One of the ladies in waiting goes to open the door, and relief flutters in my belly. Not the abbess, but a nobleman. He is tall and broad of shoulder with gray eyes that glow with intelligence and . . . glee? The glee has so transformed his face that it takes me a moment to recognize him as the man Ismae left with all those months ago.

“Duval?” Ismae takes a step toward him. “Is everything all right?”

He gives a vague nod of greeting—or perhaps it is an apology for interrupting. “Beast and Sybella have returned. They have just arrived in the courtyard.”

Only the decorum of the duchess’s chamber keeps Ismae from emitting a joyous whoop. The duchess clasps her hands together and closes her eyes, as if in brief prayer. “Praise God and His Nine saints,” she whispers.

“If you will excuse us, Your Grace?” Duval asks.

She quickly waves us away. “Of course. And hurry back, for I want a full report!”

“Come!” Ismae reaches out to grab my arm as she follows Duval out of the chamber.

As we rush through the hallway, I cannot imagine three less dignified-­looking individuals. It is clear Duval wishes to break into a run, and Ismae and I have both hiked up our skirts so that we may keep up with him. He checks himself slightly so that when we reach the exit, at least we do not gallop out the door.

Once outside in the courtyard, I see no sign of Sybella. The yard is a-bustle with ostlers and grooms and footmen making ready to unload a cart holding a passel of charcoal-burners and their children. A groom is talking to one of the charcoal-burners on horseback. Considering the horseman’s size and bulk, I am surprised the sentries have allowed him to pass through the gate. He is at least a head taller than most of the guards and half again as broad in the shoulder. His face is battered and scarred. Indeed, he looks like one of the ancient, weathered standing stones come to life.

I hang back, but Ismae keeps running forward, and one of the mounted charbonnerie—a woman—leaps off her horse. She is dressed in a drab gown somewhere between brown and gray, and her hair is caught up in a linen coif. Even with the charcoal smudged on her face, she is beautiful—it is Sybella!

The fear that has been gnawing at my heart since the moment I heard of her whereabouts leaves my body with such a sickening rush that I must pause and take a deep breath to steady myself.

Ismae throws her arms around Sybella, and I am surprised at the ferocity with which Sybella returns the hug. I have never known her to be free with affectionate gestures. Of a sudden, I feel shy around her, around both of them, for they have changed so much, and I feel as if I have been left behind to calcify and harden like a barnacle on the hull of one of the convent’s boats.

When Ismae turns and motions me forward, Sybella’s eyes widen in recognition, her entire manner shifting like quicksilver. Her face grows white, making her dark eyes stark in her lovely face. She strides toward me, grasps my shoulders, and gives me a little shake. “Why are you here?”

A thick knot rises up in my throat, choking back my joyous greeting. “It is a long story,” I finally manage to get out. “One I would rather not share in the courtyard in front of a score of people.”

She studies me closely, the fierce look still on her face. “Did the abbess order you here?”

“Saints, no! I have traveled here on my own, and she is much angered by it.”

Sybella’s entire body relaxes, and then she smiles and throws her arms around me in a hug that near cracks my ribs. “Good. Although it does not matter—even if she had called you here, the reason for the assignment no longer exists.”

“It is done?” Ismae asks.

A dark, triumphant smile twists Sybella’s shapely mouth, accompanied by a shadow of pain. “It is done.”

I look from one to the other, and suddenly it is as if no time at all has passed and they are sharing some worldly knowledge or joke that I cannot fathom. Sybella turns to me. “Count d’Albret, traitor to the duchy, is dead. Or as good as.” No hint of the hand she may have played in his death or the full implications of that shows on her face. “Now we must make arrangements for my sisters, for the journey was not an easy one and Louise in particular is in poor health.”

Ismae studies the two younger girls in the wagon, her lips pursed in thought. “The palace is growing more crowded every day as more and more Breton barons rally to the duchess’s side. We may end up needing to share a room at some point, so I think your sisters would be safest at the Brigantian convent. In truth, young Isabeau should have been moved there as well, but the duchess cannot bear to be parted from her side.”

“That will be fine. They would probably be most at ease there, anyway. And Tephanie will stay with them.”

Ismae blinks and I am selfishly pleased that one of Sybella’s revelations has managed to surprise her, as I am tired of being the only one reeling in shock. “Tephanie?”

“A dear and loyal friend who has attached herself to my sisters.”

I find the idea that Sybella has found a dear and loyal friend almost as hard to believe as the idea that she has sisters, but Ismae is not ­daunted. “Good.” Ismae motions one of the numerous pages over and sends him with a message to the Brigantian convent.

Once he has scampered away, Sybella asks, “How is Isabeau?”

Ismae closes her eyes briefly and shakes her head. “Not good. Between my own small knowledge and the sisters of Brigantia, everything is being done, but it is not anywhere near enough. Even so, I’m sure she will be glad of some younger girls for company, so your sisters may visit whenever you wish them to.”

I feel as if I have stepped onto the shores of some mysterious foreign land where everything is unfamiliar. As if fate wishes to make this even more apparent, the nobleman Duval approaches with the lumbering standing stone of a charbonnerie beside him. He must easily be the ugliest man I have ever seen. He is as tall as a tree, and twice as wide, with muscles that look like boulders. His nose looks like a mashed turnip, and his eyes gleam in a disturbingly feral manner. Much to my surprise, Ismae—who has only ever viewed men as targets for her assassin skills—turns and throws her arms around him. Merde. I have never seen such hugging from these two.

