Gaspard placed a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Taking inventory for the auction, of course. Everything will be sold, and the proceeds given to the church.”
The church.
Where Papa and I had never attended. Where Father Simon preached against those who sought wisdom in plants and stars rather than his rigid interpretations of holy texts. Papa had always preferred to worship among his trees and herbs after my mama showed us her ways, teaching me to find the divine in creation rather than in stifling buildings.
“The money should stay in the village,” I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice. “To help those who need it.”
Gaspard’s fingers tightened painfully on my shoulder. “The church helps all who are deserving,” he said, his tone making it clear the subject was closed. “Come. It’s time we left. Thou dost not need to see this.”
For once, I agreed with him. I couldn’t bear to watch strangers pawing through Papa’s possessions, attaching monetary value to things that were priceless to me. I grabbed my satchel and nodded, ignoring the pitying glances from the elders.
“Good day, gentlemen,” I said stiffly, holding my head high as Gaspard ushered me toward the door.
I paused at the threshold, looking back one last time at the only home I’d ever known. The morning light streamed through the windows, illuminating dust motes that danced in the air. I could almost see Papa sitting at his workbench, tongue caught between his teeth in concentration as he carved yet another beautiful, useful thing into existence.
“Goodbye,” I whispered, too softly for anyone else to hear. Then I stepped outside, closing the door on that chapter of my life.
Gaspard’s hand settled at the small of my back, guiding me down the path toward the village proper. The touch was proprietary, warning off any who might challenge his claim. I wanted to shake it off, to run screaming into the forest that had taken my father, but what good would that do? The beast wouldclaim me just as it had claimed him, and then Papa’s sacrifice would have been for nothing.
So I walked, my spine straight, my eyes forward, though every step felt like betrayal.
The village was alive with late afternoon activity. Women hung laundry on lines strung between cottages, the white sheets billowing like ghosts in the breeze. Men repaired tools and tended to livestock, preparing for the coming winter. Children darted between buildings, their laughter a jarring counterpoint to the grief that weighed on me like stones.
We passed the baker’s shop just as he was preparing to close for the evening. The rich, yeasty scent of fresh bread wafted through the open door, reminding me that I hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. My stomach remained silent, food being the furthest thing from my mind.
“Good day to thee, Master Coventry,” the baker called out, his round face splitting into a smile as he caught sight of us. “And to thee as well, Mistress Dubois. My condolences for thy loss.”
I nodded my acknowledgment, not trusting my voice. The baker’s eyes lingered on me a moment too long, his expression shifting from sympathy to something closer to pity as he took in my position beside Gaspard.
“A fine day for a walk with such a beautiful companion,” Gaspard replied, his chest puffing up like a preening rooster. “Wouldn’t thou agree?”
The baker’s smile strained at the edges. “Indeed, sir. Most fortunate for the young lady to have thy protection in her time of need.”
Gaspard’s hand slid from my back to my waist, pulling me closer to his side. “Fortune has little to do with it. Some things are simply meant to be.”
We continued on, repeating this performance with what felt like half the village. Each time, Gaspard would parade me likea prized mare, fishing for compliments about my beauty or his generosity. Each time, I’d feel myself shrinking smaller inside, retreating to some quiet corner of my mind where his voice couldn’t be heard.
By the time we reached his house at the northern edge of the village, the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon. Gaspard’s home was the largest in Thorndale, save for the church. Two full stories of timber and stone, with glass windows imported from The Noble City and a slate roof that never leaked. It spoke of wealth, of power, of a man who always got what he wanted.
And now he had me.
A sick feeling swept through me as he led me up the steps to the front door. This was to be my prison, my cage, gilded though it might be. Gaspard pushed the door open with a flourish, gesturing for me to enter ahead of him.
“Welcome to thy new home, Isabeau,” he said, his voice low and intimate in a way that made my skin crawl.
The interior was exactly as I’d imagined it would be. A monument to Gaspard’s hunting prowess. Animal heads adorned the walls, their glass eyes following me as I stepped into the main hall. Bearskin rugs covered the floor, and antler chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Everything spoke of death, of conquest.
A small, middle-aged woman appeared from what I assumed was the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron. “Master Coventry,” she said, dipping into a quick curtsy. “I’ve prepared supper as instructed.”
“Excellent, Margaret,” Gaspard replied, not bothering to look at her. “Take Mistress Dubois’s bags to the room I had prepared. And prepare a bath for her after we dine.”
The maid—Margaret—approached me with outstretched hands. I reluctantly surrendered my satchel, praying shewouldn’t notice the knife hidden within. She took it with another curtsy and disappeared up a narrow staircase.
“Come,” Gaspard said, his hand once again finding the small of my back. “Thou must be famished.”
He led me to a dining room dominated by a massive table that could easily seat twelve. Unlike Papa’s lovingly crafted oak table, this one was dark and imposing, designed to intimidate rather than welcome. Only two places had been set, one at the head and one to its immediate right.
“Sit,” Gaspard instructed, pulling out the chair to the right of the head.
