Serpent & Dove

Petit à petit, l’oiseau fait son nid.

Little by little, the bird makes its nest.

—French proverb

Cathédral Saint-Cécile d’Cesarine rose up before me, a sinister specter of spires and towers and flying buttresses. Jewel-toned windows leered in the sunlight. Rosewood doors—carved and embedded in white stone—gaped open as we climbed the steps, and a handful of Chasseurs spilled out.

“Behave yourself,” my new husband muttered. I smirked but said nothing.

A Chasseur stopped in front of me. “Identification.”

“Er—”

My husband dipped his head stiffly. “This is my wife, Louise.”

I stared at him, amazed the words had managed to escape through his clenched teeth. As usual, he ignored me.

The Chasseur in front of me blinked. Blinked again. “Your—your wife, Captain Diggory?”

He offered a barely perceptible nod, and I truly feared for his poor teeth. They’d surely chip if he kept gnashing them together. “Yes.”

The Chasseur risked a glance at me. “This is . . . highly unusual. Is the Archbishop aware—”

“He’s expecting us.”

“Of course.” The Chasseur turned to the pageboy who’d just appeared. “Inform the Archbishop that Captain Diggory and his . . . wife have arrived.” He cast another furtive glance in my direction as the boy scurried away. I winked back at him. My husband made an impatient noise and seized my arm, steering me forcefully toward the door.

I tugged my arm away. “There’s no need to cripple me.”

“I told you to behave.”

“Oh, please. I winked. It’s not like I stripped and sang ‘Big Titty Liddy’—”

A commotion rose behind us, and we turned as one. More Chasseurs marched up the street, carrying what looked like a body between them. Though they’d wrapped it in cloth for propriety’s sake, there was no mistaking the hand that dangled below the sheet.

Or the vines that had grown between its fingers. Or the bark that dappled its skin.

I leaned closer—despite my husband yanking me back—and inhaled the familiar sweetness emanating from the body. Interesting.

One of the Chasseurs hastened to conceal the hand. “We found him just outside the city, Captain.”

My husband jerked his head toward the alley beside the church without a word, and the Chasseurs hurried away.

Though my husband led me inside, I craned my neck to watch them go. “What was that about?”

“Never you mind.”

“Where are they taking him?”

“I said never you—”

“Enough.” The Archbishop strode into the foyer, eyeing the mud and water pooling at my feet in distaste. He’d already changed into fresh choral robes, of course, and washed the flecks of mud and sand from his face. I resisted the urge to fidget with my torn dress or finger-comb my matted hair. It didn’t matter what I looked like. The Archbishop could piss off. “The marriage certificate is waiting in my study. From where should we retrieve your possessions?”

Feigning disinterest, I wrung out my soaking hair. “I have none.”

“You . . . have none,” he repeated slowly, looking me over with disapproval.

“That’s what I said, yes—unless you and your cronies would like to ransack Soleil et Lune’s attic. I’ve been borrowing costumes for years now.”

He scowled. “I expected little else. We shall, however, endeavor to find you more presentable garments. I won’t dishonor Reid by having his bride appear a heathen, even if she is one.”

“How dare you?” I clutched the front of my ruined dress in mock affront. “I am a God-fearing Christian woman now—”

My husband hauled me away before I could utter another word.

I swore I heard one of his teeth crack.

After hastily signing the marriage certificate in the study, my husband steered me down a narrow, dusty corridor, clearly trying to avoid the crowded foyer. God forbid anyone saw his new wife. Rumors were probably already circulating the Tower about the scandal.

A spiral staircase tucked in the back of the corridor caught my attention. Unlike the archaic rosewood staircases nestled throughout the cathedral, this one was metal and clearly built after the original construction. And there was something there . . . in the air of the stairwell . . . I tugged on his arm and inhaled covertly. “Where does that staircase lead?”

He turned, following my gaze, before shaking his head curtly. “Nowhere you’ll be visiting. Access beyond the dormitories is restricted. Only approved personnel are allowed on the upper floors.”

Well, then. Count me in.

I said nothing more, however, allowing him to lead me up several different flights of stairs to a plain wooden door. He pushed it open without looking back at me. I paused outside, staring at the words inscribed above the doorway:

THOU SHALT NOT SUFFER A WITCH TO LIVE.

