riverbank. “It’s not as if your amouré is going to materialize when you play the first note. He could live on the other side of Dovré for all we know.”
She lets out a loud sigh. “I didn’t think about that. I hope this doesn’t take all night.”
As much as I want her rite of passage to be done with, part of me wishes her amouré never comes. The gods demand enough of a Leurress over her lifetime. They shouldn’t ask us to make a sacrifice like this, too. But Tyrus is said to be exacting. His cape is made from the smoke and ash of oath breakers and cowards, the worst sinners in the Underworld, those caught in the eternal fire of his wrath. Even murderers suffer a better fate on the Perpetual Sands, Tyrus’s scorching desert where thirst is never quenched.
I finally reach the top, panting, and brace my hands on my hips. “I’m here. Go on.”
Ailesse rolls back her shoulders. “Let’s see if I can kill a man without getting his blood on my dress.” She winks. “That will show Isla.”
My stomach folds on itself. I don’t smile back. This is really happening. Ailesse is going to meet her match, only to slaughter him. “Be careful,” I say, even though her promised lover is the one who’s in danger. Still, I can’t shake my sense of foreboding.
“I’m always careful.” Her daring grin betrays the very opposite and doubles my worry. A little fear is wise.
Resigned, I retreat to the nearest tree and stake my place behind it. I’m partially hidden, but I can still see my friend.
Ailesse brushes her hair over her shoulder, neck tall like a swan, and brings the bone flute to her mouth.
5
Bastien
TONIGHT I’LL HAVE MY REVENGE. I feel it deep inside, past the jittery energy that’s kept me awake the last twenty-four hours. After tonight, I’ll sleep in peace.
I tighten the strap of the sheath harness on my back. Both my knives are hidden there. The Bone Crier will ask me to dance—part of her twisted cat-and-mouse game—but I won’t reveal I’m the cat until the time is right.
“I still vote we attack from the trees,” Marcel says, the last to crawl out from the cellar tunnel of La Chaste Dame. The brothel is near the south wall of the city. We could have taken the path through the catacombs, but this tunnel—the one Madame Colette turns a blind eye to if I toss her a coin—leads out of Dovré on the way to the bridges we’ll scout tonight. Last full moon, Jules, Marcel, and I started west and worked our way east. This time we’ll travel down from the city to the royal shipyard on the coast. South Galle is webbed with water and bridges.
“No, we’re going to do this properly, face-to-face.” I’m clean for the first time in weeks. We snuck into the Scarlet Room of La Chaste Dame, where Baron Gerard likes to slum around. Jules scrubbed my hair with his soap and used his razor on my face. She even gave me a splash of the baron’s fragranced water. Now I smell of licorice, watercress, and cloves. It’s enough to make me sneeze, but Jules promises the scent is enticing. When the Bone Crier plays her song, I should pass off as the fated boy she lures. Whoever he is.
“How do I look?” I ask for the first and hopefully last time in my life. Lunge, strike, parry. I practice my formations in my mind as Jules fusses with the cape I “borrowed” from the brothel. It’s fastened across my back and one shoulder, the same way upper-crusters from the noble district wear them. We’ll return it to the Scarlet Room once we’re done tonight. Madame Colette will poison us in our sleep if she learns we’re thieving from her regulars.
“Almost perfect,” Jules replies. “The only flaw is your breath. The sausage was a mistake.”
“You’re the one who pilfered it—and ate the other link.”
“I’m not the one trying to impress a demigoddess.” Jules turns away and rummages through the underbrush.
“Bone Criers aren’t immortal.” Marcel wipes his dusty hands on his trousers. “They live as long as we do. The old songs perpetuate that myth, but if you look closely to their source, specifically the epic poem Les Dames Blanches by Arnaud Poirier, you’ll see where the confusion began,” Marcel divulges in a lazy drawl. He isn’t trying to impress us, and he isn’t worried much about changing our opinion either.