Page 7 of The Kiss of the Nightingale

CHAPTER SEVEN

A Midnight Stroll

I SNAP MY eyes open, a cry building in the back of my throat. The intruder stands behind me, poised with a palm pressed against my lips, ready to muffle any sound. Will he attack if I try calling for help?

But something is off. The hand is rough, yet too small. Too weak.

I twist around easily and his arm drops at once.

He’s just a kid. Couldn’t be older than eleven. He stares at me with unblinking eyes, and I’m hit with a sense of familiarity. I’ve seen these eyes before. The torn clothes. The blond curls. This is the boy I saw on the main avenue. The one I sent to deliver a message to Anaella. But what is he doing here? Is Anaella . . . ? I can’t even finish that thought.

“Lady Sibille sent me,” he says, and the tension in my chest drops.

Dahlia sent him. Not the nurse.

“Love your house.” The boy takes a step back. There is an ease to the way he moves, a sense of freedom or carelessness. He heads for the tray of sweets resting on a round table in my sitting area, tilting his head from side to side before picking up one of the chocolate pralines. “But this room is way too pink.” He pops the bonbon in his mouth.

I can’t actually argue. The rosy shades of my chambers would never have been my first choice. But this boy clearly didn’t sneak into the house to offer commentary about the interior design .

My eyes follow him as he circles the room, his unwashed hands leaving black stains where he touches. I instinctively wipe my chin with the back of my sleeve.

I wait for him to say more, but he keeps quiet. Did he find my sister? Is she okay? How did he get into the house? What does Dahlia have to do with him?

His appearance is like a wake-up call, or a slap to the face. I’ve been so self-absorbed, caught up in the glamour of it all. The house, the dresses, the audition, the promise of fame. All while my ill sister is in the dark, not knowing my whereabouts, left alone with only a nurse for company. It’s been over a week since I told her I accepted a job in the city—over a week since I’ve seen her. The shame and guilt rise up my throat like acid.

I don’t regret my decision. But the festering frustration is slowly overshadowing the gratitude toward Dahlia. I should never have accepted this separation from my sister.

I break the long silence. “Did . . . did you find Anaella? The girl I asked you to deliver a message to?”

“Oh yes, I knew where she was from before.” He jumps up to sit on the bed, and I can already imagine the look on Pauline’s face in the morning. “I’ve been keeping tabs on you for a while now.”

I blink. “What?”

“I’m one of Lady Sibille’s Eyes.”

His words make no sense, but with the boy’s unwavering gaze everything falls into place. I have been wondering how Dahlia gathers all her information. How she knew so much about me. How she got her hands on my photo to complete the web of lies tying me into my new life. It all seems so obvious now. Children, especially poor ones, are invisible. No one would ever pay attention to a kid in the street. They are the perfect observers. Spies, hidden in plain sight. How many kids run around the city at her command?

“Your sister is doing better,” he says, and I perk up. “Her fever broke. ”

I sigh as relief washes over me. “When . . . when did you see her last?”

He shrugs. “Maybe two days ago. I’ve mostly been following you.”

The shadow in the garden. Our meeting on the avenue. The prickling sensation of being watched at the opera house.

“It was you? Have you been stalking me all this time?”

“Not just me. You have personal security.” He hops off the bed. “Speaking of security, those locks you added on the windows are silly. What with you being guarded and all.”

“Guarded?” The word comes out with a huff.

“Lady Sibille provides the best care for her partners,” he recites. “If I do my job well with you, she’ll promote me!” The eagerness in his tone is undeniable.

I look out at the moonlit garden. The trees sway gently in the wind, casting long arms of shadow on the grass. Is one of Dahlia’s henchmen looming behind them now? Making sure I am safe? Making sure I am doing my part?

“Well, we better go! You don’t want to be late.” He takes another sweet.

“Late?”

“Lady Sibille is waiting for you.”

I immediately wrap my hands over my chest, suddenly overly aware that I’m wearing only a nightgown. The negligee is nothing but a thin layer of ivory chiffon with frills. Certainly not something I can leave the house in. I’m already too naked in front of Dahlia, too fragile, I don’t need to have her eyes following my exposed figure as well. Especially if I want to muster enough courage to demand reuniting with my sister. I have to change. But the boy is already moving.

