“Get up,” she orders. “People will think you are being inappropriate, or worse,proposing.”
“That’s worse?” Lowell says from where she now stands side by side with Anders. “Nobs are weird.”
I withdraw a knife and sever the silk, leaving Emma in her petticoat and chemise. “Cloak.”
Lowell pulls hers off and drapes it over Emma’s shoulders.
“You can’t just slice my dress! My modiste can—”
“What attacked you?” Anders interrupts. “Visual details? Scent? Anything?”
“Are you asoldier?” Emma asks me. “I thought you were a noble with her lovers, but ... you’re asoldier? How ghastly!”
I want to apologize for Emma’s words, but Anders and Lowell both look like they may start laughing. “Ghastly,” Lowell mouths.
I take the section of dress and hold it up to the light. “The claw marks are different in fabric than in flesh. See how they are uneven here?” I fold the material to carry away and order, “Hold out your hands.”
Emma does so, and I dump finely ground salt crystals over her hands and wrists.
“Did it touch you anywhere else?” I prompt.
“What?”
“Shoulder? Limbs? Belly?” I glance at the two soldiers. “Back to her, please.”
They turn, and I shove Emma’s borrowed cloak aside. “No faery blood anywhere. The inner layers aren’t torn. This is unlikely to be the Beast of Brimmond.”
“It most certainly was,” Emma huffs at me. “That beast. I need the Hunter.”
“Iamthe Hunter,” I snap.
“She’s too old to be snatched for a changeling,” Ander muses, back still to us. “What is the plan here?”
Emma gapes, her mouth open like a suffocating animal, glaring at me.
“I am not old,” Emma finally says, snatching my scarf away in an unexpected burst of rage. “You! Fleuriste! You’re just jealous because the duke will be marrying me soon after you tried to lure her away. You’ll regret this when—”
“Escort her to the physician in case there are injuries,” I say, stepping away from her.
“Of course, m’lady,” Anders says.
I pause, feeling a burst of regret that this moment is happening. “Emma, I need you to understand that the penalty for naming me asHunter is the loss of yourtongue. Whether or not you are the next duchess, that is the Queen’s Law.”
“You ... you’reactuallythe Hunter?” Her gaze darts at Anders and then at Lowell. “They know, so—”
“Yes. TheWächterknow.” I tug my scarf over my mouth and nose again. “Telling anyone else will cost your tongue. I’ve seen it, Emma. The screams, the pain, the scent of burning flesh ... I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”
“Maudite would protect me.” Emma’s voice wavers, though.
“Not even a duke overrules the laws around the Hunter,” I point out more harshly than I’d like. I take a steadying breath and tell the soldiers, “Give us a moment.”
I wait until the twoWächtersoldiers move away. Then I hold Emma’s gaze. “Were you actually attacked, Emma? Or was this a ruse?”
Her chin lifts, and she insists, “I was attacked.”
I still have my doubts. Faeries don’t attack during the day. The monster has not attacked anyone other than men—and me. I try again. “Did you think Isabeau was the Hunter?”
Emma looks away. “Her curse is a lie. Hardly anyone gets cursed since the treaty. Her ‘curse’ is a ruse. She’s hunting monsters. Why else would she suddenly become cursed when her father dies?”
