Blood Feud
Page 41
- Background:
- Text Font:
- Text Size:
- Line Height:
- Line Break Height:
- Frame:
She dug a shard of green glass out of an exposed oak tree root.
“What is it?” I asked, grabbing for my sword, even though she’d assured me it was useless.
“I know this,” she said, peeling the painted yel owed label with her thumbnail. Her eyes went dangerously watery, then brittle.
“This is from my family vineyard.”
I took a step toward her. “It’s definitely personal,” I said darkly.
“Oui.”
“Why?”
“I real y don’t know.”
I hated how shattered she looked. “Greyhaven is playing you, trying to get under your skin.”
“Oui.”
“Don’t let him, Isabeau.” I grabbed her shoulders, squeezed hard until she stopped staring at the wine bottle fragment and blinked up at me. “Don’t you let that son of a bitch win.” There was a long moment when I wondered what she would do next. She was utterly unpredictable.
“You’re right. He’s doing this for a reason.” Her chin tilted up and she was the Isabeau I’d first met: fierce, hard, and a little bit terrifying. “So I have to find out what that reason is.”
“We have to find out,” I corrected her, just as grimly. “You’re not alone.”
“Of course I am.” She smiled wistful y, but she unclenched her fingers from the shard. Blood wel ed on her skin, but it was silver. I’d assumed you couldn’t be physical y hurt when you were astral traveling or whatever the hel it was we were doing.
It seemed only fair.
She frowned at the silvery blood. “Non,” she squeaked. She dropped the shard, frantical y wiped her hands clean, even wiped her fingers on her pants until they were raw.
“Merde.”
And then her eyes rol ed back in her head and she crumpled.
CHAPTER 16
Paris, 1793
After the food riots broke out, Isabeau took to the rooftops of Paris.
She’d scrambled up to the sturdy roof of a fromagerie to get away from the horde of starving Parisians and local vil agers as they stormed the cobbled streets with bayonets, pitchforks, and torches. Her favorite patisserie, the one the revolutionaries never bothered with and whose owner often gave her stale croissants, burned to the ground in a matter of minutes. Thick black smoke fil ed the air; coughing and cursing fil ed the al eys.
The fire traveled next door to the tooth pul er and crept too close to a popular cafe. Buckets of water were hauled and passed hand to hand. Isabeau dropped back to the ground to help, pul ing her col ar up over her face. She wore the workmen trousers of the revolutionaries and a tricolor cockade on her hat.
She’d put up her hair and tried to affect a lower voice when she spoke, which was rarely. She’d learned quickly that looking like a boy and spouting “Fraternite” whenever anyone asked her a direct question was the surest way to stay unnoticed and uninteresting. A girl with an aristocratic accent, soft hands, and long hair would never survive.
And her father had died so she could survive.
So she would survive.
However much she might want otherwise.
It was the end of February and the streets were slick with rain and cold, the smoke clinging in doorways. The fire raged, as hungry as the rioters. Isabeau crept closer, closed her eyes at the feel of the warmth on her face. She didn’t move back until a rafter broke and hung over the al ey, dropping burning wattle and wood. Her hands felt warm for the first time in a month.
Even with the burn on her thumb it was worth it.
She was jostled aside. More water arced into the flames and they sputtered indignantly. It wasn’t long before the patisserie was a pile of smoldering embers, the dark-haired owner yel ing obscenities from across the street.
When the gendarmes arrived, Isabeau slunk away. It hadn’t taken her long to learn to avoid anyone in power: police, a magistrate, even the night watchman who sat under a streetlight and drank wine until he fel asleep, snoring into his chest. The urchins liked to set spiders on his hair and run away giggling.
She hauled herself back up onto a nearby roof and flattened herself down, staying out of sight. She tucked her fingers into the frayed cuffs of her shirt. It was safe up here, quiet. There were only pigeons to contend with and the odd skinny cat. She could walk along the roofline from one end of town to the other, as long as she took care to avoid the poorer sections where the roof might give out altogether. She could eavesdrop on the revolutionaries shouting amiably at each other in the cafe and the beat of the drums from La Place de la Concorde when another prisoner was dragged up to the guil otine. She couldn’t stand to watch the executions; just listening to the crowds chanting and those drums made her il .
A few hours later when her stomach was grumbling louder than the quashed rioters, she slid down a spout and landed nimbly in an al ey that stunk of urine and rose water. Once the sun went down, the prostitutes would lounge at the corner, winking at the men. She had an hour yet before it was dark enough that she had to find a rooftop.
She hunched her shoulders and kept her eyes on the ground as she turned onto the crowded pavement. Horses trundled past, their hooves clicking loudly on the stones. Someone had set a fire to blazing in a iron cauldron outside a cafe. She slowed her pace, casting a surreptitious glance at the abandoned plates for uneaten food. One of the servers glowered, flicking his fingers at her. She’d become an unwashed, faceless street urchin who drove away customers. It seemed like ages ago that she been choosing brocade for a new gown and wondering when she was going to be betrothed, and to whom and if he would be kind and stil have al his own teeth. Now she smel ed like dirt and mildewed roof shingles.
