was trapped inside by the winter sun—pressing him to eat, so he would heal, hobbling on her bandaged leg more than Garrett thought was good for her, reading to him from her novel in progress, refusing to cry where anyone could see her. Once night fell, he wandered, and Garrett and Phoebe were left to their own devices.
Sebastien must have found some courtiers' club, because he returned the first night of the waning moon with his wounds healed—although he would not touch Phoebe while she was recovering, and he had not inquired of Garrett. She was already up, fragrant from her bath and sipping chocolate, when he let himself into the room. "Hello," she said.
"You didn't wait up?"
Garrett shook her head and he knelt to scritch the orange cat. "We didn't sleep much either, though, I fear. Phoebe just dropped off an hour ago. I hung the card on her door."
In the dark, in their shared bed that first night, Garrett had felt Phoebe shaking and heard her labored breaths.
And reached out and took her arm, and turned her, and wrapped both arms around her shoulders and head, to shelter Phoebe while she cried. Phoebe clutched Garrett's wrists, their forearms parallel and Phoebe's head pressed to Garrett's chin, and when Garrett sobbed out loud Mike woke and burrowed between them, licking and poking.
"It hurts," Phoebe had said.
And Garrett had said, "I know."
But that wasn't in her voice when she set her chocolate aside and went to him. There was no blame, no blame for either of them. He had his own grief, as Phoebe had hers. Garrett's was just a shadow, a grief in anticipation.
Renault's letter was on the table, open, pages scattered like kicked leaves. It had come in with the cocoa, in Mary's hand. Garrett picked it up as she passed, and offered it to Sebastien.
He could read very fast when he cared to. His eyes skimmed down the page; the paper crinkled when he turned it. "Rostov was a Russian agent," he said. "This is not a surprise."
"Read on," she said, "to the results of the interrogation."
"The English deal with Russia for an invasion of France," he read. "Night of the full moon, February. . .next month? They were planning an invasion next month? Hello. Did your Henry know this?"
His voice promised soft murder. But Garrett shook her head. "I don't believe so. I don't believe Phillip would tell him. I don't believe he would be here trying to broker peace if he knew."
"You still defend him."
"A good man can pick a bad cause," she said. "It doesn't matter. Renault will give us the treaty. Financial and military support. Richard and the rest are going to pay, Sebastien. There's going to be a war."
"There already is," Sebastien said, and dropped the letter aside. "Jack's war. The war he wanted. And in fifty years, another corrupt government will rise up out of the ideals of revolution." If he was human, she imagined he would have had to spit, to clear the taste of bitterness. "Abby Irene—"
"Don't," she said. "I'm staying with you. So is Phoebe."
"You speak for her?"
"She speaks for herself. We talked while you were gone." She put a hand on his arm and pressed until she felt the unyielding flesh with her palm. He was warm, full of blood, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. "We're staying, Sebastien."
"I'm not interested in taking responsibility for a court," he said. "I can't. I can't—care for people anymore."
"You can't help caring for people," she answered. "And we're both grown women. Grown people. We make our own choices, Monsieur Gosselin."
He stared.
"Now if you'll excuse me, I have to find Prince Henry, and tell him he'd better get out of Paris before he's arrested as a spy. You know, I think his brother might be trying to get him killed?"
The staring continued as Garrett gathered her things, slid on her gloves, found her earmuffs and coat and shawl. He was still staring when she paused, hand on the door, and winked at him. "Don't wait up," she said.
But when the door clicked shut behind her, Garrett was not alone in the hall. Mary stood staring at her, a tray balanced on one palm, her apron pressed and tied.
"I overheard," she said.
"Mary, I—" Garrett swallowed, already sweating in her layers. "I'll pay your fare home. A letter of reference. Severance. I know you wouldn't be happy dragged all over Europe. I know it's not fair to ask—"
"I want to stay in Paris," Mary said.
"Stay in Paris," Garrett repeated dumbly. "All on your own? Are
you sure?"
Mary nodded, the tray rocking slightly on her hand. And Garrett thought of the Algerian woman on the Metro, tall and decked in gold, unbeholden to anyone.
"Stay in Paris," Garrett said. And caught Mary's face between her gloved hands, while Mary stood too shocked to intervene, and kissed her on the cheek like a sister, like a friend.