“May I tell Isabeau then? She is the queen’s niece and the next duke, and by that definition, she will one day need to—”
“Rules, girl. There are rules. It’s what separates us from the monsters. Until Isaac dies, you cannot tell her. When she is the duke, so be it ... though I cannot imagine she’ll be much use to you as a duke.” Father makes a snorting noise that sounds more horse than man.
I don’t point out that Isaac, Duke of Maudite, is not in the woods with Father. I know that Father consults with him, but that is not enough to be “of use.” I don’t need Isabeau’s help either. When I amHunter, my sister will assist me. That, too, I do not mention. Father adores Rylan.
“I have been weighing the matter of the Hunter succession, incidentally. Your mother suggested that perhaps if you marry a man, the role of the Hunter will pass to your husband upon my death. There’s never been agirlwho’s carried the mantle. Then you would never have to tell the Maudite menace. You could stay home and be a proper wife.” He pauses and then adds, “Girard would be a good choice for a husband. He’s strong. Aware of the Hunter’s duties because of his role in the village. I spoke to him about taking you as a wife.”
“Youwhat?” I gape at him. The notion that my fate would pass to a spouse is insulting to all women. The Hunter has always been a Fleuriste. Like noble titles, it is inherited.
“Girard is willing. You have only to accept.” Father continues to stare straight ahead. “When you were born, I gave your mother my vow that I would allow you to choose your spouse, as she did. So I cannot order you.”
“You thought your promise to her wouldn’t matter. That you’d have a son.”
“Fleuristes always have sons. I had sons.” His jaw clenches. “Mysons died, but if you were to marry, he would be my son by law and perhaps ...”
“I am not looking to shirk my duty.” Mimicking his posture, I stare straight ahead, trusting that Father will warn me of danger. His hearing is superior to mine.Allhis senses are. “I ... tried to become interested in Girard. When you suggested that I ... that we ... Itried.”
The memory of awkward kisses and coupling that was wholly unsatisfying leaves me at a loss for words. Talking about that sort of intimacy is not a thing a proper lady does, and if she does, it is only with one’s physician or closest confidante—certainly not with one’sfather. The silence grows long enough that I am excited when I see the tip of Maudite Castle come into view over the tops of the trees. The looming dark stone castle is a fitting home for the rakish future duke.
“I will not be marrying Girard,” I say. I may be filled with more doubts about my own ability than I can express, but on this I am certain. “I will do my duty, but I will not marry any man.”
“Many families treat marriage as a business contract and—”
“I will marry for love or not at all,” I say, voice unwavering.
“Being the Hunter is a gift bestowed upon our family by the grace of the crown and God above. You cannot let theseemotionsget in the way.” Father nudges his horse, Imp, to race forward, leaving me behind.
I pause for a moment, grateful that I won’t have to face Isabeau today, and especially not in a mud-spattered old gown. At least she’s in Regina Centrum, debauching another noblewoman, while I have been in the forest gathering up samples from the throat and eye of a dead man.
Father has already crossed the outer wall and entered the courtyard. A guard waves me forward as I approach the wall, likely aware that I am straggling behind the Earl of Fleuriste.
As Father walks his horse toward a servant, they both turn to wait for me to catch up. The impulse to thunder toward them gives way under a reminder that these people do not know that I am the next Hunter. I would appear a spoiled child, petulant and bedraggled. So I ride toward them, dismount, and hand the reins to the waiting man.
Stepping back, I let myself marvel at the beauty of Maudite Castle for a moment. The towering building is not as updated as Fleuriste Manor. The edifice is liberally decorated with both gargoyles and grotesques. A few gargoyles appear to be vomiting currents of rainwater, and one squats like it is urinating a wide river of rain. I try in vain to recall the names Isabeau and I assigned the gargoyles. We christened a few grotesques as well, but it was these few on the front of the main castle building that caught our very young minds. I mentally list several of the names with a smile as I follow my father to the front door, which opens at our approach.
Bartholomew.
Antoine.
Gertrude.
A servant shows us in, taking our cloaks and trying not to wince at the state of my dress. At least Isa—
My entire body seizes somewhere between joy and terror as she walks toward us. Nothing in my life has ever been as breathtaking as Isabeau, future Duke of Maudite, current Viscount of Ashmore. I haven’t seen her in years, and though she is unmistakably herself, she is visibly stronger and leaner now. Time has been good to her. Her eyes still seem darker than any I’ve seen, and her body carves through space like a knife in motion. My first love has always felt like an answering violence to my own temper, and my hand almost drops to my hilt before years of lessons in being a lady kick in.
My hand drifts to my side, but I know that she noticed. Her lips curve in a brief smile that makes my knees unsteady. Horrible people ought not be so lovely.
“Fleuriste.” Isabeau bows her head politely to my father, the Earl of Fleuriste. Then she turns slightly to the side and bows a second time. Inappropriately, her bow is deeper this time, and her voice sounds like she’s purring my name as she says, “Lady Gabrielle.”
Father nods. “Ashmore.” Then he glances at me. “I will speak to His Grace and inform you after. You may join us after you”—he darts a look at Isabeau—“talkto her.”
He trudges off, and I try not to notice that he’s favoring his right leg again. Does the magic exhaust him? Or was it the early ride and wet weather? I am still watching him as he heads to the study when I hear Isabeau ask, “Does hestillfind fault with me for convincing you to dally in the pantry with me?”
My face feels warm as I snap, “My father has likely forgotten that afternoon. I certainly had.”
“Truly ...?” She sweeps her gaze over me, not dismissively at all, but with a bold stare like she’s appraising a trinket to buy. “Would you like a reminder? We could go back there and—”
“Stop.” I take several deep breaths, and once controlled, I meet Isabeau’s eyes. “Must you be so boorish?”
