Page 127 of Blood and Moonlight

“It was hisskoniatea,” the comte snarls.

“It was myskonia,” says Oudin quickly.

Oudin is defending Simon?

“And I forced her to drink it,” finishes Lambert.

My hearing isn’t strong enough to discern the comte’s reply, but from the sound of it, he stopped struggling.

“She’s gone, Father,” Oudin says. “But you know how much worse she was going to get. Her suffering is over. Maybe this is a blessing.”

“We need to discuss this elsewhere,” adds Lambert. “And let her spirit rest until it can leave.”

Madame Denise steps forward, snuffling. “I’ll stay with her.”

“Simon will do that,” growls the comte. “He has no say in our matters, especially now.”

“I was going to volunteer to stay,” Simon says quietly.

Footsteps move toward the door. “Madame Denise,” says Lambert. I imagine him guiding her out. “Please fetch the tea wemade for Lady Juliane so Father can see for himself how mild it was. We’ll be in the study.”

Simon is left alone, and I desperately want to talk to him. I step away from the house and study the wall. Several wooden beams are set at angles with plaster between them. Grand as it looks, rich people don’t realize the decorative effect only makes it easier for someone to climb up to a second- or third-story window. I’ve just visualized the best way to get up to Juliane’s room when light comes from the window facing the garden. I dodge out of sight and press myself against the wall next to it. Apparently that room is the study.

“I won’t have it known I hadskoniain my house,” the comte is saying. “Nor that my own daughter was mad.”

Oudin snorts. “It’s always about appearances with you, isn’t it, Father?”

The diamond-shaped panes of glass glow brighter as more candles are lit, and a chair creaks as someone—probably the comte—sits down. “You only think so because you care so little,” he says. “I want Simon out of my house by sunrise. I haven’t decided whether that’s on his own or with an escort to the gaol.”

“You can’t imprison a venatre,” Lambert insists.

“Simon botched the inquiry,” the comte snaps. “I’ve got my master architect in prison on his orders, yet he insists the man isn’t guilty. Meanwhile I’ve publicly hanged a man for crimes he didn’t commit.”

A shadow moves across the glass like Lambert is leaning down. “Trust me, Father, no one wants to stop the killer more than Simon.”

“You will take over his investigation.”

“I don’t understand the things he does!” Lambert protests. “He knew exactly what had happened with the grain merchant’s wife before we even found her! If it had been me, I would’vemade the same mistake you did. You should have listened to him!”

No matter what happens, I owe Lambert more than anything.

A knock on the door interrupts what anyone might have said next. Knowing they will all look away from the window, I take the chance to peek in. Madame Denise enters the room, but the glass distorts too much for me to tell what she’s holding.

“Begging you pardon, Your Grace.” She bobs a curtsy. “I’ve brought the pot as you wanted, but it’s empty.”

“Of course it is,” grumbles the comte.

“And I brought this, too,” she continues. “I don’t know where it came from, but I thought it was strange.”

“Is that hair?” the comte asks, rising to his feet.

Grace of Day, Marguerite’s braid. We left it in the kitchen.

“It was on the floor.” The distorted shape of Madame Denise sets something else on the desk. “But this was on the table.”

Red on white is all I can distinguish. The rags Simon used to clean my hand.

“Is that blood?” says the comte. “Who was in the kitchen?”