Dark Triumph

I reach the main gate at the convent and find it closed. Just to the right of the gate is a large bundle of what looks like rags. It takes me a moment to realize it is a sleeping Ya

I pause. Why am I here?

He is safe. And will soon be in a position to help the duchess. My role in his life is done. I saved him from d’Albret, the way I could not save Alyse. That should be enough.

So why do I feel this need to linger? Why this reluctance to part?

If I were anyone else feeling this, I would name it love, but I—I am far too smart to ever give away my heart again. Especially when to do so is as good as a death sentence for those I care about.

The old, familiar swirl of panic tries to surface. Instead of fighting it, I try to open myself to it, to let it come.

I remember the screaming. And the blood.

And that is as far as I get before the memory dissolves into pain.

Frustrated, I turn and follow the high walls surrounding the nu

That is when I spy the lone branch. It is thin, too thin to bear a man’s weight, which is most likely why the nuns have not cut it down. But it is not too thin for me.

I toss my cloak over my shoulder, then look for a sturdy burl I can use as a foothold. It is a long stretch to the next branch, which hovers just out of my reach, so I must shimmy up the trunk, most likely ruining Ismae’s habit.

Since it belongs to the convent, I do not mind overmuch.

My hand closes around the branch, and victory surges through me as I pull myself up. The limb creaks and bows, but does not break. Lying flat to distribute my weight evenly, I begin inching across, hoping the limb will not snap and send me plummeting to the ground, breaking my neck. Mortain ca

At last the wall is below me. I swing my feet down onto it and let go of the branch, which springs back up. I stop to survey my surroundings. This convent is laid out much like the convent of Saint Mortain. I can make out the long low building that is the nuns’ dormitory, and the larger refectory. And, of course, the chapel itself. But where would they keep the sick and wounded?

A building set aside from the others has a faint light coming from one of the windows. That is as likely a place to begin my search as any. Perhaps a lone candle or oil lamp burns so the nuns can oversee their sleeping patients.

I lower myself from the wall into a garden filled with greenery. My boots crush the plants, releasing the pungent odor of herbs—the ones the sisters of Brigantia use for the famous healing potions and tinctures.

The very same ones we at the convent of Saint Mortain use to mix our equally infamous poisons.

I make my way to the path, trying to crush as few of the plants as possible, then follow the flat, round paving stones to what I hope is the infirmary. Near the door, I stop and press myself up against the building, using the shadows to conceal my presence. I close my eyes and try to feel how many are in the building.

I immediately sense a strong, booming pulse and nearly smile at how easily recognizable Beast is. There are other pulses that are thin and weak—patients’, perhaps. The second slow and steady pulse is most likely that of the sister who tends them.

It is my hope that I can slip in undetected, see how Beast fares, then simply slip out again. My plan is foiled, however, by the old nun who sits near the door quietly mixing something with her mortar and pestle. I am certain I make no noise and equally certain that the thick pool of shadows near the wall conceals my presence. But something alerts her, for she starts and looks up. Since there is no point in pretending, I step away from the wall, prepared to explain why I am here.

Her eyes widen as she takes in the habit I wear, and the hand gripping the pestle turns white. “Who?” she whispers. “Who have you come for?”

I ca

She bristles, her fear forgotten. “Of course he will not perish in our care.” Her face softens. “Are you the one named Alyse? For he calls that name in his sleep.”

“No, that is his beloved sister, dead these past three years.” The depth of my disappointment that it is not my name he calls takes me completely by surprise.

“Ah,” the old nun says sympathetically, as if she somehow knows what I am feeling. “Then perhaps you are Sybella. That is the name he asks for when he is awake.”

A flutter of joy quickens my pulse. I scowl so that she will not see it.

“However, he is asleep now,” she continues. “Indeed, we had to give him a tincture of opium and valerian in order to calm him. He was most insistent that he could walk out of here and be of use to the duchess, even though his body said otherwise and he could barely keep his eyes open, let alone sit up.”

“I will not wake him,” I promise. “I only wish to assure myself that he is well.”

The nun nods her permission, and I start to move away, but she stops me. “By the way, whoever tended his wounds on the road did an excellent job. The man owes that person not only his life, but also his leg.”

Her words please me far more than they should, this knowledge that my hands can heal as well as kill, and it takes every ounce of self-control I have to keep my pleasure hidden. I turn and begin making my way to where Beast lies.

One-third of the beds here in the infirmary are occupied, mostly with the elderly and frail. It is eerily still. No fretting or moaning or frail cries for help. Perhaps she has sedated them all.

It is easy enough to pick out Beast’s hulking form, even when it is draped in white linen bedsheets, for he is easily twice the size of any other patient here. I am pleased to see the beds on either side of him are empty. That should afford me some small measure of privacy.

He lies as still as if he had been carved from marble, the high color he normally boasts leached from his face by the dim light and fatigue. His face is made even uglier by the harsh planes and shadows revealed by the flickering light from the few oil lamps in the room. His eyelashes—thick and spiky as they rest against his cheeks—are possibly the only beautiful things about him.

I marvel at this man who carried me away from my waking nightmare, determined that I not fall victim to d’Albret’s terrible retribution. Even after I had done nothing but spew vile accusations at him to light his temper, he would not leave me behind. What does he see when he looks at me? A harridan? A shrew? Some spoiled noblewoman playing at helping her country?

I glance back toward the attending nun and see that she has dimmed the oil lamp and now lies on her cot, resting until one of her patients needs her. With no one to see, I plunk myself down on the floor and lean back against the bed frame. It is quiet. So quiet. I can hear the breath move in and out of Beast’s lungs, hear the blood move through his veins, hear his pulse, strong and steady and alive. Slowly, some of the terror of d’Albret’s pursuit begins to seep out of me. Beast stirs in his sleep just then, his good hand slipping out from under his covers to hang over the side of the bed.