He shrugs, somewhat sheepishly. “When one has made as many mistakes as I have, one becomes very familiar with the fullness of God’s grace and mercy.”

Chapter Forty-Four

AS I MAKE MY WAY from the chapel to my chambers, I am accosted by a somewhat frantic page. “Lady Annith! Lady Annith!”

His alarm is nearly infectious and I find I must hold on to my composure. “What?”

“The duchess says you’re to come at once. It’s the princess Isabeau. I’ve been looking for you everywhere,” he says accusingly.

“I was praying,” I explain, then lift up my skirts and hurry after him.

When I reach the duchess’s chambers, I am shown in immediately. The duchess sits beside Isabeau. Sybella and one of the Brigantian sisters are on the other side. The girl’s skin is nearly translucent, and her breath comes in great rasping heaves. “What happened?” I ask softly.

The Brigantian nun rises and hurries to my side. “She just took a turn for the worse while everyone was in the council meeting.” Her face softens in sympathy. “It is not unexpected. It is amazing she has held on this long.”

My eyes are fixed on Isabeau as she struggles for breath. “Is there anything that can be done to ease her breathing?”

“I have used all the knowledge our convent possesses. The duchess thought—hoped—you might know of some remedy that we did not.” If the nun resents this in any way, she gives no sign. My thoughts go back to nursing Sister Vereda and what we did then. “We have more experience with poisons and wounds than with illness,” I murmur. “But I do know of one poultice that might help.”

I give her the short list of ingredients, but before she can leave the room, Sybella rises and hurries forward. “I will help her,” she says. At my questioning glance, she leans in close. “I cannot watch this,” she murmurs, her face stark white. I am taken aback for a moment until I remember her younger sister Louise suffers from a similar ailment. Once they have left, I approach the bedside.

“I am so sorry, Your Grace. I was in the chapel, praying.”

“There is no need to apologize. I am just glad they found you.” She looks up. When she sees that the Brigantian nun has left the room, she turns to me. “Ismae discovered that one of her”—she lowers her voice—“poisons eased Isabeau’s symptoms, and she often gave her a drop or two when her breathing grew painful like this. Do you know what she used? Might you have any? It does seem to ease her suffering.”

My mind scrambles for a moment, carefully going over all the poisons we use at the convent, until it lands on Mortain’s caress—a poison that is made from the milk of the poppy. “I do! I will be right back.” I hurry from the room, and once in the hallway, I break into a run. When I reach my chamber, I rifle though my saddlebag until I find the carefully wrapped brightly colored bottles. I snag Mortain’s caress, return the rest to the saddlebag, then race back to the sickroom.

I am cautious with the amount of poison I give Isabeau, perhaps more cautious than I need to be, but I do not have Ismae’s skill with it—or her ability to correct fatal mistakes.

However, even the small amount does seem to work. Isabeau’s breathing grows less painful, although the fluid that fills her lungs does not diminish.

She is dying. For all that I am not a daughter of Mortain, I can still feel His presence heavy in the room. I want to shout at Him to hurry up and ease her suffering, except that I know it will cause the duchess great pain.

The next four days are consumed with tending to Isabeau, doing everything we can to restore a fragile balance to her body. We try poultices and tisanes, simples and salves, and none of them manage to turn the inexorable tide of her death. The only relief any of us can find is in the few precious drops of Mortain’s caress.

When the French ambassador sends word that he is still waiting, the duchess nearly grabs Duval’s sword from his hip and goes after him, so desperate is she for something—or someone—to strike out at.

Duval and the duchess and I consider trying to get word to Ismae, but in the end, there is little she could do, and trying to contact her would risk exposing her to even more danger. So, instead, we wait. We take turns by Isabeau’s side, sitting with her so she will not be alone should she wake. Or should she die.

On the fourth day, the bishop comes to administer the last rites. The young princess rouses enough to say that she wants Father Effram to be the one to perform that duty for her. After a moment of stunned silence, Father Effram is quickly sent for. The duchess stays by Isabeau’s side, holding her hand the entire time, tears flowing down her face.

And still, Death does not come.

That night, when the duchess has fallen asleep on the floor beside Isabeau’s bed, and I am sitting with the young princess, bathing her fevered brow with lavender water, her eyes flutter open. I am so startled, I nearly drop the linen cloth I am holding.

“Where is Anne?” she asks.

“Right here. Asleep. Shall I wake her?”

Isabeau shakes her head. “No, she has been at my side for days; she needs the rest.” She falls silent for a while and simply tries to take air into her lungs. “What is it like?” she finally whispers to me.

“What is what like?”

“Death. What is death like?”

Although she meets my eyes bravely, there is a faint tremble to her lips that tells me how hard she is trying to be brave.

I do not let myself think of graves or crypts or cold plots of earth but instead fill my mind with thoughts of Mortain Himself when He came to me that first time when I was a prisoner in the wine cellar. “He is quiet and still, and oh, so peaceful,” I tell her. “Fear will no longer hold any sway over you, nor will worry or sadness.” I pause for a moment, trying to think how to best help her young mind grasp such things. “Can you think of a time when you were especially tired? Perhaps after a long day of travel?”

She does not bother to try and speak, but simply nods.

