Chapter 8
Lars pressed a hand to his brow as he watched the flutter of silver hair drift away, bright against the dark.
He never expected her to figure it out. He was certain he had blocked her view entirely. She was sharper than he had credited her for.
While keeping his eyes fixed on the house she entered, he sensed a presence. It was Yanken, his escort, who had trailed them like a shadow the entire way. Without looking back, Lars asked,
Keeping his head bowed, Yanken answered while raking his sharp eyes across the dark. His voice was rough, like grating iron. Lars knitted his brow.
That was true. When Lars gave a slight flick of an eyebrow, Yanken added in a low voice,
Lars hardened his gaze. They had kept their voices down, so nothing should have leaked past the door, but he hadn't anticipated anyone lingering right beside it the instant it opened.
To anyone uninvolved, those were meaningless words. Yet Fremont and the baron—those two words alone could be enough for someone to piece together the bigger picture.
Watching Yanken melt into the darkness and move off, Lars let out a quiet sigh.
He hadn't expected her to realize he was the man from the temple confessional. He had pulled his hood down low, and a latticed screen had separated them.
Of course, he had recognized her right away. It was an appearance impossible to miss. Though she still showed the marks of an unfinished girl, she resembled the angel statue from his childhood home. The beautiful statue his mother had cherished above all else—its face carved free of joy, anger, sorrow, or pleasure.
Pale, porcelain skin flushed red in places with terror, tangled silver hair plastered across it with sweat. Though the rounded shape of her eyes and the innocent gaze peculiar to young girls still lingered, he was certain: in just a year or two, there wouldn't be a man nearby who didn't know her name.
He had trailed her only to see if she had overheard anything, but when her unsteady legs suddenly veered off the road, he knew instantly. She hadn't turned aside just to catch her breath.
That was how precarious her retreating figure had looked. And so, his plan to discover where she lived without revealing himself had come to nothing.
In truth, Lars didn't believe she was a spy. Even if she wasn't, she had heard words she never should have, so letting her discard her own life might have spared him the trouble. Yet Lars hadn't done that.
‘What kind of woman do men pay no attention to?’
Because the face that had asked such a brazen question overlapped with the one cloaked in terror and despair.
Flexing his still-stinging hand, he turned around and pulled his hood over his head.
With his own eyes, he had watched her trembling body gradually settle and the murky, dead look in her gray eyes regain its spark. Once revived, the child had even managed to land a parting blow on him.
‘Still, I don't think a priest ought to be in a place like that at such an hour.’
Letting out an incredulous chuckle, he murmured her name softly.
A lovely name. The way she had looked straight at him with curling lips just before running off flickered in his mind, and he gave his head a brisk shake.
May we never cross paths again.
That would be better for her as well. Hell sometimes pretends to be heaven just to inflict greater agony.
Though in my case, ‘less like hell’ felt closer to the truth than heaven.
My daily routine continued just as always. I had collapsed into sleep after working all day, and Mrs. Allmon left early the next morning, so I didn't see her face. Yet her absence didn't mean my chores were gone.
I washed Mrs. Vino, fed her, collected the laundry, and headed out to the washing place. Fortunately, the weather was fine, and the clothes looked likely to dry well.
Once I finished tidying the house, maybe I should head out to the market—that thought crossed my mind. To be precise, I was wondering if I should visit the temple.
It wasn't that I intended to become a nun. I simply wanted to share a few more trivial words with the priest.
My busy hands flinched at Marie's voice, which flew at me abruptly from up the bank. Beside me, Laurel shook her head with a smile.
Oh.
I remembered leaving Mark stranded at the theater. As my eyes darted about, the other women began chiming in with snickers.
“The old sayings are never wrong. The quiet ones are always the boldest.”
“Did you have some fun with Mark? That clumsy fool didn't go groping under your skirts right off, did he? You can't ever just let boys have their way.”
“If you're going to sell, make sure it's dear. If it were me, I wouldn't waste it on a green boy like that. I'd sell to someone who pays higher. Like the young master of the Hughes viscountcy, for instance.”
“That boy who's so horribly ugly he won't even show his face at social parties? The Beckman barony would be better. Their second son is quite the charmer with women, isn't he?”
“A famous looker, too. Didn't he flirt with Laurel quite a bit? Just wanted to play around, though.”
“Because you've got a sweetheart at the theater?”
The women burst into giggles as they turned their teasing onto Laurel. The chatter soon devolved into lewd banter about who possessed the biggest tool.
Few among the women here had actual lovers, but not one abstained from the act itself. As I tuned out the chatter and wrung the water from the laundry, Laurel approached me.
Laurel studied my face as if taking the measure of my mood. Letting out a faint sigh, I nodded.
“Ah,” I murmured, my thoughts shifting until they landed on an idea.
When I offered so readily, Laurel shot me a sly glance.
If I ran into him, I ought to say a polite word about that night, but I had no desire to see him. I possessed no interest in the boy.
Nodding halfheartedly, I hurried to gather the laundry. For some reason, I didn't want to bring up the priest.
After saying goodbye to Laurel and the others, I returned home, hung the laundry out to dry, and went into Mrs. Vino's room.
Pushing the window wide, a crisp breeze gradually chased out the foul stench hanging inside. Giving a light stretch, I checked on Mrs. Vino. Half-lidded eyes fixed on empty air, her lips trembled incessantly.
There was nothing in her reaction to glean an answer from. In fact, if her gaze ever focused properly, it would have startled me far more. I wiped away her tears and drool with a damp towel.
Tucking her blanket securely around her, I stood before the mirror before leaving the room. I combed my messy hair once more and braided it neatly. Glancing down at the frayed hem of the skirt I had patched a few days ago, I smacked my lips in mild embarrassment.
No matter how clean I tried to keep myself, I knew this shabbiness would never truly come off.
With the book and my shopping basket in hand, I wrapped a shawl around myself, stepped outside, and walked along the forest path. The darkness, fear, and despair I had felt along this road all came rushing back, interwoven with that handsome face.
The priest was tall. His broad shoulders and solid frame made him look powerful enough to fear nothing. He was very different from the street monk who preached in the plaza, whose belly stuck out as though he were hiding a huge ball beneath his gray cloak.
How hard had he beaten that man? Why had he become a priest? Priests couldn't marry, right? Did he have family? What was he doing at the theater at that hour last night? Then again, I had seen the monk drinking out on the roadside on occasion.
Even as I had rushed frantically through my chores, the ceaseless flood of questions had made my head spin, and here they were dizzying me again.
Would he even answer if I asked? Remembering his blunt, indifferent manner of speaking, a smirk crept unbidden onto my face. A soft prickle of warmth fluttered in my chest.