“Take a cape. It can get cold.” He heads into my dressing area. A moment later he tosses a darkened-gold silk cape in my direction, its fur collar fluttering in the air. I catch a glimpse of the embroidered autumn leaves before the mink hits my face, making me splutter as tufts clump in my mouth .

This will have to do.

“How do we go out?” I wrap the cape over my shoulders and slip into a pair of shoes. “I can’t just walk out the door in the middle of the night. The servants will ask questions.”

His face lights up with a mischievous smile. “The way I came in.”

He skids over to one of the giant tapestries that line the walls. The woven image shows a blooming meadow with graceful deer roaming among the flowers and songbirds flying above—a picture of perfect harmony. The boy, however, clearly doesn’t care about the beauty of it.

With one swift move, he swipes the fabric away. I gasp. A small, round door is hidden behind it.

“Come on,” he says, pushing it open.

I have to bend to not hit my head as I follow him into the low passage. The door closes behind us with a soft click, and darkness overtakes us. The boy shuffles, and a second later a small flame lights the way ahead. He’s holding a silver lighter, his eyes twinkling in the glowing fire.

I have heard of secret passages in manors and castles, helping the servants travel from one place to another discreetly and efficiently, but I imagined they only existed in far larger estates outside the city. The passage takes a sharp turn, leading down a dangerously steep staircase. I reach out and use the wall to steady myself as I put one foot after the other. The boy skips ahead, unaware of any risk.

Another door waits at the bottom. The boy grunts as he pulls it open with both hands, the heavy wood and metal creaking. A gust of cool air hits my face, and I wrap the cape tighter around myself.

We are in the back garden now, round bushes bathed in dim silver moonlight. The boy walks briskly, his small feet making no sound against the soft pebble path. We stick to the edges of the garden, close to the massive hedge blocking it from prying eyes. I sneak a glance back at the dark windows of the house—not a single candle flickering at this hour.

“Over here,” he whispers, right before disappearing through thick branches .

I take a deep breath. No point in delaying. Bending down, I follow him through the bushes. Right behind the dense foliage, the branches give way to a wider opening. I push through them as they grab my cape and scratch my skin. A moment later, I’m standing on a narrow street, a lone lamp at its corner attempting to cast away the darkness. Instead, it creates a myriad of ghostly patches that seem to dance to its, somewhat unnerving, buzzing pulse.

“Keep to the shadows,” the boy says, already walking.

I follow his instructions, trailing just one step behind him. “Where are we going?”

The kid doesn’t answer.

The streets are still, the houses sound asleep. I glance at each estate in anticipation, hoping it might be the one, but the kid pays them no mind. He hums to himself in low tones as he leads me deeper into the maze of the city. Here, rows of buildings tower above us. We are close to the river.

Just as this realization hits, we emerge onto a wide street. Ahead stands the arching bridge leading to L’?le de Lutèce—the true center of the city and the bigger of the two natural islands dotting the wide river.

It’s the one place I wish I could avoid.

A tremble enters my gait as we step onto the bridge. Just ahead—somewhere along the darkened shore—Father’s body was found. They said the river carried him for hours before he hit the rocks.

I can still hear Anaella’s sobs piercing through me as the police handed me the report. The dreaded words are as clear in my mind now as if I were reading them for the first time:

Cause of death: Drowning.

Clear traces of alcohol detected. No signs of struggle. A possible accident or act of self-harm.

An accident. It had to be. Father would never have left us by choice.

But he also never drank. Not even the occasional sip of wine at dinner. Could he have been that desperate ?

He never let Anaella and me see how dreadful our situation had become, never allowed the weight of it to reach us. He always looked strong, hopeful. Even after we lost Mother. But there are cracks even the brightest smile can’t hide—an empty cash register, graying waters, a grieving heart. Father was drowning long before the river took him, stealing his life and dragging his gem into the depths, forever lost beneath the waves.

I gaze at the black surface of the river, imagining the spark of Father’s Talent shining through. But the magic died the moment he drew his last breath. Talents cannot survive without a beating heart—they must be transferred while their last owner is still alive. Even if Father’s gem were found, it would be nothing more than a useless rock.

My hand closes over my ring, the ruby warm to the touch. There is no point in dreaming of a lost Talent when I have one right in my palm.

