Bisclavret

Chapter 18

Later that night, I pace the floor in front of my bed, waiting for Livy to finish getting ready for dinner. The guests from the past few days have all gone home, and the baron and his men left at noon, taking Jacques and Emanuel with them. The priest blessed their journey in the courtyard before they departed on horseback, bound for Foneteley-Comte. Our prayers for safety went with them, and both Livy and her mother shed a few tears as they disappeared from view. I stood beside them like a stone, feeling empty inside.

I've been so worried for all of us for so long that my responses to more acute danger are starting to skew. And part of me thinks it might be good that Jacques and Emanuel are with the baron, despite the skirmishes they'll face. He might grow fond of them on the road, which would make it harder for him to kill them if he ends up murdering me and they refuse to let my death go.

I turn and pace back toward my bedroom door. I've already dismissed Henrietta, so there's no one to see this physical manifestation of my anxiety. Well, no one as far as I know. There could very well be ten people stacked in the passageway to my left, spying on me through cracks and peepholes. The space is certainly large enough for so many. Do they watch me even when I sleep? Change my clothing? Bathe? Use the chamber pot?

I shudder, reach my door, and walk back to the windows. I can't think about that, or I'll go mad. Surely even spies have some propriety, some sense of wrong and right. Plus, I doubt the baron cares whether or not I snore.

Instead, I focus on dinner tonight. With a large crowd, it was easy to avoid Henri, but there will be no doing so now. How will he behave? How will I? And will the marquise and Livy still believe our courtship is real when it's on such close display? They questioned me for what felt like hours after I returned from my walk. I spoke as honestly as I could while relaying my conversation with Henri. As to my feelings and thoughts, those were all lies, and when Livy teasingly asked me what kind of flowers I wanted at our wedding, I thought I might have gone too far. I balked then, saying I didn't want to jinx anything, and, blessedly, they let the subject go.

Hopefully, I'll get better at deceiving those I love. The lies weigh heavily on my conscience, like a physical load dragging my shoulders down, and I have to constantly remind myself that I'm doing it for the right reason: to save them. It's up to me to keep them alive. Like it was on the road. I'm not being self-sacrificing or harboring some sort of martyr syndrome. It's just that I'm the only one who knows they're in danger that's willing to do something about it.

I pause in my pacing, frowning. That might not be right. I don't understand Henri's motivations entirely, but I'm almost certain some of them stem from his desire to keep his cousins safe from his father.

I start walking again, cringing when my calf muscles protest. Sitting and sewing for so long did nothing to ease my stiffness. I'd tightened up so much that I nearly toppled when we stood for lunch. The marquise ordered me echinacea tea and a hearty soup, convinced that I was coming down with something. I suppose it's better than her realizing I'm sore head to toe because I was up all night with Henri.

I cringe again when I realize I just slipped an innuendo into my own thoughts. Up all night with Henri training, I correct. And I'll do the same again in scant few hours. What will this session bring? More running? I don't think my battered legs can handle such abuse two nights in a row. Or will we focus on something else? My strength, perhaps? How close will he have to be to instruct me? Close enough to touch, to infect me with his dark essence?

A large part of my current anxiety stems from seeing him unbound and electric again. He's so much...more at night. If having him close during the day drove me to distraction, I'm worried about what being alone with him night after night will lead to. I've never felt like this about a man before, been drawn to someone like I am him. It makes my girlhood crush on Jacques seem laughable. I know a large part of it stems from the mystery he presents, but I can't deny that another portion is down to his sheer appeal. Nothing Vivienne has said about him has been wrong. He looks like a man should: raw, carnal...virile. Some baser part of me has fixated on that and won't let it go, no matter how hard I try to get myself to see reason.