Duval must pay for his crimes, and you must pay for your negligence. Dispatch him immediately, then pack your things and return to the convent at once so I may decide what is to be done with you.

My heart stops beating for one — two — long beats and the note falls from my numb fingers and flutters to the floor. I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, hoping to expunge the words from my mind. But it does no good. I have been ordered to kill Duval.

The desires of my convent have collided with the path of my heart.

Chapter Forty-three

Slowly, as if every bone in my body has turned to melted wax, I sink to the floor. How can this be? Did the abbess not get my most recent letter? And what of Crunard? Does he believe his own argument, or is there some darker purpose here? For everything he accuses Duval of could also be laid at his own feet.

My mind begins turning over every conversation I have had with the chancellor, looking for rips or tears in the cloak of loyalty he wears with such sincerity. was it he who first suggested Duval might be guilty? Or the abbess? He was most insistent I turn my attentions away from d’Albret and back to Duval. And it was Crunard who informed the convent of both Runnion and Martel. Could he have purposefully brought about those kills in order to work against the duchess? But why?

And most important, is Sister Vereda well enough to have Seen this? Surely not, for Mortain would not send a false vision, and I know that these accusations are false. even hearing it from the abbess does not persuade me otherwise.

When my brain has exhausted itself with questions for which I have no answers, I turn to prayer. I open my heart to Mortain and pray as I have never prayed before. But as I listen for His voice, all I can hear are those of Chancellor Crunard and the abbess.

After a while — a long while — I stand up and straighten my skirts. I am so hollow inside that it feels as if I have left some vital piece of myself on the floor. I know — know— that the convent is mistaken. They have been fed false information or have drawn the wrong conclusions. Or both. My own arrogance shocks me, and yet I know they are wrong. That the convent can make such a mistake unnerves me. The nuns are not supposed to make mistakes.

There is a scraping sound by the fireplace as the heavy door begins to swing open. Duval! without thinking, I crumple the note into a ball and toss it into the fire. I watch the convent’s orders turn to ash as Duval strides into the chamber. Much to my surprise, he heads straight for me and wraps his arms around my waist, then whirls me around the chamber as if we are dancing. “The tide is turning!” he says, his eyes bright. “D’Albret is gone, the agreement with the Holy Roman emperor is finalized, the english king grows closer to meeting our terms, and my family’s plotting has ended!”

I am breathless with his whirling and try to smile back, to act as if nothing has changed, but my face feels frozen. I push at his hands, but they do not budge from my waist.

“Truly,” he says, slowing down, “your saint can work miracles.” As he looks into my eyes, his smile fades and his eyes grow dark with emotion. Slowly, he leans toward me.

His lips are soft and warm as they touch mine. His mouth moves urgently, as if he is trying to experience every nuance and curve of my lips. The utter rightness of this fills me, for it feels I have waited all my life for just this moment.

His mouth opens slightly, and he shifts the angle of his kiss, nudging my mouth to do the same, and I am lost in a whole new world of sensation. His mouth is soft compared to the strong, callused hands that grip my waist. He tastes faintly of wine and victory and something bitter and astringent.

Even as the realization dawns, my lips begin to tingle, then grow numb. “My lord!” I gasp and pull away.

He looks at me, his eyes full of desire, his pupils grown so large they have swallowed up nearly all the gray in his eyes. It cannot be! I lean in close again, press my lips to his, then run my tongue lightly over his lips and inside his mouth. even as he responds by pulling me closer, the acrid tang fills my senses.

I pull away and take his hands from my waist. “My lord,” I repeat, hoping he will hear the urgency in my voice. “Stop. Think. what have you had to eat today?”

He stares at me intently, trying to make sense of my words, as if I have spoken in some strange language from a far-off land. “Nothing but what you gave me last night. why?”

I lean in and press one last soft kiss against his lips — to be certain, I tell myself. “You are poisoned. I can taste it.”

His pulse beats frantically in the hollow of his throat. “Poisoned?” he repeats, as if the word is new to him.

