Serpent & Dove (Serpent & Dove #1) - Shelby Mahurin Page 0,39
take a thief at her word, there wasn’t a better explanation for why she’d returned. I didn’t want to admit it, but she was clever. Masterful at the art of escape. Probably impossible to find once hidden.
Which meant she was here because she wanted to be. Because she needed to be. Whoever her enemies were, they must’ve been dangerous.
I broke our eye contact to stare at the bedpost. Focus. “You disobeyed me,” I repeated. “I told you to stay in the Tower, and you didn’t. You broke trust.” She rolled her eyes, mask cracking. I tried to resurrect my previous anger, but it didn’t burn quite as hot now. “The guards will be more vigilant, especially after the Archbishop hears of your indiscretions. He won’t be pleased—”
“Unexpected bonus—”
“And you’ll remain confined to the lower floors,” I finished through clenched teeth. “The dormitories and commissary.”
She sat up, curiosity flaring in her blue-green eyes. “What’s on the top floors, again?”
“None of your business.” I strode to the door without looking back at her, sighing in relief when a maid strode past. “Bridgette! Can my wife, er, borrow a gown? I’ll return it first thing tomorrow morning.” When she nodded, blushing, and hurried away, I turned back to Louise. “You’ll need to change. We’re going to the council room, and you can’t wear those in front of my brothers.”
She didn’t move. “Your brothers? What could they possibly want with me?”
It must’ve been physically impossible for this woman to submit to her husband. “They want to ask you some questions about your witch friend.”
Her answer came immediately. “I’m not interested.”
“It wasn’t a request. As soon as you’re dressed appropriately, we leave.”
“No.”
I glared at her for a full second longer—waiting for her to concede, waiting for her to demonstrate the proper meekness befitting a woman—before realizing who this was.
Lou. A thief with a man’s name. I turned on my heel. “Fine. Let’s go.”
I didn’t wait for her to follow. Honestly, I didn’t know what I’d do if she didn’t. The memory of the Archbishop striking her reared in my mind, and the heat coursing through me burned hotter. That would never happen again. Even if she cursed—even if she refused to listen to a single word I ever said—I would never raise my fist to her.
Ever.
Which left me fervently hoping she followed.
After a few seconds, soft footsteps echoed behind me in the corridor. Thank God. I shortened my strides, so she could catch up. “Through here,” I murmured, leading her down the staircase. Careful not to touch her. “To the dungeon.”
She looked up at me in alarm. “The dungeon?”
I almost chuckled. Almost. “The council room is down there.”
I ushered her through another corridor. Down a smaller, steeper flight of stairs. Terse voices drifted toward us as we descended. I pushed open the crude wooden door at the base of the stairs and motioned for her to step inside.
A dozen of my brethren stood arguing around an enormous circular table in the middle of the room. Bits of parchment littered it. Newspaper clippings. Charcoal sketches. Underneath it all stretched an enormous map of Belterra. Every mountain range—every bog, forest, and lake—had been inked with care and precision. Every city and landmark.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the little thief.” Jean Luc’s eyes swept over her with keen interest. He sauntered around the table to examine her closer. “Come to grace us with her presence at last.”
The others soon followed, ignoring me completely. My lips pressed together in unexpected irritation. I didn’t know who bothered me most—my wife for wearing trousers, my brothers for staring, or myself for caring.
“Peace, Jean Luc.” I stepped closer, towering behind her. “She’s here to help.”
“Is she? I thought street rats valued loyalty.”
“We do,” she said flatly.
He raised a brow. “You refuse to help us then?”
Behave, I pleaded silently. Cooperate.
She didn’t, of course. Instead, she drifted toward the table, glancing at the bits of paper. I knew without looking who she saw. One face drawn a dozen times. A dozen ways. Mocking us.
La Dame des Sorcières. The Lady of the Witches.
Even the name rankled. She looked nothing like the hag at the parade. Nothing like the raven-haired mother, either. Her hair wasn’t even black in her natural form, but a peculiar shade of blond. Almost white. Or silver.
Jean Luc followed her gaze. “You know of Morgane le Blanc?”
“Everyone knows of her.” She lifted her chin and shot him a black look. “Even street rats.”