One of the men nodded, gripping his forearm in agreement before melting into the trees. The others followed, their dark shapes swallowed by the low fog.
Michael remained for a moment longer, alone in the half-light of the moon. Ahead, the castle rose from the mist like something carved from night itself, its towers black against the moonlight, its stones cold and silent.
He felt the weight of everything pressing on him then—his sister’s suffering under those walls, his clan waiting in the shadows, and somewhere above all that, the soft flicker of a candle in Isabeau’s window.
There was not much he could do for her. There was no room for heroism, for deviating from the plan. There was no chance of saving her from her fate.
But that didn’t mean Michael wouldn’t try.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Sleep had evaded Isabeau for days, but now, in the quiet of the library where she was all alone, she finally managed to fall asleep; not with force, not with effort, but with the slow, peaceful sleep of deep exhaustion, which allowed for no dreams, no disruptions.
And then, a knock on the doorframe startled her so violently she nearly upset the inkpot that stood on the desk right next to her head, and in which she had dipped the pen that now lay discarded in the loose grip of her fingers.
Bleary-eyed and disoriented, she looked up—and there he was.
Michael. What daes he want?
Her heart tripped over itself, its beating loud and unsynchronized. He stood there, by the doorway, as if hesitant to come in, but after a moment, he walked inside, before Isabeau could tell him to come in—or to leave.
The room was cold now, she noticed. The fire in the hearth had died down to little more than burning coals, black and glowing orange, doing little to warm the air in the room. A draft blew in through the cracked window, rustling the papers scattered before her on the desk. Next to her, a candle burned, its flame flickering in the breeze, but the rest of the room was dim, half of the candles she had lit when she first came into the room now extinguished, either by the wind or by the lack of wax around the wicks, their lives burned away.
Approaching her, Michael tilted his head slightly, his hazel eyes weary, as though he, too, had trouble sleeping.
“Couldnae sleep?”
“I was readin’,” she lied, a bit too quickly, but thankfully, there was a book laying on the desk. Isabeau tried to shuffle one of the parchments there under it before Michael could see it, but his gaze followed the movement like a hawk spotting prey.
“What’s that?” he asked, stepping farther inside, approaching the desk with the kind of curiosity Isabeau knew could be dangerous.
“Naethin’,” she said, mortified by how her voice squeaked.
Please… please, please dinnae look at the drawin’.
Already, her cheeks heated, her skin turning a bright red at the thought that Michael would look at the picture she had drawn.That picture shouldn’t have seen the light of day at all, let alone be seen by its subject. She hadn’t even meant to draw him—not really. She had simply began sketching idly, and then her mind had drifted back to Michael and the way he had treated her wound, with such care and tenderness, that her hand had started moving its own, drawing his likeness. And now, she had lost her capability to speak and could only stare in horror as Michael approached.
In two strides, he was beside her, reaching past her before she could stop him. The parchment slipped from her fingers, and her stomach dropped when his gaze fell on the drawing, wishing that she could somehow disappear from the face of the Earth and never have to look at him again.
He froze, then looked at her with unmistakable amusement. “Well now,” he said, holding the sketch up to the light. “Ye’ve been busy.”
Her entire body burned with embarrassment, the blood rushing to her face and making her dizzy. She scrambled to take the piece of paper back, but Michael was quick to snatch it away from her, holding it high above his head.
“Give it back! It’s naethin’! Only… only a rough sketch.”
“A rough sketch?” His mouth twitched in amusement, eyes narrowing as he brought the picture closer to his face and examined it with care. “If this is what yer idle hand creates, I should be flattered. Though…” His eyes traced the drawing’sarms, and his lips curved in a slow grin. “Are me arms truly this size or have ye mistaken me fer a blacksmith?”
Mortification twisted quickly into indignation. It was one thing to mock her for drawing this—that she could handle, because she felt like she deserved it. It was a whole other thing to accuse her of exaggerating the proportions. Surely, he could see her skills! Surely, he could see she was a good artist, someone with an eye for detail—and proportion.
“It’s nae exaggeration,” she snapped, snatching for the parchment. “It’s perspective. Ye’re always towerin’ over me. It’s the only view o’ ye I have.”
He laughed then, a warm, genuine sound that tugged at her chest in ways she didn’t want to think about. For some reason, she hadn’t thought him capable of laughing like that, of showing such genuine sentiment—especially directed to her. He was kind, yes, but he was also distant, cold, seemingly impenetrable; just like the men Isabeau was used to.
What she wasn’t used to was this. Not many approached her in the castle, and those who did were mostly women. Now, with Michael next to her, laughing openly like this, her blush only deepened, creeping down to her chest and making her want to fan herself—an urge she tried to ignore despite the sudden heat enveloping her body, just so that she wouldn’t give Michael any more reason to mock her.
“Perspective, is it?” he asked with a soft hum. “Then I’ll nae complain. Ye make me look like a man who can move mountains.”
“Perhaps if yer head wasnae so large, ye’d fit under one tae lift it,” she mumbled before she could stop herself.