I shivered. So this was the infamous Chasseur Tower. Though no visible changes marked the corridor beyond, there was something . . . austere about the place. It lacked warmth, benevolence—the atmosphere as bleak and rigid as the men who resided within.

My husband poked his head back through the door a second later, glancing between the terrifying inscription and me. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I hurried after him, ignoring the cold trickle of dread down my spine as I crossed the threshold. There was no going back now. I was in the belly of the beast.

Soon to be in the bed of the beast.

Like hell.

He led me down the hall, careful not to touch me. “Through here.” He gestured to one of the many doors lining the corridor, and I brushed past him into the room—and stopped short.

It was a matchbox. A painfully simple, miserably drab little matchbox with no defining characteristics whatsoever. The walls were white, the floorboards dark. Only a bed and desk filled the space. Worse, he had no personal effects whatsoever. No trinkets. No books. Not even a basket for dirty laundry. When I spotted the narrow window—too high on the wall to watch the sunset—I truly died a little inside.

My husband must’ve been the most insipid person ever born.

The door clicked shut behind me. It sounded final—like a jail cell clanging shut.

He moved in my periphery, and I whirled, but he only lifted his hands slowly, as if placating a feral cat. “I’m just taking off my jacket.” He shrugged out of his sodden coat and draped it across the desk before starting to unbuckle his bandolier.

“You can stop right there,” I said. “No—no more clothes coming off.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m not going to force myself on you”—his nose wrinkled in disgust—“Louise.”

“It’s Lou.” He twitched visibly at the name. “Is my name offensive to you?”

“Everything about you is offensive to me.” He pulled the chair from the desk and sat down, heaving a great sigh. “You’re a criminal.”

“There’s no need to sound so self-righteous, Chass. You’re here because of you, not me.”

He scowled. “This is your fault.”

Shrugging, I moved to sit on his immaculately made bed. He cringed when my wet dress soiled the quilt. “You should’ve let me go at the theater.”

“I didn’t know you were going to—that you were going to frame me—”

“I’m a criminal,” I reasoned, not bothering to correct him. It didn’t matter now, anyway. “I behaved criminally. You should’ve known better.”

He gestured angrily to my bruised face and broken fingers. “And how has behaving criminally treated you?”

“I’m alive, aren’t I?”

“Are you?” He arched a copper brow. “You look like someone nearly killed you.”

I waved a careless hand and smirked. “Hazard of the job.”

“Not anymore.”

“Excuse me?”

His eyes blazed. “You’re my wife now, whether we like it or not. No man will ever touch you that way again.”

Tension—taut and heavy—settled between us at his words.

I tilted my head and stalked toward him, a slow smile spreading across my face. He glared at me, but his breathing hitched when I leaned over him. His eyes flicked to my mouth. Even sitting, he was nearly taller than me.

“Good.” I curled my hand around one of the knives in his bandolier. Flicking it to his throat before he could react, I dug the tip in hard enough to draw blood. His hand came down on my wrist—crushing it—but he didn’t force me away. I leaned closer. Our lips were only a hair’s breadth apart. “But you should know,” I breathed, “that if a man touches me in any way without my permission, I’ll cut him open.” I paused for effect, dragging the knife from his throat to his navel and beyond. He swallowed hard. “Even if that man is my husband.”

“We have to consummate the marriage.” His voice was low, raw—angry. “Neither of us can afford an annulment.”

I pushed away from him roughly, jerking up my sleeve to reveal the skin of my inner arm. Eyes never leaving his, I dug the tip of the knife in and sliced down. He moved to stop me, but it was too late. Blood welled. I ripped the blanket from his bed and let the blood drip on his bedsheets.

“There.” I stalked to the bathing chamber, ignoring his shocked expression. “Marriage consummated.”

I savored the pain in my arm. It felt real, unlike everything else in this wretched day. I cleaned it slowly, deliberately, before dressing it with a cloth from the cupboard in the corner.

Married.

If someone had told me this morning I’d be married by sunset, I would’ve laughed. Laughed, and then probably spat in their face.

The Chasseur pounded on the door. “Are you all right?”

“God, leave me alone.”

The door cracked open. “Are you decent?”