I hold my fingers to my lips, tasting them again. “Yes,” I whisper.

His eyes fill with unspeakable sadness. “You — ”

“No!” I grasp his face with my hands, his whiskery stubble rough beneath my palms. “It is not I who have poisoned you. I swear it!” I hope he does not push me further and ask if the convent is behind it, for I do not know the answer. Did the reverend mother not trust me to do as she ordered? Or has someone else taken matters into his own hands?

He smiles then, a quick fey thing that displays the small dimple I have seen only twice before. Nearly stupid with relief that he believes me, I smile back. His hands reach out and cup my face. “I should not have doubted you,” he whispers, then he lowers his mouth to mine.

The taste of poison is strong on my lips and yanks me back to the matter at hand. “Are you sure you haven’t eaten any food or wine other than what I gave? Did you notice any strange taste?”

He snorts. “No and no. If so, I would not have eaten it.”

But of course, there are hundreds of poisons, many of them too subtle to be detected by the tongue. Others are administered by different means. “Then perhaps it passed through your skin.”

He holds his arms out to his sides. “As you can see, all I have left to me are the clothes on my back.”

“I know, and that is what I would like to inspect.”

"What?”

“Poison can be placed in your gloves, on the inside of your doublet, your shirt, your hat, anything that touches your skin.”

He blinks, at last understanding what I am saying. with a sudden movement, he reaches down and tears the gloves from his belt and throws them on the floor. Frantic now, as if his clothes are coated in stinging nettles, he pulls off his belt, then yanks his doublet over his head and tosses it onto the chair.

I hurry over to inspect each piece, all of them still warm from Duval’s body, but there is no trace of poison. No waxy residue, no trace scent.

“There is nothing on any of these,” I tell him. “May I see your boots?”

He recoils in horror. “You are not going to smell my boots,” he tells me flatly. He tramps to the chair, drops into it, and pulls off his boots. "What would it smell like?” he asks.

I shrug, hating this helpless feeling. “It depends on which poison was used. It can smell sweet as honey or like bitter oranges. Some have a metallic tang.” My heart falters at all the possibilities, for how can I cure him if I do not know what is being used?

He sticks his nose into his boot. “They smell nothing like that,” he says.

I am not sure if I should take his word, but he looks ready to come to blows over it, so I let it be for the moment. “Here, let me hold that one while you check the other.” I brace myself for another argument, but he grunts at me and shoves the boot into my hand. while he is busy with his other foot, I let my fingers brush against the inside of his boot. There is no tingle, no numbness, nothing.

“This one is fine too,” he says, shoving his foot back into it. He holds out his hand for the other one and I return it to him.

“Now your shirt, my lord.”

He gapes at me. “You want to examine my shirt?”

I let my impatience fill my words. “Did you not just hear me say it could be on anything that touches your skin? There are no end of ways to poison a man. You must trust me to know this better than you.”

However, there is another reason I wish him to remove his shirt. I need to see if he bears a marque.

His eyes on mine, Duval rises to his feet, undoes the lacings of his shirt, then pulls the fine cambric over his head.

I swallow back a gasp, my eyes fixed on the map of silvery white scars that crisscross the left side of his rib cage. A deep, puckered scar sits just inches from his heart. Unthinking, I step closer, my fingers reaching out to touch the pale tracks some keen blade left. He flinches as if in pain. “Do they still hurt?” My voice comes out as a whisper.

“No.” His voice sounds strained.

I trace the longest of the scars that spans his chest. “How close you came. How very, very close.” I shiver, unbearably warm and chilled at the same time. Surely Mortain did not spare him then only to have me kill him now.

His skin under my fingers twitches and suddenly I no longer see the scars, but the shift of taut muscle and the broadness of his shoulders. Heat rushes into my cheeks and, unable to stop myself, I look up to meet his gaze. He lifts my hand and kisses it. “Dear, sweet Ismae.”

The longing and wanting that rise up inside me is as sharp as any blade and cuts as deep. It is also more terrifying. I snatch my hand out of his grip and turn to fumble for the shirt he has so carelessly dropped on the floor.

