Igniting Darkness (Courting Darkness Duology #2) - Robin LaFevers Page 0,208

says that, that makes me think she knows—or suspects—and is not willing to say.

Father Effram dismounts from his mule and beams at her. “Then you are carrying either the last of Death’s handmaidens or his first mortal child.”

Whether because she does not wish to discuss this any longer or due to her innate kindness, Annith turns from us to where Genevieve waits a few feet away. “Genevieve.” She moves forward, holding out her hand, her face full of remorse and regret. “I am truly sorry for the loss of your sister Margot and hope you will be able to forgive the convent’s utter failure in its duty to you.”

Gen looks stunned, as if the last thing she expected was an apology, sympathy, or compassion. She smiles faintly. “As I understand it, you had little to do with such matters, except in trying to locate us. I do not hold you responsible in the slightest.” She means it, I realize, happy to remove one knot of worry from the string I carry inside me.

Two more figures emerge from the stables just then, no three. Tola, Tephanie, and—“Louise!”

She lets go of Tephanie’s hand and runs toward me. “You’re back!”

I catch her up in a giant hug, my arms wrapped around that small, frail body, and breathe in her familiar scent. She is safe, and her nightmare is truly over. I whirl her around and around until she is laughing and begging me to put her down.

As I set her feet on the ground, I look to Tola and Tephanie. “I can never thank you both enough.”

Tephanie, dear sweet Tephanie, rolls her eyes at me. “We were happy to do it, my lady.”

“Where’s Charlotte?” Louise asks, her little face twisted with worry.

“Over there, sweeting.” Before I have finished speaking, she is off, running toward her sister.

When she reaches her, instead of the hug we are all expecting, she hauls her arm back and punches Charlotte. We all stare in open-mouthed amazement, Charlotte most of all.

“You left! You scared me! I thought you were never coming back!” She pauses to catch her breath. “You were supposed to stay here—with me. And the nuns were worried, too. Annith even cried.”

As proud as I am of Louise, I ache for Charlotte as well. She thought she was going to ensure Louise’s safety—or at least that was what she told herself—and having that thrown in her face is painful.

“I didn’t just run away,” Charlotte says, rubbing her arm. “I was . . .” Her words trail off, and she glances up at me.

Aeva crouches down beside her. “It is not comfortable having your good intentions stomped on and misunderstood, is it?”

“No,” she grumbles.

Louise sighs. “You’re forgiven. Just don’t do it again.”

After Annith has greeted Beast and Duval, she explains, “Balthazaar remained on the island, but is ready to speak with you whenever you wish it.” Then her eyes move to Maraud. “Who is this?”

There is a moment of silence as we all wonder who should tell her. Finally, Father Effram steps forward. “This is Anton Crunard, your long-lost brother.”

Annith’s face lights up. “You found him! ”

Maraud shakes his head in wonder. “I have a sister. This is a boon I had not expected.” He is not wholly without family—surely welcome news in spite of the shock.

“Nor I,” Annith says. “We have much to talk about.”

The happiness in Maraud’s eyes dims somewhat. “Yes, we do.”

She squeezes his hand. “When you are ready to speak of it, I will be most eager to hear. Now come,” she says to the rest of us. “The boats are waiting.”

* * *

The next morning, I find Balthazaar behind the convent, beyond the low stone wall that lies between Sister Serafina’s poison workshop and the backside of the island.

As I approach, he stops what he is doing and rises to his feet. From this distance, he looks precisely as he did the first time I saw him. Tall, cloaked in black, impossibly still. But not truly the same. There is no frost beneath his feet and none of the terrible beauty of his divinity shines in his face.

He still smells of richly turned earth. Or mayhap that is the soil that clings to his hands. He smiles—in welcome, in joy, and, I think, in some way, in sadness. “Daughter.” His voice is no longer the rustle of winter leaves, but a deeply pleasant human voice.

When he came to me as Death, I could feel that he was my father. But with this man, Balthazaar,