lamp and I…saw her!”
“The door was locked,” Jaromir answered coldly, “and there is no window. You were the only one here.”
“I was asleep!” Inna cried. “I heard nothing.”
“Look for a pair of gloves,” Céline said quietly. “A pair of long black gloves.”
Perhaps realizing he’d get nothing sensible out of Inna, Jaromir called in another of his men, and they began searching the room.
The next half hour or so followed with a mix of confusion and activity. Céline stood at the end of the bed, staring down at the quilt, while the room was searched—revealing no black gloves. Soon, Master Feodor arrived. Amelie was surprised to see him still dressed in his silk tunic from dinner. He also seemed vaguely displeased to see Céline there, nothing overt, just a flicker of distaste passing across his features when he walked in.
“Well?” Jaromir asked, but the question was unnecessary.
Feodor conducted a brief examination of Sybil’s body and sighed. “Yes. Just like the others.”
“Someone should wake Anton,” Céline said, her first words in quite a while.
“No!” Inna cried.
Feodor glanced at her and said, “Inna’s right. My lord needs his sleep and should not be disturbed. This can wait until morning.”
Jaromir put a hand to his mouth, as if thinking, and then he nodded. “I’ll go inform the girl’s parents myself.”
“If not Anton, then the Lady Karina should be the one to tell them,” Céline whispered. “It should be a member of the royal family.” She looked up at Jaromir. “You promised to…protect Sybil. This isn’t your fault, but the girl’s parents should be told by Anton or Karina.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, and Amelie realized Céline was right.
Jaromir nodded once, tightly. “I’ll wake her.”
A guard in the doorway approached hesitantly. “Sir, what should be done with the body?”
If possible, Jaromir stiffened further. “Put it in the cellar with the others.”
Deciding that enough of this was enough, Amelie steered Céline toward the door.
Out in the passage, she asked, “How did you know?”
“I couldn’t change it,” Céline whispered. “I should have changed it. She was kind. She wanted more out of life than to marry a stranger her parents picked out.”
She fell silent again, and Amelie was nearly overwhelmed by a wish that they could go back to the day before, and Céline could tell Rhiannon to marry Damek, and the Lavender and Thyme would not be burned, and she and Céline had never come here.
* * *
An hour past sunrise, Jaromir woke up naked in his bed with Bridgette sleeping on his chest.
Looking down at her closed eyes and her breasts as they rose and fell, he was almost ashamed of having called her to him in the night, but after the painful task of telling Lady Karina the news of Sybil’s death—and then giving her the task of informing Sybil’s parents—he could not face the thought of going to bed alone, of lying there thinking on all he’d seen in that small, windowless room.
So he’d sought oblivion in Bridgette’s body, using her as a method of release.
It hadn’t helped.
She was lovely, with creamy skin and even features. But they had little in common and even less to say to each other. He couldn’t tell her what he’d been through—and she certainly wouldn’t be interested in hearing it.
Now he wished he hadn’t called her here.
Carefully, trying not to wake her, he slipped out from under her head and crawled from under the covers. The floor was cold on his bare feet, and he put on his discarded clothing from the night before, as if he couldn’t get out of his own room fast enough.
He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, with his own self-recrimination.
Once out in the passage, he shut the door behind himself and took a long breath. He’d failed Anton last night. He had failed to save Sybil, andin doing so, he’d made Anton look like an ineffectual leader—someone who could
“The door was locked,” Jaromir answered coldly, “and there is no window. You were the only one here.”
“I was asleep!” Inna cried. “I heard nothing.”
“Look for a pair of gloves,” Céline said quietly. “A pair of long black gloves.”
Perhaps realizing he’d get nothing sensible out of Inna, Jaromir called in another of his men, and they began searching the room.
The next half hour or so followed with a mix of confusion and activity. Céline stood at the end of the bed, staring down at the quilt, while the room was searched—revealing no black gloves. Soon, Master Feodor arrived. Amelie was surprised to see him still dressed in his silk tunic from dinner. He also seemed vaguely displeased to see Céline there, nothing overt, just a flicker of distaste passing across his features when he walked in.
“Well?” Jaromir asked, but the question was unnecessary.
Feodor conducted a brief examination of Sybil’s body and sighed. “Yes. Just like the others.”
“Someone should wake Anton,” Céline said, her first words in quite a while.
“No!” Inna cried.
Feodor glanced at her and said, “Inna’s right. My lord needs his sleep and should not be disturbed. This can wait until morning.”
Jaromir put a hand to his mouth, as if thinking, and then he nodded. “I’ll go inform the girl’s parents myself.”
“If not Anton, then the Lady Karina should be the one to tell them,” Céline whispered. “It should be a member of the royal family.” She looked up at Jaromir. “You promised to…protect Sybil. This isn’t your fault, but the girl’s parents should be told by Anton or Karina.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched, and Amelie realized Céline was right.
Jaromir nodded once, tightly. “I’ll wake her.”
A guard in the doorway approached hesitantly. “Sir, what should be done with the body?”
If possible, Jaromir stiffened further. “Put it in the cellar with the others.”
Deciding that enough of this was enough, Amelie steered Céline toward the door.
Out in the passage, she asked, “How did you know?”
“I couldn’t change it,” Céline whispered. “I should have changed it. She was kind. She wanted more out of life than to marry a stranger her parents picked out.”
She fell silent again, and Amelie was nearly overwhelmed by a wish that they could go back to the day before, and Céline could tell Rhiannon to marry Damek, and the Lavender and Thyme would not be burned, and she and Céline had never come here.
* * *
An hour past sunrise, Jaromir woke up naked in his bed with Bridgette sleeping on his chest.
Looking down at her closed eyes and her breasts as they rose and fell, he was almost ashamed of having called her to him in the night, but after the painful task of telling Lady Karina the news of Sybil’s death—and then giving her the task of informing Sybil’s parents—he could not face the thought of going to bed alone, of lying there thinking on all he’d seen in that small, windowless room.
So he’d sought oblivion in Bridgette’s body, using her as a method of release.
It hadn’t helped.
She was lovely, with creamy skin and even features. But they had little in common and even less to say to each other. He couldn’t tell her what he’d been through—and she certainly wouldn’t be interested in hearing it.
Now he wished he hadn’t called her here.
Carefully, trying not to wake her, he slipped out from under her head and crawled from under the covers. The floor was cold on his bare feet, and he put on his discarded clothing from the night before, as if he couldn’t get out of his own room fast enough.
He wanted to be alone with his thoughts, with his own self-recrimination.
Once out in the passage, he shut the door behind himself and took a long breath. He’d failed Anton last night. He had failed to save Sybil, andin doing so, he’d made Anton look like an ineffectual leader—someone who could
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