Quite a few grumbles and murmurs of disagreement and discontent sounded in the audience-Davillon's bitterness at the clergy's efforts to isolate and punish the city for the death of William de Laurent, having built up over six months, was hardly about to vanish in a week and a half-but said sounds were vastly outnumbered by the nods and sighs of agreement. There could be no doubt at all that the people of the city were afraid, or that the hopeful words of Sicard and Davillon's other priests offered a respite, if only temporary, from that fear. Since the unnatural attacks had begun, attendance at masses and other services across the city had increased several times over, and if the congregations didn't rival their previous sizes, they were far closer than they'd been in ages.
Among those in the audience who were far from convinced was a young noblewoman in an emerald gown, her natural hair hidden beneath a piled and coifed wig of golden blonde. As Sicard continued his sermon-his tirade? — she could only tap her foot and absently wish that she had a lock of hair loose enough to chew on.
“What do you think?” Madeleine Valois (for that's who she was at the moment) asked in a voice so far under her breath that even those seated to either side couldn't hear her.
But then, she hadn't been speaking to them.
Olgun replied with the emotional offspring of a shrug and a scoff.
“Yeah, that's kind of what I thought, too,” she agreed. “I guess we shouldn't…” She shook her head, making the top-heavy wig wave and bobble. “I wish William were here.”
She smiled sadly at Olgun's sorrowful agreement. And then, her decision made, there was nothing left to do but wait courteously for the sermon to end, so that she might depart with the rest of the crowd.
As the congregation slowly dispersed, Sicard smiled and nodded beatifically from the dais, blessing all who had come and all who now ventured forth into the world. All the while, he scanned the crowd, attempting to match sight to the peculiar, not quite natural presence he had detected, something that didn't quite match up with any of the five senses normally available to mortals. It was a quiver in the air, something there and yet…not. Something wrong, or at least abnormal, and now was not the time for abnormalities. Not with so much at stake.
So where…? Ah.
Maintaining his smile and scarcely moving his jaw, precisely as though he murmured prayers over the heads of the departing, the bishop called out for the man behind him.
Brother Ferrand appeared from his inconspicuous post, where he'd waited throughout the mass to provide anything Sicard might have required. “Yes, Your Eminence?”
“Do you see that young woman there? No, to the left. Green gown, blonde wig? Sort of in the center of the crowd by the far door?”
Finally, after several moments of this-and only shortly before the woman in question would have been through the door and out of sight-the monk bobbed his tonsured head. “Yes, I see her. What of her?”
“Do you know who she is?” the bishop asked.
“I can't say that I do, Your Eminence. Is she important?”
“I'm…not entirely certain. There's something about her. A presence, an aura…I'm not sure how to describe it. It's not quite what I feel in the presence of omens or other blessings of the gods, nor”-and here he lowered his voice so that Ferrand could only just hear, and certainly nobody else could-“does it feel at all similar to other magics with which I'm familiar.”
“You think her a witch, then?”
“I don't know what I think, Ferrand-except that I think the timing on this is suspect, and that I need to know what it is I don't know. You understand me?”
“I do. I'll learn who she is, Your Eminence, and all I can about her.”
“You do that, Brother Ferrand. Discreetly, of course-but do be certain to learn everything.”
The bishop returned his full attentions, then, to the retreating backs of his congregants, while his assistant slipped from the back of the dais and vanished into the streets of Davillon.
By the time she'd returned to the Flippant Witch, the afternoon had concluded its metamorphosis into early evening, and Madeleine Valois had completed her metamorphosis back into Widdershins. (Although the former was brazen enough to make such a transformation in public view of everyone, the latter had required a modicum of privacy in the back of an abandoned leather goods shop.) She wasn't decked out for robbing anyone-she wore a workable peasant's tunic, dark hose, and worn boots, rather than her “stealing leathers”-but the gown and the wig were most assuredly gone, with no trace that they'd ever existed. As always, the only item on her of any apparent value was the basket-hilt rapier that hung at her waist, originally stolen from, and then gifted to her by, the late and very much lamented Alexandre Delacroix.
Widdershins blew through the front door of the tavern, absently returning the occasional wave or shouted greeting from regulars who recognized her. As twilight hadn't fallen, and many workmen and vendors remained at their jobs so long as light remained in the sky, the place wasn't as crowded as it would become in a few more hours. Not that any evening's attendance qualified as “crowded” these days, but Widdershins had enough presence of mind to hope that business would pick up a little bit when the sun went down.
Her nose barely wrinkling against the aroma that had become as familiar to her as her own, Widdershins examined the servers and guests until…
“Hey, Robin!”
The slender girl looked up from mopping a glistening spill beside the bar. Widdershins frowned for a second at the startled-deer expression, then decided that Robin was probably just worried, as she had been so much recently, about the tavern's financial woes. “So I just attended one of His Emminencialness's sermons,” she began, taking the mop from Robin's hands and getting to work on the spill herself (more from a desire to have something to do than any real need to be helpful). “I'd been hoping-”
“Shins…”
Whether Widdershins didn't hear or just didn't listen, she bulled ahead as though Robin hadn't spoken. “-that he might be worth approaching as an ally. Might be like William was, you know? Churchmen are supposed to know all about this supernatural stuff, yes? Maybe-”
“Shins?”
“-even tell him about Olgun, at the least ask if he has any idea what the bugaboo wandering Davillon's streets might be. Stupid Guild assignment. Oh, I'm their big monster expert just because-”
“Shins!”
“-a demon tried to kill me once. Well, all right, twice. But I don't like him. He's so-I don't know. Harsh. Arrogant. Everything I expected a high Churchman to be before I met William. So now I don't have anyone who knows about this stuff I can go to, and-”
“Gods damn it, Widdershins!”
Not only the mop but a great many mugs of various alcoholic libations froze as more than a dozen eyes turned in shock toward the young girl, who was actually panting, her face red, her shoulders heaving. After a moment, however, said eyes-and the heads in which they resided-all returned to their prior endeavors; all save Widdershins's own.