The monk deflated in his robes. “Fine. I'll get you what you need.”
“Excellent. Don't be in too much of a rush.” She eyed the door to the Witch one last time and then sighed. “I'm going to go home and grab at least a few hours' sleep, or else I'm likely to collapse on His Holiness's lap.
“Where is the archbishop, anyway? I'm sure they hustled him out of Rittier's house like it was on fire. Who's he staying with now?”
“The gentleman's name is Alexandre Delacroix.”
Widdershins didn't even blink. “Of course it is,” she said.
Had she not been so distracted, so overwhelmed by worry, so utterly exhausted, Widdershins might just have realized that someone had followed her from the Flippant Witch to the ramshackle flop in which she was currently staying. Or maybe she wouldn't; the man was no slouch himself.
Louvel-or Scarface, as she knew him-rose from the corner on which he'd been begging, allowing himself a clear view of the Witch's front door, and shadowed the little thief all the way home, practically bursting at the seams. Brock would be delighted, Eudes would be avenged, and Louvel himself would earn himself a nice, fat bonus. Just a quick detour back to his own apartment to shed his beggar's garb and pick up some heavier blades, and he'd be ready to report back to-
“Don't move a muscle.”
He froze, one hand on the latch to his door, and glanced over his shoulder. Coming at him from both directions down the dilapidated hall were uniformed Guardsmen led by an officer with a thick brown mustache. Half a dozen flintlocks, and even a pair of blunderbusses, gaped open in his direction.
“In the name of Davillon, Vercoule, and Demas,” the officer continued, “you are under arrest for arson, conspiracy to murder, and being an accomplice to the murder of a City Guard.” The officer stopped just beside him, jabbing his flintlock into Louvel's side hard enough to draw a pained grunt and leave a bruise that wouldn't fade for some time.
“Just so you know,” the man whispered gruffly, “I had myself a friendly chat with your Shrouded Lord the other night. You, my friend, are on your own.”
The thug visibly sagged.
“And if it's all the same to you,” the Guardsman continued, “I'd really like you to resist.”
Louvel decided, rather wisely, not to oblige. And all he could think, as the Guardsmen led him away in manacles so heavy it was all he could do to shuffle along, was Brock's really not going to be happy when I don't show.
Alexandre Delacroix was not in a pleasant mood. The archbishop's early arrival to his home had upset a very delicate timetable and inconvenienced a great many people. Parties and balls needed rescheduling; appointments had to be pushed up, pushed back, or canceled; other projects and endeavors postponed. His servants had scurried about the house and the city, light or dark, rain or shine, for days on end, preparing for the churchman's untimely, and possibly extended, stay. Claude, who really should have been here doing half a dozen different tasks, was instead out and about in the city performing a dozen more and leaving the master behind to deal with all manner of bookkeeping that Alexandre had not touched in years.
Thus it was, when he heard the door chime that particular evening, he hunched his shoulders, gritted his teeth, and ignored it. Another damned highborn fop, he'd no doubt, come to petition the archbishop for some favor or other that His Eminence will politely refuse. Such it had been since the day the clergyman arrived: petitioner after petitioner, most in the guise of social visitors for Alexandre himself, but all inevitably asking if they might take just a moment to “pay their respects.”
With a shudder, he directed his attentions back to the desk. For over an hour, he'd attempted to balance a set of numbers that refused to properly add up. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose and glanced again at the report. “Gains and Losses in the Wool Market, as Pertain to Our Interests in Outer Hespelene.”
Shutting the ledger with an angry thump, Alexandre shot from his desk, oblivious to the fact that his chair knocked over a potted plant by the window, and stalked from the room.
Recognizing the conflagration in his eyes and the glower on his face, the servants hastily cleared his path. He stomped as he walked, shoes mercilessly crushing the carpet. He wished one of the servants would say something to him, block his path, do something, anything, to justify a screaming fit. He felt guilty-most had gone above and beyond the call in recent weeks-but only a little guilty.
So preoccupied was he, he almost missed it.
Alexandre halted so abruptly that his shoes snagged in the carpet. He had just passed by an open door, and he'd seen…No. He couldn't possibly have seen what he thought he had.
Backtracking, he peeked his head around the door frame. There, seated in a small tea room, was the guest heralded by the recent door chime. No empty-headed aristocrat, as he'd expected, but a Church nun in the traditional blue and silver, presumably here to speak to His Eminence on some ecclesiastical matter or other.
Except Alexandre knew that this was no more a nun than he was. She'd made a reasonable attempt at disguise: Her skin was duskier than Alexandre remembered it, her lips fuller, her cheeks more sunken.
But even beneath the makeup, and wrapped in that ridiculous wimple, Alexandre would have recognized that face anywhere. It was a face carved so deeply in his memory that it ached, a face he'd seen in a thousand dreams.
Alexandre slammed the door fully open, his pace carrying him into the center of the room before it rebounded from the wall. A livery-clad servant, leaning down to serve the guest, bolted upright, nearly overturning both the carafe and the goblet upon his silver tray. For her own part, the young nun rose and curtsied deeply, her head bent low.
“Forgive me, my lord,” the steward stammered, steadying his shaking tray with a white-gloved hand. “I wasn't expecting you, and you'd ordered us not to disturb you with visitors to His Eminence, and…” The slender fellow swallowed nervously as the master continued to ignore him.
Gamely, he tried again. “My lord, this is Sister Elspeth, here for a conference with the archbishop. Sister Elspeth, this is-”
“Get out.”
“But, my lord-”
“I said get out. If you haven't heard from me in ten minutes, or if you hear any hint of a disturbance from this room, you are to summon the guards-both my own and the city's-immediately.”
“But-”
“Go!”
The young lady kept her head low, even after the door drifted shut, briefly serenading the room with an audible, and slightly ominous, click.
“It's truly a privilege to meet you, monsieur,” she began, her voice low. “I've heard so much about-”
“Give a feeble old man some credit, Adrienne. Did you really think that disguise would fool me?”
With a resigned sigh, Widdershins raised her head. She couldn't help but notice how many more lines were laid across his face, how truly old he seemed.
“I was actually hoping,” she admitted slowly, “that I wouldn't run into you at all.”
“In my own house?” He sounded moderately incredulous.
“Maurice told me you were keeping to yourself and all but ignoring the archbishop's visitors. You picked a rotten day to change your routine.”
“Maurice? The archbishop's attendant?”
Widdershins nodded. “I'm here by invitation, Alexandre.”
“Right.” The old man tensed. “I suppose His Eminence is tired of living?”
Had Widdershins not frantically grabbed for the back of the chair, she might well have fallen. His words hit her harder than Brock's hammer ever had.