hundred years older than Solange?”
Isabeau glanced away. “I am technical y two hundred years older than you.”
“Not the same thing,” I said quickly. “ At all. ” Damn. If I tried, maybe I could shove my other foot in my gigantic mouth. So much for smooth. Magda grinned from ear to ear. I had no idea how to reclaim that lost territory. “I think we can al agree you’re nothing like Montmartre.” Isabeau inclined her head, a glint of humor in her green eyes.
“I do not want the crown,” she agreed. “No Cwn Mamau does.” And the crown was pretty much al Montmartre wanted.
Aside from my little sister.
The thought made me grind my teeth hard enough that the noise startled Charlemagne. I relaxed my jaw through force of wil power alone. Then I realized I’d led us into a dead-end chamber. I’d been so distracted by Isabeau’s scent and the sound of her voice and the way her black hair swal owed the flickering light of a single candle, that I’d practical y walked us into a wal .
Hard to believe, but before Isabeau I’d had a fair bit of skil with the whole flirting thing.
She turned on her heel and I noticed she was smiling, a true startled smile, as if she wasn’t used to it. “Oh, Logan, c’est magnifique. ”
Apparently she liked cave wal s and the clinging damp of mildew.
And then I realized her fingertips were hovering an inch over a faded red ocher painting. It was so faint I’d never have noticed it. As it was, I could only real y make out a handprint.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s a Cwn Mamau sacred story,” she explained. “It’s older than anything I’ve ever seen.”
“From before the royals stole the caves from us,” Magda felt the need to add.
“Hey, I’ve only been royal for just over a week.” I felt the equal need to defend myself.
“Shhh,” Isabeau murmured gently, as if we were bickering children. “This is a holy place. Can’t you feel it?” I felt the quality of the silence, the weight of stone pressing al around us. And if I concentrated, the very faint lingering traces of some kind of incense.
“This handprint here is the mark of an ancient shamanka. And here, these lines represent the thirteen ful moons in a year.” She pointed out the drawing in such a way that I could actual y see it clearly, see the faint lines solidifying, see the dance of torchlight from centuries earlier, smel cut cedar branches under our feet. A slight wave of vertigo had me tensing. I must have made some sound as I peered around, because she smiled that crooked smile again. “You see it now, don’t you?” I nodded, turning to take in the cave drawings and the story they told. “Are you doing this?” I asked, stunned. “And how ?”
“Simple enough for a handmaiden,” she replied. “I just had to find the thread of this shamanka’s story, the energy she left trapped in the painting.” She pointed to the outline of a handprint done in spatters of red. “That’s her mark.”
“So I’m not insane?”
“No,” Isabeau replied, just as Magda snorted, “Yes.”
“Watch,” Isabeau urged us.
A woman who I assumed was the shamanka shimmered into view. She looked about Solange’s age, but with several long blond braids and symbols on her face and arms in mud and some kind of blue dye. She wore a long necklace that looked like it was made of bones, crystals, and dog claws.
She scooped red ocher paint out of a clay bowl and smeared it on the wal s. There was chanting but I couldn’t see anyone other than half a dozen giant shaggy dogs at her feet, and what looked like a wolf. Incense smoke bil owed out of a cairn of white pebbles.
Everything sped up until the paintings were abruptly finished.
There were dogs who looked as if they were breathing and moving ever so slightly, as if wind ruffled their fur. There were vampires with blood on their chins and a red moon overhead.
There was a human heart, a jug of blood, a woman with a giant pregnant bel y fil ed
Isabeau glanced away. “I am technical y two hundred years older than you.”
“Not the same thing,” I said quickly. “ At all. ” Damn. If I tried, maybe I could shove my other foot in my gigantic mouth. So much for smooth. Magda grinned from ear to ear. I had no idea how to reclaim that lost territory. “I think we can al agree you’re nothing like Montmartre.” Isabeau inclined her head, a glint of humor in her green eyes.
“I do not want the crown,” she agreed. “No Cwn Mamau does.” And the crown was pretty much al Montmartre wanted.
Aside from my little sister.
The thought made me grind my teeth hard enough that the noise startled Charlemagne. I relaxed my jaw through force of wil power alone. Then I realized I’d led us into a dead-end chamber. I’d been so distracted by Isabeau’s scent and the sound of her voice and the way her black hair swal owed the flickering light of a single candle, that I’d practical y walked us into a wal .
Hard to believe, but before Isabeau I’d had a fair bit of skil with the whole flirting thing.
She turned on her heel and I noticed she was smiling, a true startled smile, as if she wasn’t used to it. “Oh, Logan, c’est magnifique. ”
Apparently she liked cave wal s and the clinging damp of mildew.
And then I realized her fingertips were hovering an inch over a faded red ocher painting. It was so faint I’d never have noticed it. As it was, I could only real y make out a handprint.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s a Cwn Mamau sacred story,” she explained. “It’s older than anything I’ve ever seen.”
“From before the royals stole the caves from us,” Magda felt the need to add.
“Hey, I’ve only been royal for just over a week.” I felt the equal need to defend myself.
“Shhh,” Isabeau murmured gently, as if we were bickering children. “This is a holy place. Can’t you feel it?” I felt the quality of the silence, the weight of stone pressing al around us. And if I concentrated, the very faint lingering traces of some kind of incense.
“This handprint here is the mark of an ancient shamanka. And here, these lines represent the thirteen ful moons in a year.” She pointed out the drawing in such a way that I could actual y see it clearly, see the faint lines solidifying, see the dance of torchlight from centuries earlier, smel cut cedar branches under our feet. A slight wave of vertigo had me tensing. I must have made some sound as I peered around, because she smiled that crooked smile again. “You see it now, don’t you?” I nodded, turning to take in the cave drawings and the story they told. “Are you doing this?” I asked, stunned. “And how ?”
“Simple enough for a handmaiden,” she replied. “I just had to find the thread of this shamanka’s story, the energy she left trapped in the painting.” She pointed to the outline of a handprint done in spatters of red. “That’s her mark.”
“So I’m not insane?”
“No,” Isabeau replied, just as Magda snorted, “Yes.”
“Watch,” Isabeau urged us.
A woman who I assumed was the shamanka shimmered into view. She looked about Solange’s age, but with several long blond braids and symbols on her face and arms in mud and some kind of blue dye. She wore a long necklace that looked like it was made of bones, crystals, and dog claws.
She scooped red ocher paint out of a clay bowl and smeared it on the wal s. There was chanting but I couldn’t see anyone other than half a dozen giant shaggy dogs at her feet, and what looked like a wolf. Incense smoke bil owed out of a cairn of white pebbles.
Everything sped up until the paintings were abruptly finished.
There were dogs who looked as if they were breathing and moving ever so slightly, as if wind ruffled their fur. There were vampires with blood on their chins and a red moon overhead.
There was a human heart, a jug of blood, a woman with a giant pregnant bel y fil ed
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