I busy myself with picking it up and turning it inside out. I can feel his eyes on me, the room full of unspoken dreams and desire. I concentrate on the shirt, checking the seams carefully, the cuffs, any place a smear of poison might hide. However he is being poisoned, it is not from his garments.

“It is clean,” I say, then slowly turn around to hand the shirt to him.

Duval is all business and takes the shirt and slips it over his head. I use that moment to inspect him for a marque. Other than his scars, there is nothing on his chest or his throat, which confirms he has not eaten nor drank this poison. But the room is lit only by the fire and a brace of candles, so I cannot tell if the grayish pallor to his skin is due to the poor light, the effects of the poison, or the marque of Mortain. But of course, it does not matter. I cannot kill him, marque or no.

“If it is not you poisoning me, who is it?” he asks as he tugs his sleeves into place.

“There are so many who wish you ill, my lord, it is difficult to say.”

He gives a wry grimace, then shoves his arms into his doublet. "What is the antidote?” he asks.

“I won’t know until we determine which poison has been used.” even then I might not know. I was not taught how to remove the effects of poison, only how to best administer it. It will also depend on how much he has taken in and how much damage it has done to his body.

“How long do I have?” he asks.

I wrap my arms tightly around myself and keep my voice calm. “That you are not dead yet bodes well. Many poisons that will kill you in large amounts only sicken you if taken in small doses.” I do not tell him that some of those small doses can have lasting results.

The grim lines about his mouth lead me to believe he knows I am honey-coating my words. “The best we can do for now is keep your strength up. eat and sleep, my lord, for the stronger you are, the better you will be able to fight the effects.”

when he sits down to the tray, he attacks his dinner as if it is an invading army he must vanquish. when he is finished, he lies down in front of the fire and falls immediately to sleep. But I do not. I spend the long, dark hours of the night fighting despair and looking back over the past few days, trying to pick out symptoms I may have missed.

what I told him is true; there are hundreds of possibilities. Many noble houses in France and Italy have their own poisoners on staff, each with his own secret recipe or concoction. There are dozens upon dozens of poisons that can be taken in through the skin alone. How will I ever determine which one is being used against him?

And if I cannot figure it out, he will die.

Chapter Forty-four

When morning comes, Duval is gone. I tell myself that his being well enough to leave is surely a good sign.

The night has brought some clarity but no solutions. I do not think the convent is behind Duval’s poisoning, for who would they use to do it? I have not seen or heard from Sybella since d’Albret left. Besides, the note from the abbess made it quite clear that this task was my last chance to prove to the convent I was serious about my duties and my vow.

Which means someone else is behind the poisoning.

I think of Duval’s chessboard and how the white queen stood surrounded by fewer and fewer allies. The answer, of course, has to be one of those left standing: Marshal Rieux, Captain Dunois, and Chancellor Crunard.

Of those, only Crunard has free access to the convent and only Crunard has accused Duval of spying for the French regent. even angry as Marshal Rieux was, he suspected Duval only of acting in his own self-interest rather than Brittany’s. And of course, what better way to deflect suspicion from one’s own actions than to lay the blame at someone else’s feet.

Like the tumblers in a lock, my mind shifts and moves. with hindsight, everywhere I look I can find traces of Crunard hidden in the background or under layers of deceit. He was one of the few who knew I was traveling with Duval to Guérande and would know extra assailants would be needed. The lone captive from that attack was killed immediately after Crunard returned to the city. I even saw him meet with the French ambassador. And while the chancellor spoke with Gisors sharply, he himself has pointed out how easy it is to fake that.

If all of that is true, then he must also be behind Duval’s poisoning. I assume such poison can be found in a town of Guérande’s size. Or perhaps he obtained some directly from the convent. Or —

I hurry to my trunklet, take the key from my neck, and fit it to the lock. I remove the tray of weapons and look to the poisons beneath. Frantically, I examine the bottles and jars. They are all full except one: the jar of Arduinna’s snare. That is half empty.