Shrugging, I stare straight ahead—to where Dahlia is waiting, with the promise of my future. We are halfway across the deserted bridge when I glance over my shoulder. A man in black lingers in the shadows, pausing as I do. When I resume walking he does too, maintaining the same distance.

A chill runs through me. “Someone’s following us,” I whisper.

“It’s just Edmund.” The kid waves me on impatiently. “He’s your guard for the night. Now hurry up.”

Was he behind us this entire time? How did I not notice him sooner? The idea that someone is constantly watching me makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand up. But I have no time to ponder any of it.

We are now across the bridge, walking by the island’s edge along the river. Soon we reach a wide garden stretching right below the massive cathedral that dominates L’?le de Lutèce. Large spires reach into the ebony skies, while intricate Gothic arches give way to stained-glass windows. In the dark, the stone gargoyles nestled between the flying buttresses and pinnacles seem alive, as if they could leap right off the walls and attack .

“Wait here.” The boy points to one of the benches facing the river. “Lady Sibille will arrive soon.”

My stomach tightens. The image of Dahlia’s perfect figure wrapped in her sensual crimson dress resurfaces. But there is also the memory of the ropes cutting my wrists as I fought against them, the gleam of the knife held by her henchman. I sit down, the night suddenly colder, my cape doing little against the goosebumps rising on my skin.

At the edge of the garden, my personal guard is standing watch. Is becoming a watchdog the boy’s future as well? He’s so young, yet there’s almost no innocence left in his eyes. Does his family know where he is? Does he even have a family? He shifts from one foot to the other, unable to stand still. Then his head turns.

“Good luck,” he says, before rushing away.

“Wait! I don’t even know your name.”

“His name is Lirone,” a voice says in my ear.

I turn sharply. Dahlia is sitting right next to me, as though she has been there from the start. Her jasmine perfume fills the air, enveloping me and lulling my mind. When did she get here?

“How lovely to see you again, my Cleo.” One side of her mouth tugs up into half a smile.

Her raven hair is pulled again into a tight bun, revealing her perfect snowy neck. But every other inch of her is covered, cozily wrapped in a monochromatic coat. Black chenille adorns her collar and runs all the way down the front flaps to encircle the trim at the hem. I have to fight the urge to touch it and feel its texture. The crimped fabric is adorned with a pattern of black lilies, mixing silk and velvet seamlessly. It seems familiar, yet I cannot place it. It’s a perfect example of masterful detailing, with richness and depth that denote true opulence.

“Do you like it?” Dahlia asks, and I realize I’ve been staring.

I drop my gaze, my hair falling to the sides of my face like a curtain. She has only just arrived, and I’m already dumbstruck by her presence. How am I supposed to negotiate anything with her like this ?

Dahlia doesn’t wait for me to respond. “I thought we should meet in person to celebrate my nightingale’s first triumph.”

“You know about the audition?” I cringe as the question leaves my lips. Of course she knows about it.

She stares straight ahead at the gushing river as though I haven’t even spoken. In the silver shine of the moon her features seem softer, rounder, exuding an almost ethereal glow. Her lips are slightly parted, and her chest rises and falls in a slow, rhythmic motion that’s undeniably sensual—desirable.

“You have done well,” she says. “Luxury suits you. I assume you find everything to your liking?”

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” I blurt, the sudden need to please her overwhelming. I bite into my lip. I’m not usually like this. So why do my limbs feel weak? I shake my head to clear it, searching for the little courage and conviction that still reside under my skin. “Except . . .”

Dahlia raises her brow.

This is my chance. My opportunity to speak up right after a success. I’ve done well and she has acknowledged it. If there were ever a time to make demands, this would be it. And yet I can’t bring myself to speak. What if she sees me as ungrateful? Or worse, what if I upset her? What if instead of helping Anaella I put her at risk?

“I always loved this little island,” Dahlia says as my silence stretches. “My father used to take me to the great cathedral every week when I was a child. But he never wanted me to be a part of the deals he conducted under its shadow at night.” Her voice is soft, yet each word captivates me fully, as though I’m being let in on a secret so intimate it can be mentioned only under the protection of the darkness. “I wasn’t the one meant to take over my father’s role.”

