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33

DUPONT

T here was no hushing up the news of a witch in town this time.

Nor did Léon want to.

Everything had fallen exactly into place.

He’d cleared his name.

He’d cleared Souveraine’s name, and whatever happened next, she could go back to Reims without him if she wanted to.

He’d cleared Catherine’s name, too.

On his account, Henry had become the scapegoat for the embarrassing scandal of Catherine's repeated escapes. The murders on the boat, on top of those Henry had actually killed, were all attributed to him, making him, officially, the most prolific murderer the city had ever seen.

But the real jewel in the crown of Léon’s grand plan was, and had always been, Henry’s isolation. If he had been thought guilty of lesser crimes, had the people been less terrified of him, then he might have been locked in Reims Prison, untouchable. As it stood, he was to remain alone in the crumbling, disused Witches’ Tower.

The doors and the walls there were warded with whatever scrawls people two-hundred years prior had thought sufficient for keeping people of dark magic trapped inside. The chains and the shackles that bound Henry’s hands and feet were inscribed just the same.

It horrified Léon to think of the conditions up there, so he did not think of it. He applied every waking hour to playing his public role, and he built Henry’s pyre with his own hands. He worked alongside people who wanted to kill Henry, and he revealed his growing exhaustion and fear to one man only.

DuPont’s kind nature made him watch over Léon far more than Léon would have liked, but when he asked how he was feeling about it, Léon stuck to his script. “It’s barbaric. I do believe it needs to be done, but I honestly don’t know if I have the heart to drop the burning torch.”

It was easy to be honest then. It was easy to let through some of that loathing for the act, his revulsion at the thought of charring Henry’s skin. But not too much. Never too much. Not until the very last night, when he took all the money he’d saved his entire life, what precious little there was of it, and divided it into two equal piles. He put on his boots, then stuffed all his and émile’s belongings that he could carry into two bags. These, he slung over Destroyer’s back, then he rode, late, to DuPont’s home.

He was received with both surprise and amiability, and invited into DuPont’s office. There, he told him he was leaving. Forever. “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t, even after everything he’s done, I can’t burn him.”

DuPont came around the table to him, all warm concern. “Then let one of us do it—Mollard will happily take over for you.”

He would too, the slimy bastard. Léon lowered his head. “It’s not only that. I do not want to keep on. I intend to take émile and find some new vocation, somewhere far away.”

“And Souveraine?” he asked. “You’ll sell the inn?”

Léon hadn’t considered being asked the question. Deftly, he deflected, “I have not discussed the matter with her yet. If she returns, that will be sign enough she did not agree with my plans.”

On a wise smile, “I think she would follow you to the end of the earth and back.”

“I fear you are correct,” Léon replied, staring into the flames in the hearth.

DuPont regarded him for a time, then eventually sighed out, “Well, I can’t say I’m surprised. You haven’t been the same since… since Marie.”

His Godmother. True enough. “That’s what I came to see you about.” He brought out a bag containing half his money. “I want you to give this to her daughters. It’s not their fault, what Marie did.” The words were like poison on his tongue. She hadn’t done a damn thing wrong. But he always played the game.

DuPont hung his head solemnly, and though he hesitated, he took the money as requested. “I know it’s been hard on you.”

The memory repeated itself—Léon standing on the scaffold, the crowd screaming, Marie’s tear-stained face. The humanity he’d tried so hard to block out, and failed to. And there were the feelings that had so lately come upon him. The hopes and ideas inspired by Henry’s idealism, Henry’s optimism, even in the face of horror.

“I’ll write you two letters,” said DuPont, taking a seat, then wiping his quill against his ink pot. “One, a character reference, and you can do what you like with that. And the other…” He peered at Léon hard. “I will write you a reference as executioner.”

Léon hadn’t come for any sort of reference. He’d come only for an alibi and a favour. He was close to asking him not to waste his time, as he was sure he would never again work in that trade. But DuPont shut him down. “The times are dark out there. You never know what you’ll need to do to survive.” He scrawled a while, then folded the papers, and handed them over. “Wherever you go, remember, you always have a home here. You can always come back.”

There was an air of ownership in the words, an implication that failure was imminent. But Léon took the papers and shook DuPont’s hand. “Thank you. I’m departing now. You were my last stop. I’m heading south to Troyes. That’s where Souveraine is. Then we shall find some quiet country village to make a home in.”

They said a fond farewell, and with the head administrator of Reims believing Léon had left the city, Léon did a heel turn and made for the home of the last person he ever wanted to see again: Thibault Mollard.