“No,” I lied.

“I’m coming in.” He poked his head in first, eyes narrowing as he saw all the blood. “Was that necessary?”

“I’m nothing if not thorough.”

He tugged the dressing down to examine the cut, forcing me to look squarely at his chest. He hadn’t yet changed, and his shirt was still wet from the river. It clung to his chest in a particularly distracting way. I forced myself to stare at the tub instead, but my thoughts kept drifting back to him. He really was too tall. Abnormally tall. Entirely too big for this small of a space. I wondered if he had some sort of disease. My eyes cut back to his chest. Probably.

“They’ll think I murdered you.” He replaced the dressing and opened the small cupboard again, grabbing another cloth to mop up the floor and basin. I finished wrapping my arm and joined him.

“What do we do with the evidence?” I wiped my bloody hands on my hem.

“We burn it. There’s a furnace downstairs.”

My eyes lit up. “Yes! I set a warehouse on fire once. One match, and the whole thing went up like a smokestack.”

He stared at me in horror. “You set a building on fire?”

These people obviously had hearing impairments. “That’s what I just said, isn’t it?”

He shook his head and knotted the towel. “Your dress,” he said without looking at me. I glanced down at it.

“What about it?”

“It’s covered in blood. It needs to go too.”

“Right.” I scoffed, rolling my eyes. “I don’t have any other clothes.”

“That’s your problem. Hand it over.”

I glared at him. He glared back. “I don’t have any other clothes,” I repeated slowly. Definite hearing impairment.

“You should’ve thought about that before you slashed open your arm.” He thrust out his hand insistently.

Another second passed.

“Fine, then.” A wild little laugh escaped my throat. “Just fine!” Two could play this game. I attempted to jerk my dress over my head, but my fingers—still stiff and painful—prevented me from succeeding. The wet fabric caught around my neck instead, strangling me, and I nearly broke the rest of my fingers in a desperate attempt to pry it away.

Strong hands soon reached forward to assist me. I leapt away on instinct, and my dress ripped as easily as it had done in the theater.

Flustered, I threw it in his face.

I wasn’t naked. Soft, flexible undergarments covered my sensitive bits, but it was enough. When he extracted himself from my dress, his face was burning. He averted his eyes quickly.

“There’s a shirt in there.” He nodded to the cupboard before eyeing the wound on my arm. “I’ll tell a maid to bring you a nightgown. Don’t let her see your arm.”

I rolled my eyes again as he left, slipping into one of his absurdly large shirts. It fell down past my knees.

When I was sure he’d gone, I crept back out to the bedroom. Golden light from the sunset shone through the lone window. I dragged the desk over to it, stacking the chair on top, before climbing up. Balancing my elbows on the ledge, I rested my chin in my hands and sighed.

The sun was still beautiful. And despite everything, it was still setting. I closed my eyes and basked in its warmth.

A maid soon entered to check the blood-specked sheets. Satisfied, she stripped them without a word. My stomach sank slowly to the floor as I watched her rigid back. She didn’t look at me.

“Do you have a nightgown?” I asked hopefully, unable to stand the silence any longer.

She curtsied, prim and proper, but still avoided my eyes. “Market doesn’t open until morning, madame.”

She left without another word. I watched her go with a sense of foreboding. If I’d hoped for an ally in this wretched Tower, I’d been grossly optimistic. Even the staff had been brainwashed. But if they thought they could break me with silence—with isolation—they were in for a fun surprise.

Sliding down from my tower of furniture, I prowled the room for something I could use against my captor. Blackmail. A weapon. Anything. I wracked my brain, remembering the tricks I’d used on Andre and Grue over the years. After ripping open the desk drawer, I rummaged through its contents with all the courtesy my husband deserved. There wasn’t much to inspect: a couple of quills, a pot of ink, a faded old Bible, and . . . a leather notebook. When I picked it up, flicking eagerly through the pages, several loose sheets fluttered to the ground. Letters. I bent closer, a slow smile spreading across my face.

Love letters.

A very confused, coppery-haired Chasseur poked me awake that night. I’d been curled in the tub—wrapped up in his ridiculous shirt—when he’d stormed in and impaled my rib with his finger.

