“Oh, we’ll do more than find her.” I gazed around at the unnatural decay surrounding us, at trees that seemed to weep black tears from their bark. “There are older ways to track prey than following footprints, Alf. Ways that require... sacrifice.”
His eyes widened as understanding dawned. “The woman who lives beyond the northern bogs? The one they say—”
“The one they say consorts with darkness,” I finished for him. “Yes.”
Whispers of the bog witch had circulated through our village for generations. Most dismissed them as superstition, the kind of tale told to frighten children into obedience. But my grandfather had known better. Had visited her in his youth seeking power, and returned changed. He’d taught me things before he died—secrets about blood and bone and the darkness that hungered just beyond the veil of everyday life.
I’d never had reason to seek her out myself. I didn’t need to, not yet. My journeys had one thing I could use in my back pocket first.
“I have an enchanted object. It’ll help us now that we’ve learned thy’s tracking is not enough.”
“Master Gaspard,” Alf’s voice quavered, “those are dangerous magics. The church forbids—”
“The church?” I laughed, the sound harsh in the silent forest. “The same church that gave Father Simon gold to declare Isabeau a witch? The same church that blessed the water meant to drown her?” I shook my head in contempt. “Don’t speak to me of the church’s prohibitions when they’re as easily bought as a tavern whore.”
Alf flinched at my blasphemy but didn’t contradict me. He knew as well as I did how corrupt Father Simon was, how easily swayed by coin and the promise of power within the village hierarchy.
“Besides, we won’t visit her. No yet. Not until I know where it has hid,” I continued, turning back toward where we’d left our horses tethered at the forest’s edge.
“She,” Alf corrected softly, then immediately looked as if he wished to swallow his tongue. “Isabeau is a she, not an it.”
I stopped mid-step, turning slowly to face him. “Careful, Alf. One might almost think you harbored some affection for the girl.”
He shook his head vigorously, sweat beading on his brow despite the chill. “No, Master Gaspard! Thou never let me meet her in the home! I only meant—”
“I know what you meant.” I resumed walking, forcing him to hurry after me. “And you’re right. Isabeau is indeed a she. A beautiful, willfulshewho needs to be reminded of her place in this world. Under me.”
We walked in silence after that, retracing our steps through the decaying forest toward healthier woods. With each step away from that place of rot and wrongness, I felt the whispers in my mind grow fainter. They’d started the night I first held Isabeau’s cage beneath the water in the drowning cage, those seductive murmurs promising power in exchange for cruelty. At first, I’d thought them fever dreams or the product of too much wine, but they’d grown stronger each time I surrendered to my darker impulses.
The bog witch would know how to interpret them. How to use them to find what I sought, if my enchanted object failed me.
By the time we reached our horses, the sun hung low in the sky, painting the forest in hues of blood and shadow. Alf’s mount snorted nervously as we approached, still uneasy from being tethered so close to the forbidden woods. My own stallion stood calm and imperious, much like his master.
“We’ll return to the village tonight,” I announced, swinging into my saddle with practiced grace. “Resupply. Then head north at first light.”
Alf struggled onto his horse, his round face pinched with concern. “The journey to the northern bogs takes three days, Master Gaspard. And winter approaches. The paths will soon be impassable.”
“Then we’d best make haste to test my object.” I urged my stallion forward, leading the way out of the forest’s embrace. “I will have her back before the first snow falls, Alf. By whatever means necessary.”
As we rode, I pressed my hand against the torn dress hidden inside my vest. The fabric seemed to pulse against my palm, a reminder of the connection that bound Isabeau to me.Mine, it whispered with each heartbeat.Mine, mine, mine.
I smiled into the gathering dusk. Let her run. Let her hide. Let whatever foolish man had taken her believe she was beyond my reach. The darkness had been whispering to me for years, offering power in exchange for the small cruelties I’d inflicted on those who crossed me. Now I would embrace it fully, surrender to its seduction completely, if that’s what it took to reclaim what belonged to me.
“I’m coming for you, Isabeau,” I murmured, too softly for Alf to hear. “And when I find you, you’ll never escape again.”
twenty
Isabeau
Queen Charlotte’s journal lay open beside me on the kitchen table, its pages yellowed with age but the handwriting as crisp as if the ink had dried yesterday. I’d started reading it last night, devouring the elegant script until my eyes burned and the fire died to embers in the hearth. Now I’d been working all day to keep up the mundane tasks that needed done. Beast greeted me as the evening set in. Though, he didn’t like that I found the queen’s journal.
Her words haunted me still. Mostly by the way she described the forest before its corruption, the castle in its glory days, and most intriguingly, the amber eyes she shared with her son. The same amber eyes that watched me now from across the kitchen as I kneaded dough with flour-dusted hands, trying to create something normal in a world that had become anything but.
My hands worked the dough with methodical pressure, pushing and folding, gathering and pressing. The repetitive motion soothed something in me that had been wound tight since finding the journal in that destroyed bedroom. Queen Charlotte’s elegant script had painted pictures of a life so far removed from mine. Royal balls, diplomatic meetings, a husband who adored her, and children she cherished above all else.
“Listen to this,” I said aloud, though Beast couldn’t respond with words. He lounged in the doorway, his massive form blocking most of the light from the corridor. “‘The forest grows more magnificent each year, as if responding to our joy. When my son was born, the trees nearest the castle bloomed out of season, and nightingales sang for three days without ceasing’.”
I looked up at Beast, who had gone unnaturally still at my words. His eyes held such profound sadness that my breath caught.
