Igniting Darkness (Courting Darkness Duology #2) - Robin LaFevers Page 0,81

with my own eyes. To know that he is unharmed. That he is the same as when I left him. And I am hungry to know why he thinks of me often.

I know why he should think of me often—to curse my name to the heavens. But the nature of Valine’s words did not suggest that was the case.

Hope wriggles in my chest, a frail young chick trying to break free of its egg.

We danced well together, whether in a mummer’s parade, a daring escape, a lover’s embrace, or a sparring match. Looking back, without my fears clawing at my throat, I cannot help but wonder how things might be different at court if I had allowed him to help me.

If I had allowed myself to trust him. My hand reaches up to ensure the dangling silver chain of my necklace is completely concealed in the back of my gown. Of a certainty, it would have been better than the current mess I’ve made of everything.

 Chapter 45

Maraud

Maraud had no trouble slipping into the palace grounds. All of Paris was out tonight celebrating the new queen, and crowds of people milled everywhere. There were even a few stalls—wine sellers mostly—set up, calling out their wares. Now, that would have made a fine disguise, he thought, tugging his leather jerkin into place. He’d come dressed as a tradesman—a stonemason—carrying the chain from his old mummer’s costume on his belt as an excuse to visit the smithy. And if that didn’t work, one of the heavy hammers or sharp chisels in his belt would.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a brief flicker in the shadows, then the flash of a jewel-toned gown before it disappeared into the smithy. Something lurking near his heart unclenched. She came.

The smithy was deserted, the fire banked low for the night. At first look, it appeared empty, until he stepped fully inside. She was there, toward the back.

He’d thought, once he saw her again, that he’d want to wrap his hands around her lovely neck and wring it until she felt just how angry he’d been. How betrayed he felt. How much frustration had consumed him.

He must have made some noise, for she whirled around, and their eyes met, and all he wanted to do was to touch her. To cup her cheek in his hand and rub his fingers on the skin that he knew was as delicate as a flower petal.

She looked away first, down at the chain in his hands. Her eyes widened, and her mouth twisted. “Well, you’ve not strangled me with it, so I guess that’s something.”

She’d grown thinner, he realized, the line of her jaw sharper, her eyes larger. She was also dressed in the fine silks and elaborate jewelry befitting a lady of the royal household. A deep spike of loss jabbed at him. He missed the rough-and-tumble, earthy Lucinda. Her eyes had seemed more alive, her face more vibrant then.

“Considering you haven’t gone for your poisoned needles, I feel safe keeping my weapon sheathed.”

Her cheeks pinkened slightly at his unintended double entendre, and oh-so-briefly, it was the old Lucinda standing before him.

“I’ve missed that about you.” Her dark honey voice was exactly how he’d remembered it. “Your ability to turn everything into a jest.”

His looby of a heart wanted to soar out of his chest. She’d missed him. “And here I thought it was one of my most annoying habits.”

She frowned slightly, as if puzzled. “It was.”

He wanted to place his thumb right there—on the faint crease between her brows—and smooth it away. He wanted to touch her so badly that he clenched his hands to tamp down the urge.

Her eyes darted briefly to his hands, then back to his face. “You are angry still,” she said softly.

“No.” Was he ever angry? At her? Or simply himself? “You’ve grown thin.”

She gave an impatient shake of her head. “It is only the shadows.” But he’d seen her in the bright light of full day, and she still looked thin. He should look away, it was probably rude staring at her so, but he could not get his fill. Before he could stop himself, he closed the distance between them. “Lucinda.” It came out as a whisper.

She looked up at him, her eyes shining with what he would swear were tears. His hands clenched again with the need to touch her. To wipe away the sadness on her face.

“My name is Genevieve.” It was nothing. A name. But it