“What?” I batted him away crossly, grimacing at the sudden light in my eyes.

“What are you doing?” He leaned back, still crouched on his knees, and set the candle on the floor. “When you weren’t in bed, I thought maybe—maybe you’d—”

“Left?” I said shrewdly. “It’s still on the agenda.”

His face hardened. “That would be a mistake.”

“’S all relative.” I yawned, curling up once more.

“Why are you in the tub?”

“Well, I certainly wasn’t going to sleep in your bed, was I? This seemed the best alternative.”

There was a pause. “You don’t . . . you don’t have to sleep in here,” he finally muttered. “Take the bed.”

“No, thanks. It’s not that I don’t trust you, but—well, that’s exactly what it is.”

“And you think the tub can protect you?”

“Mmm, no.” I sighed, eyelids fluttering. They were impossibly heavy. “I can lock the door—”

Wait.

I jolted awake then. “I did lock the door. How are you in here?”

He grinned, and I cursed my treacherous heart for stuttering slightly. The smile transformed his entire face, like—like the sun. I scowled, crossing my arms and nestling deeper into his shirt. I didn’t want to invite that comparison, but now I couldn’t get the image out of my head. His coppery hair—tousled, as if he too had fallen asleep somewhere he shouldn’t—didn’t help.

“Where have you been?” I snapped.

His grin faltered. “I fell asleep in the sanctuary. I . . . needed some space.”

I frowned, and the silence between us lengthened. After a long moment, I asked, “How did you get in here?”

“You’re not the only one who can pick a lock.”

“Really?” I sat up, interest piqued. “Where would a holy Chasseur learn such a trick?”

“The Archbishop.”

“Of course. He’s such a hypocritical ass.”

The fragile camaraderie between us crumbled instantly. He shoved to his feet. “Never disrespect him. Not in front of me. He’s the best man I’ve ever known. The bravest. When I was three, he—”

I tuned him out, rolling my eyes. It was quickly becoming a habit around him. “Look, Chass, you’re my husband, so I feel I should be honest with you in saying I’ll gladly murder the Archbishop at the first opportunity.”

“He’d kill you before you even lifted a finger.” A fanatical gleam shone in his eyes, and I raised a politely skeptical brow. “I’m serious. He’s the most accomplished leader in Chasseur history. He’s slain more witches than any other man alive. His skill is legend. He is legend—”

“He is old.”

“You underestimate him.”

“Seems to be a theme around here.” I yawned and turned away from him, shifting to find a softer bit of tub. “Look, this has been fun, but it’s time for my beauty sleep. I need to look my best for tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“I’m going back to the theater,” I murmured, eyes already closing. “What I caught of the performance this morning sounded fascinating.”

There was another pause, much longer than before. I peeked at him over my shoulder. He fidgeted with the candle for a few seconds before taking a deep breath. “Now that you’re my wife, it’s best if you stay within Chasseur Tower.”

I lurched upright, sleep instantly forgotten. “I don’t think that’s best at all.”

“People saw your face at the theater”—anxiety flared in my stomach—“and now they know you’re my wife. Everything you do will be monitored. Everything you say will reflect back on me—on the Chasseurs. The Archbishop doesn’t trust you. He thinks it best you stay here until you can learn to behave yourself.” He gave me a hard look. “I agree with him.”

“That’s unfortunate. I thought you had better sense than the Archbishop,” I snapped. “You can’t keep me locked in this trou à merde.”

I might’ve laughed at his appalled expression if I hadn’t been so angry. “Watch your mouth.” His own mouth tightened, and his nostrils flared. “You’re my wife—”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that! Your wife. Not your slave, nor your property. I signed that stupid piece of paper to avoid imprisonment—”

“We can’t trust you.” His voice rose over mine. “You’re a criminal. You’re impulsive. God forbid you even open your mouth outside this room—”

“Shit! Damn! Fu—”

“Stop it!” Blood crept up his throat, and his chest rose and fell heavily as he struggled to control his breathing. “God, woman! How can you speak so? Have you no shame?”

“I won’t stay here,” I seethed.

“You’ll do as you’re told.” The words were flat—final.

Like hell. I opened my mouth to tell him just that, but he’d already stormed out of the room, slamming the door shut with enough force to rattle my teeth.