A fluttering feeling rises in my chest as the meaning of her words sinks in. There is only one reason she wouldn’t be in line to inherit. Is it a trick? A way to draw the question out of me? Could she have known what I was going to ask of her? I press my lips together, not wanting to lose in whatever game she’s playing, but my curiosity is too strong.

“You had a sibling, didn’t you?”

Her large doe eyes narrow as she examines me. It’s possible I’ve crossed a line, fallen into whatever trap her story presents. But then she stands up, the moon peeking through the trees and casting dappled shadow on her face. “Walk with me,” she says.

I follow as she trails closer to the riverbank, her gaze reserved only for the racing water.

“I loved my brother.” Her voice is so gentle now that I have to strain to hear her over the current. “But he was always the destined one. The chosen heir. No one ever saw his fall coming. Life has a twisted way to mess with fate, though, doesn’t it?” She pushes a stray hair behind her ear, and a lone, angelic tear gathers at the corner of her eye.

Her vulnerability presents such a striking contrast to the impression of unshakable dominance that has lingered in my head from our last meeting that I’m lost. I want to be mad at her, to blame her for not telling me the details of our bargain beforehand, for forcing me to deal with the guilt of leaving my sister behind. I’m not ready to let my anger go, yet it seeps out of me without my permission, stolen away with each word she utters. I want to tell myself it’s all an act, but somehow I’m certain she isn’t lying. There is a timbre to her voice, a breathy quality and fragility that strikes me as undoubtedly honest.

“What happened to him?” I whisper.

“He died.”

“I’m so sorry. You must miss him.”

“More than anything.”

Maybe it’s the way her voice brims with love and regret, or maybe it’s the familiarity of the weight she’s carrying. Whatever it is, I can’t help but feel drawn to her and want to know more. “Would you tell me a bit about him? ”

She turns to face me, her irises glinting like a moonbeam dancing across a black lake. At this moment she’s a being of divinity, a rare beauty not from this world. Yet at the same time there is humanity in her pain, a sense of longing that mirrors my own. I’m suddenly struck by how young she is beneath the layers of composure—scarcely in her mid-twenties, yet clearly forced to act in a manner beyond her age for too long.

The urge to comfort her nestles within me as I take a step toward her. She freezes, her body hardening, as though my movement has awoken her from a trance.

She catches herself, a flash of anger crossing her face.

I drop my gaze to the ground. “I’m sorry . . . I . . .”

The gushing river fills the silence between us as Dahlia’s fingers find my chin. She lifts it up gently, all traces of tension within her evaporated.

“It’s a tough world, my Cleo,” she whispers. “But the past cannot help us. To succeed we must defy the rules, reinvent them. And make sacrifices. No one wanted me to take my brother’s place, to inherit. No one thought a girl should have anything to do with an empire.”

There is bitterness in her words, mixed with a sense of conviction so complete that it echoes in every cell of my body. I cannot imagine anyone not seeing her as mighty enough to command whichever role she pleases, but her strength comes from a place of struggle. She proved herself while inheriting what was not meant for her. And even though she doesn’t say the word, I know what she truly means—a Talent. With such power, what possible magic could lie within her?

“Why are you telling me this?” My voice trembles.

Dahlia’s hand hovers uncertainly between us before she takes a deep breath and clasps my own. “I know you miss your sister,” she says. “I need you to know that I understand what you feel before telling you that it must stay this way for a while.”

My heart drops. She knew what I wanted to ask all along. “But I need her. ”

“Anaella cannot be at your side until your position is stable. I promise you she is in trusted hands, but her health is still too precarious. Do you think it’ll go unnoticed if the city’s newest Dame suddenly has to care for an ill sister? Never mind one whose condition worsened from clear lack of proper Talented attention. Even her traveling ‘from the countryside’ in such a state will raise too many questions. We must not have that. I also cannot allow you to visit her at your father’s shop. You must not be seen in those parts of the city, not even at night.”

My free hand curls into a fist by my side, and Dahlia cups my cheek in her other palm. Her skin is soft, her fingers warm, her touch electrifying.

“However,” she continues, “you can write to her. Letters I can allow.”

Letters. At least that way I can tell Anaella I’m alright. I can let her know I didn’t just abandon her. That I’m thinking of her. And I hate that the thought even comes to my mind, but letters will also allow me to hide parts of the truth more easily. If I saw my sister now, I’d probably end up spilling all the secrets Dahlia wants me to keep.