“Do you remember how lovely it was to climb into your feather bed that night? How grateful your tired limbs were? How welcoming it felt? How delicious to close your eyes and finally rest?”

“Yes,” she whispers, her eyes aglow.

“It is just like that,” I tell her.

“Oh,” she breathes, and the faint crease between her eyebrows smoothes away. “I just wish I did not have to go alone,” she whispers. “I do not like being alone.”

At her words, I am filled with the memory of the terror I felt all those times I was shut alone in the cellar, that dark prison I feared I would never be released from. That is when it occurs to me that Isabeau need not make this journey alone.

Balthazaar could take her. He could escort her to the Underworld. There is little comfort I can offer her, but this would surely help.

As soon as Isabeau drifts off to sleep, I excuse myself from her bedside to search out the hellequin. When I am in the corridor, I lift my skirts and run, ignoring those who pause to watch me in surprise.

When I reach the battlements, dusk has only just begun to fall, and I worry it might be too early for him. Even so, I must try. Please, Mortain, even though I am not Your daughter, please let him be here. I hurry to the shadows where he always waits for me. At first, I think it is empty, and disappointment nearly chokes me. Then the shadows move and he steps forward.

I throw myself into his arms. For one brief moment I shut out all the complications and tragedies that surround us and allow myself to draw on the comfort he offers me. Then, reluctantly, I pull away. “I must ask a favor of you.”

“Anything,” he says.

Such a simple word, but it takes me utterly aback. “There is a young girl in the palace, the duchess’s sister, and she even now hovers at Death’s door.”

He glances to the palace behind us as if he could peer through the walls. “I know.”

“She is so young and so afraid of being alone on that dark journey into death. And then it occurred to me, she doesn’t have to be alone. You could take her.”

Balthazaar raises his eyebrows in surprise. “Would my presence not simply frighten her even more?”

I study his noble, fierce face. “Mayhap if you tried smiling,” I suggest, “it would help. Besides, she is used to soldiers and men-at-arms—and you are not so very much more terrifying than they.”

“It is not my role to play, you know that. She is not a wicked soul or a lost one.”

“No, but she is a terrified young girl, trying to be brave. Surely Mortain’s grace extends to her as well.”

His dark brows draw together as he stares down at me. “You place much faith in Mortain’s grace.”

“I do, for I have known it firsthand.”

He looks away then, out over the city, his face heavy with a sense of resignation and regret that I do not understand. His eyes soften and his hand reaches up to caress my cheek, a cool slide of sensation that touches something deep inside me. “Is that what you wish for, Annith? If Death could grant you a wish, you would use it for someone else? Trade your happiness for someone else’s?”

I frown, confused. “Why must I trade my happiness? I do not understand.”

He reaches up with his other hand so that he cups my face. I allow myself to lean into it, savoring the comfort and promise that he offers. Then he bends down and places a gentle kiss upon my lips, a kiss that is tender and achingly sad.

“What? What are you not telling me?”

Instead of answering me, he smiles. The smile is so full of sorrow and loneliness that it pierces my heart. “I am sorry,” he whispers. He pulls his cloak tightly around him, steps out of the shadows, and heads for the door into the palace. Still puzzled, but relieved that he will do this, I follow.

Needing no direction, he makes his way unerringly to Isabeau’s room. I briefly wonder if he has been there before, perhaps when waiting for me. He walks slowly toward the princess’s bed, past the Brigantian nuns and the princess’s attendants, but no one in the room appears to notice him. Indeed, it is as if they cannot see him at all.

He kneels beside the bed, his manner so gentle it makes me want to weep. As his hood slips away from his face, the light from the candles in the room casts his profile in harsh relief, plucking at a buried string of memory.

Isabeau looks up at him with enormous eyes, and he reaches for her small, thin hand. “Be not afraid,” he says, and she nods her head, her eyes never leaving his.

“It is not so very scary a place, where we are going. And you will not be alone. I will take you there myself.”

I stare at that noble brow, at the hood puddled around his neck, and recognition begins to seep into me.

Young Isabeau turns to Anne and gives her a brave little smile. “Do not be sad, Anne. I will not be alone. Besides,” she adds shyly, “you have always gone first. This time, it will be my turn to go first, and I will wait for you.” The duchess grabs Isabeau’s hand, silent tears streaming down her face. She still does not look at the stranger kneeling beside her.

And then—even though Isabeau is not yet dead—my lover leans forward, gathers Isabeau up in his arms, and cradles her against his chest.

Except it is not her, but her soul, for her body still lies on the bed, as empty as a husk.

No, I think. It is not possible. A hellequin cannot call a soul from its body.

Isabeau peeks over his broad shoulder and gives me a tiny wave. Then, together, the two of them step through the door, and none but the living remain.

That is when I realize that I have not fallen in love with a mere hellequin, but with Death Himself.

Chapter Forty-Five

I SINK TO MY KNEES beside the duchess and she remains by the bed, gripping Isabeau’s hand.

Balthazaar is Death.

How could I not have known? Not have recognized it? For of course, looking back, I see all the signs are there. That deep sense of recognition. Him leading the hunt. Possessing my arrow. How could I have been so blind?