“Thank you,” she says fiercely. When she pulls back, Sybella is staring at her with narrowed eyes. “Did you put him up to that . . . stunt?” But there is little heat in her words.

Ismae steps away from the man and shrugs. “I told him what you had been assigned to do and that you were leaving—that is all.”

Sybella opens her mouth to say something, but Ismae ignores her and decides to pull out her manners like a long-forgotten handkerchief. “Annith, allow me to present to you Sir Benebic de Waroch, otherwise known as Beast. You may have heard of his exploits.”

“I believe I have,” I say as I drop a curtsy. “It is an honor, Sir Waroch.”

“Beast.” His deep voice rumbles across the space between us. Then he surprises me by taking my hand and bowing as prettily as any courtier. “The honor is all mine, my lady.”

Ismae puts her hand on my shoulder and turns me slightly toward the other nobleman. “And this is Lord Gavriel Duval, half brother to the duchess and one of her closest advisors.”

“And Ismae’s lover.” Sybella’s whisper in my ear just as I sink into a curtsy causes my head to snap up. So that is why she wrote to me asking whether or not the convent allowed initiates to have lovers.

“This is Annith,” Ismae continues. “One of Sybella’s and my sisters from the convent.”

“Good,” Duval says with a firm nod. “We can always use another assassin as this hornets’ nest thickens.”

I am warmed by his quick easy acceptance of me as well as by his obvious pleasure at having another assassin at court. I will need to gather as much support as possible to avoid being summarily sent packing by the abbess.

A small tempest erupts behind me. It is not movement or even noise—it is more as if a windstorm of violent displeasure has arrived. I am not at all surprised when I turn around and see the abbess. Her face is bone-white and her brows drawn down into two furious slashes. “Sybella.”

Sybella’s face goes eerily still, then she slowly turns to the other woman. “Reverend Mother.” Her voice is as flat as a blade of trampled grass.

The abbess waits for a moment, expecting Sybella to come to her. When Sybella does not, the abbess’s jaw twitches, but she lifts her skirts and descends the stairs so that whatever she is about to say will not be heard by the entire courtyard full of people. It does not work, however, for all of them can sense the storm brewing in their midst, and they all stop to watch.

Her eyes are as frigid as ice. “You disobeyed me?” Her voice is terrible in its softness, as if she has slipped velvet over a hammer just before she intends to use it.

Keeping her gaze fixed on the abbess’s, Sybella grips either side of her shabby gown and dips into a perfect, reverent curtsy. When she rises, she lifts her chin, ever so slightly. “Count d’Albret is dead. My duty to the convent is fulfilled, and I will no longer serve you.”

I gasp; I cannot help it. Beside me, Ismae stiffens, but the abbess does not so much as blink. Indeed, I think I discern a small glint of triumph in her gaze. “You no longer wish to serve as Death’s handmaiden, then? You no longer wish to be a daughter of Mortain?”

“Oh, I am His daughter, and I plan to serve Him all the rest of my days. I simply do not need you or the convent in order to do so.” And with that, she loops one of her arms through Ismae’s and the other one through my own and pulls us away from the abbess. I can feel the roar of victory thrumming through her as she leads us toward the palace door.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

ONCE WE ARE INSIDE, Ismae leads us toward a different part of the palace than I have been in before. She stops in the hall to order a servant to have a bath prepared in the room. As the maid hurries away, Sybella gives me a sly, knowing smile. “Has she told you of her lover?”

I spear Ismae with an accusing look. “No, she has not.”

Greatly discomfited, Ismae blushes and glances around to see if anyone overheard, but we are alone. “He is not my lover.”

Sybella raises one perfectly arched eyebrow. “So, you have not lain with him and—”

“He is my betrothed.”

Sybella and I both stop walking, our linked arms forcing Ismae to stop as well. “Your what?” I ask at the same time that Sybella says, “Praise the Nine! He’s convinced you, then?”

“Shh!” Ismae glances around once more, then lengthens her stride, pulling us along behind her like a farmer dragging stubborn sheep to market. Finally, she reaches for one of the closed doors, opens it, and fair shoves us inside. “Yes.” She blows out a breath. “He’s convinced me. We’ve agreed that if—when—the duchess has this French threat well behind her, we will marry.”

So many questions crowd my tongue that they become entangled and all I can manage is a sputtered “You? Married?” I cannot believe this of Ismae, Ismae who hated men so much that it was the very promise of killing them that had her embracing her role at the convent.

She turns to me. “I told you we have much to catch up on.”

“But wait.” I put my hand on her arm. “Aren’t you already married? I mean, to the pig farmer?”

“No. The abbess had that annulled my first year at the convent.”

“B-but . . .” I still cannot wrap my mind around this. “You said you would never—”

Ismae huffs out a sigh. “You do not need to remind me what I said. I have had plenty of occasions to eat those words.”

“But what of your other concerns?” Sybella asks quietly as she begins unwinding the linen coif from her head. “Your worry of giving someone so much power over you?”