to his side, but he continued to look down at her. “Nay, my lord.” She stepped back from him and raised her face to look up at him again, confused by his words.
She was shocked when his mouth curved into the slightest of smiles, chagrin lighting his eyes. “I have always suffered from the basest of curiosities…and I merely wondered at the color of your hair, that which you keep so well-hidden.” Then, a flash of horror widened his eyes, but was immediately gone to be replaced by familiar, hard cynicism. “Unless ’tis the custom of the nuns at Lock Rose Abbey to shave their heads.”
“Only those who have taken their final vows partake of that custom,” Madelyne replied, suddenly glad that she had not yet done so. “My head is not shaved. And my hair is dark.” She knew that only because it was long enough that the heavy braid she wore fell over her shoulder down to her waist, for she’d not seen herself in a looking glass since arriving at the abbey.
He stilled. “You are not a nun?”
“I will be a nun when I am returned to Lock Rose Abbey,” she told him firmly, hiding her clenched fingers in the folds of her gown.
“Aye. When you are returned to the abbey.” He turned abruptly and opened the door to her chamber, gesturing for her to enter. “I shall see you on the morrow, Lady Madelyne. I wish you a well-deserved night’s slumber.”
Fantin was mixing healing earth, dry apple wood ash, and chipped fragments of rubies when the sign he’d been praying for became known to him.
“My lord,” the squire said nervously, executing an impeccable bow, “this missive has just arrived.”
Turning away from the table at which he worked, Fantin dunked his hands into a small basin of water he kept for such a purpose. He did not abide dirt under his fingers, or stains on his clothing, or spills on his floor or tables— and most definitely did not allow his correspondence to have ink smears or blood specks.
Drying his pink, clean hands on one of the many cloths he kept about for that purpose, he glanced at the polished silver mirror that hung between two of the brightest torches. His handsome face—the one that drew women to him in embarrassing droves—was devoid of soot streaks, and his shining wheat-colored hair lay in gleaming waves, framing his face. ’Twas his one vanity—his hair. He did not restrain the thick, lustrous strands that Nicola had claimed reminded her of gilded moonbeams, despite the hazard it portended by oft falling into his face whilst he worked. Fantin was confident God would forgive him this one transgression, as it was such a minor trespass when one considered other sins—such as adultery and murder and slovenliness.
After assuring himself that his appearance was pleasing, he strode toward the boy, noting that his knees were fairly knocking at the thought of interrupting his master at work. Relieving the lad of the heavy parchment, Fantin deigned to bestow one of his warm smiles upon the boy, along with a nod of thanks. ’Twas thus to his private amusement that the boy fairly fled the room, relief gusting in his wake.
“The boy was like to piss his pants whilst coming here belowstairs, fearing to disturb your work, my lord,” commented Tavis, his assistant—a slender, handsome man, not so much older than the squire who’d just fled the laboratory. He stood on the other side of the heavy wooden table, stirring a deep bowl of violet liquid that steamed and stank of belladonna.
“’Tis not so true, for he knows that should a message be delayed, he would find himself in worse straits than if he disturbed me at work.” Fantin chuckled damply. “’Twas one of the first lessons you yourself learned, was it not, Tavis?”
Returning his attention to the missive, Fantin glanced at the seal and excitement surged through him. He resisted the urge to beckon Rufus from his incessant praying in the chapel—after all, should God speak, Fantin was determined that Rufus be available to listen.
He knew what this message contained, and if he pulled the priest from his holy duty, Rufus would only admonish him for what he’d called his obsession with Mal Verne. But now, at long last, that obsession had closed with Mal Verne’s death, and Fantin could focus his complete attention on the purification of himself and preparation for the formula for the Philosopher’s Stone. It was the sign he’d been awaiting.
“Who sends the message?” Tavis looked like an eager pup as he elbowed the bowl, sloshing the smoking liquid over the side. Dismay pinked his face as he grabbed a cloth to sop up the spill.
“Take care, you fool!” Fantin snapped, ire rising at the young man’s clumsiness that seemed to rear its head at the least thrice per day. “I do not wish to have pig’s blood and belladonna all over the floor of my chamber!”
His annoyed eased as he looked at his assistant, who’d cleaned up the mess and now had appropriately downcast eyes. Tavis might be overly eager, and more than a bit clumsy, but he was completely devoted to Fantin and his work and that in itself was worth the trouble of cleaning up after his ineptness.
“The message is from Rohan, the man I have in Mal Verne’s employ.” He broke the seal and began to scan the parchment as he continued to speak. “I expect this to be the news that—” Fantin choked off, his eyes bulging with incredulity and then in bare shock. Hot fury rose in him, heating his face and causing the hand that held the missive to shake violently.
At his master’s high, keening cry of disbelief, Tavis froze, gaping at him with big, bowl-shaped eyes. “What is it, Master Fantin?” he asked in a thready voice.
The vein in Fantin’s forehead throbbed furiously. Raking a hand through his hair, he looked at his assistant. “Mal Verne lives. He
Fantin clenched his fingers around the edges of the parchment, relishing in the yield of the brittle paper beneath his anger, wishing that it was Mal Verne’s own neck beneath his nails. It could not be that he lived!
He sucked in a deep draught of air. He must retain control of his senses and force the red that suddenly colored his vision to ease away…he closed his eyes and called upon God to send him the calmness and clarity he deserved. If he was to undertake His Will, then He must give him the tools to understand it.
Fantin concentrated, taking two more deep breaths. The tang of smoke, and the acridity of burning pear wood and melting iron, seared his lungs, but it did not matter.
The missive vibrated in his grip so that he could barely read the words of the remainder of the message…but when at last he returned to the paper, he snatched in his breath. He could not believe the words he saw there. He read it thrice before the shock compelled him to speak. “Mal Verne claims to have found my daughter! My daughter is