“What is it?” I asked, grabbing for my sword, even though she’d assured me it was useless.
“I know this,” she said, peeling the painted yel owed label with her thumbnail. Her eyes went dangerously watery, then brittle.
“This is from my family vineyard.”
I took a step toward her. “It’s definitely personal,” I said darkly.
“Oui.”
“Why?”
“I real y don’t know.”
I hated how shattered she looked. “Greyhaven is playing you, trying to get under your skin.”
“Oui.”
“Don’t let him, Isabeau.” I grabbed her shoulders, squeezed hard until she stopped staring at the wine bottle fragment and blinked up at me. “Don’t you let that son of a bitch win.” There was a long moment when I wondered what she would do next. She was utterly unpredictable.
“You’re right. He’s doing this for a reason.” Her chin tilted up and she was the Isabeau I’d first met: fierce, hard, and a little bit terrifying. “So I have to find out what that reason is.”
“We have to find out,” I corrected her, just as grimly. “You’re not alone.”
“Of course I am.” She smiled wistful y, but she unclenched her fingers from the shard. Blood wel ed on her skin, but it was silver. I’d assumed you couldn’t be physical y hurt when you were astral traveling or whatever the hel it was we were doing.
It seemed only fair.
She frowned at the silvery blood. “Non,” she squeaked. She dropped the shard, frantical y wiped her hands clean, even wiped her fingers on her pants until they were raw.
“Merde.”
And then her eyes rol ed back in her head and she crumpled.
CHAPTER 16
Paris, 1793
After the food riots broke out, Isabeau took to the rooftops of Paris.
She’d scrambled up to the sturdy roof of a fromagerie to get away from the horde of starving Parisians and local vil agers as they stormed the cobbled streets with bayonets, pitchforks, and torches. Her favorite patisserie, the one the revolutionaries never bothered with and whose owner often gave her stale croissants, burned to the ground in a matter of minutes. Thick black smoke fil ed the air; coughing and cursing fil ed the al eys.
The fire traveled next door to the tooth pul er and crept too close to a popular cafe. Buckets of water were hauled and passed hand to hand. Isabeau dropped back to the ground to help, pul ing her col ar up over her face. She wore the workmen trousers of the revolutionaries and a tricolor cockade on her hat.
She’d put up her hair and tried to affect a lower voice when she spoke, which was rarely. She’d learned quickly that looking like a boy and spouting “Fraternite” whenever anyone asked her a direct question was the surest way to stay unnoticed and uninteresting. A girl with an aristocratic accent, soft hands, and long hair would never survive.
And her father had died so she could survive.
So she would survive.
However much she might want otherwise.
It was the end of February and the streets were slick with rain and cold, the smoke clinging in doorways. The fire raged, as hungry as the rioters. Isabeau crept closer, closed her eyes at the feel of the warmth on her face. She didn’t move back until a rafter broke and hung over the al ey, dropping burning wattle and wood. Her hands felt warm for the first time in a month.
Even with the burn on her thumb it was worth it.
She was jostled aside. More water arced into the flames and they sputtered indignantly. It wasn’t long before the patisserie was a pile of smoldering embers, the dark-haired owner yel ing obscenities from across the street.
When the gendarmes arrived, Isabeau slunk away. It hadn’t taken her long to learn to avoid anyone in power: police, a magistrate, even the night watchman who sat under a streetlight and drank wine until he fel asleep, snoring into his chest. The urchins liked to set spiders on his hair and run away giggling.
She hauled herself back up onto a nearby roof and flattened herself down, staying out of sight. She tucked her fingers into the frayed cuffs of her shirt. It was safe up here, quiet. There were only pigeons to contend with and the odd skinny cat. She could walk along the roofline from one end of town to the other, as long as she took care to avoid the poorer sections where the roof might give out altogether. She could eavesdrop on the revolutionaries shouting amiably at each other in the cafe and the beat of the drums from La Place de la Concorde when another prisoner was dragged up to the guil otine. She couldn’t stand to watch the executions; just listening to the crowds chanting and those drums made her il .
A few hours later when her stomach was grumbling louder than the quashed rioters, she slid down a spout and landed nimbly in an al ey that stunk of urine and rose water. Once the sun went down, the prostitutes would lounge at the corner, winking at the men. She had an hour yet before it was dark enough that she had to find a rooftop.
She hunched her shoulders and kept her eyes on the ground as she turned onto the crowded pavement. Horses trundled past, their hooves clicking loudly on the stones. Someone had set a fire to blazing in a iron cauldron outside a cafe. She slowed her pace, casting a surreptitious glance at the abandoned plates for uneaten food. One of the servers glowered, flicking his fingers at her. She’d become an unwashed, faceless street urchin who drove away customers. It seemed like ages ago that she been choosing brocade for a new gown and wondering when she was going to be betrothed, and to whom and if he would be kind and stil have al his own teeth. Now she smel ed like dirt and mildewed roof shingles.
