I’m not sure why I’m here in this room. By the time I am the Hunter, His Grace will be gone, but there’s no delicate way to ask why I have been summoned. So I wait.
After the duke coughs violently again, he stares at me with eyes very like Isabeau’s. “Whatever other duties you have, Gabrielle, I ask that you protect my daughter.”
I startle at his request. As a duke, Isabeau will be higher ranking than almost everyone. The only ones higher are the royals, who are her family via her father. Gently, I say, “I cannot protect her from her moods or gossip, Your Grace.”
“Her heart. Protect her heart. She’s delicate. You saw it. So many people don’t. They think she’s ... coarse.” He makes a sound that is either a cough or a noise of displeasure.
“I will do my best to protect her, Your Grace.” I stumble over my words. “I still care for her. We were friends for a long time.”
“Friends,” he echoes with a kind smile. “Indeed. She is a loyal friend, my Isabeau. I am grateful you are her friend, Gabrielle.”
The urge to glance at my father is strong, but he insists on only seeing Isabeau as trouble. I’m still not sure why. He has no issue with women marrying one another. No member of the nobility does. He loathes Isabeau, though. The Earl of Fleuriste does not share the logic of his opinions with me. As Hunter, he will, but the part of him that is my father keeps his opinions away from my ears.
“Was the death in the woods certain to benotby man?” the duke asks, glancing at my father and then back at me.
I want to support whatever my father has said;heis the Hunter. Unfortunately, I have no idea what he’s said, so I opt to be truthful. “I have no doubt. There was no faery blood to confirm it, but the dead man’s wound was deep and unerring. There were no start and stop marks. The depth was consistent from one side to the other.”
The duke’s attention darts to the door as the duchess slips into the room, standing out of the way as the duke asks his questions of me. “No faery you know?”
“The Hunter will find the killer, Your Grace,” I assure him.
“And the victim? What know you?” the duchess interjects.
As she moves closer, my father closes the steel box of samples and secrets it away. The duchess is not dying, and I am glad he is being careful not to expose her to anything dangerous. She ought not be in here around such things.
Father doesn’t answer her, so I do. “A traveler. Not local to our home village. Does that matter? Do either of you know something?” I hear muffled voices beyond the door and then a crash. “Anything would help.”
“He is the Hunter, then. The earl?” The duchess gives my father a strange look and then turns to the duke. “You never said. In all these years.”
“You had no need to know. I was here to handle such things.”
“If they had not come here today, would you have told me before you—”
“I am not yet dead, my heart.” The duke pulls his wife near with surprising strength.
I want to flee. Theirs is not a conversation for witnesses, especially as the duke looks as if death is but a moment away. I don’t want to intrude in their final moments. “Your Grace.” I curtsy. “I will do my best to do as you request.”
The Duke of Maudite breathes out a rattling gasp of air and glances at me. “Talk to my sister. Some creatures are territorial. If this man was a stranger, perhaps ...”
I’m not sure if his words fade because he’s falling asleep or has lost the thought or even lost the air to speak. The duke waves us toward the door as his wife clutches him, as if she can keep him in this world by clinging to his dying body.
Still the duke adds, “Talk to Morag. Tell her I loved her until my death.”
My father walks up to the duke and bows deeply. “Isaac. Your Grace.” His voice is rough. “It has been my privilege.”
The duke motions for the duchess to back away as my father leans close to clasp the duke’s arm. He whispers in the duke’s ear. The duchess frowns at them both. She has always been possessive of her husband’s time and attention.
“I will not fail you,” Father says. Then he straightens and leads me to the door. Whatever friendship they have shared over the years is deeper than I was privy to. Father pauses only long enough to bow to Her Grace. He says nothing to her, and the expression he wears is an odd one.
I forget myself and bow rather than curtsying to her, and she gives me a peculiar look. My stoic father looks defeated as we walk out of the study. He has lost a friend to death today, even though the moment is not yet here.
I scurry after Father, wishing that Isabeau were here to at least hear my goodbye. When next I see her, she’ll be the Duke of Maudite. She’ll be mourning. I will eventually be relieved not to have to lie to her about my duty, but not if the cost is her sorrow.
Still clad in my ripped and sodden dress, I march across the puddle-decorated courtyard and retake my horse. “Do we patrol? Do we—”
“You head to the manor. I must speak to Her Majesty.” Father hands me the box with the samples we gathered at the death site. “The microscopy ought to eliminate something. I will see you on the morrow.”
Father and I part ways at the mouth of Brimmond Wood, and I glance back at Maudite Castle. Once I thought I’d make my home there, at least part of the time, spinning a fantasy about dividing our lives between Isabeau’s castle and my manor. Eventually, some other woman will be her duchess, and if I’m lucky we can share the sort of friendship our fathers had.