“I know you wish I had been upfront with you before, but in my business it is prudent to withhold a certain amount of information as a precaution. But worry not, my Cleo. I promise you and your sister will be reunited soon, and there are two things I never do: lie, or break my word. I need you to trust that.”

The sour taste of her earlier manipulation still lingers in my mouth, twisting my stomach into knots, but Dahlia’s unwavering gaze is honest.

I do believe her.

She will keep her word—Anaella and I will be together, and our lives will be better for this unwanted separation. I glance down at my fidgeting hands, the rough edges of my fingernails digging into my palms. The best thing I can do for both of us is to keep going, make sure it will all be worth it.

I nod my acceptance, and Dahlia sighs before continuing. “Good. For now, you have to stay focused. Can you do that for me?”

“Y-yes. ”

She smiles, and the pain washes from her face as though my words alone are enough to mend her heart. With a single breath she pulls away from me, and my chest tightens, longing for the unexpected closeness we just shared.

“Well, my lovely, I didn’t call you here just to chat. It is time we talked about your first assignment.”

The shift in her tone is even more jarring than the sudden distance between us. Her pristine mask is back in its place—regal, confident, powerful, no cracks of pain or frailty to be found. I was so wrapped up in the moment I nearly forgot the role she expects me to perform. My mouth turns dry, my heart accelerating.

“My assignment?”

“You are my thief, after all.” Dahlia chuckles.

“I don’t want to hurt anyone.” The words leave my mouth before I can think.

Her perfect brow rises, her dark eyes unblinking. “You truly mean that, don’t you?” There is something unnerving in the way she studies me. Perhaps there’s even a glint of confusion in her glare. But then she blinks, her smile returning. “Fear not. I have a feeling you will like this mission.”

I doubt I can like anything that forces me to steal. Under the looming presence of the cathedral, just speaking about it feels like a sin already committed. Not that my feelings matter. Whatever the mission might be, I will perform it. For Anaella’s health. For our new future. To become victorious and change my fate, as Dahlia has done for herself. I agreed to become a thief, and I will keep up my end of the bargain, just as Dahlia honors hers.

“You have met Vicomte Lenoir twice already, haven’t you?” Dahlia tilts her head.

The vicomte’s smug face immediately fills my mind, the image of his green eyes staring at me roiling my insides with a wave of anger. “Yes, I have. ”

“The vicomte has recently inherited a Mathematical Talent from his retired father.”

“You mean . . .”

“You are to get close enough to him to steal it.”

“But . . . he’s—”

“A patron of the opera,” Dahlia says.

“And from a noble family.”

“Which only makes his Talent more lucrative.”

Her voice is so casual, so certain, yet what she asks is far from it. Even among the Elite there is a hierarchy: the older the Talent, the stronger it is. And the nobles have been honing their gems for too many years to count, back to when the first enchanted mines were discovered, and the Crown shared their magical gems with only their closest court.

The vicomte’s Talent must be one of the oldest in all of Francia, perhaps on the entire continent—a true legacy. I never thought I’d actually see one, let alone try to steal it.

“There’s no need to be afraid.” Dahlia’s eyes soften.

“What if I get—”

“Caught?” Dahlia cuts me off again. “I’ve been planning this operation for a very long time. The nobility have become complacent. And in any case, I will not let any harm come your way.”

I force myself to swallow. This was always a part of the deal. “Why . . . why him ?”

“I’ve already told you, my dear Cleo, I supply whatever my clients desire. Besides, it has been too long since any truly powerful Talents have disappeared , don’t you agree?”

I bite my lip as I watch the corners of hers twitch. She’s referring to the great panic that took hold of the city about three years ago, when seven of the most prominent members of Lutèce’s society woke up with their Talents gone—no magic pulsating in their veins. The thieves had stolen not only their gems, but worse, their blood, allowing the illicit transfer of their gifts. It was all anyone could talk about for nearly a year. The newspapers were filled with speculation, but the police never managed to trace the culprits. Though now, I have the sense that the main one is looking right at me.

“I . . .” My voice falters. “I don’t think the vicomte likes me very much.”

Dahlia trails her hand over my arm, tracing the leaf pattern of my cape. “You are a charming young lady, and I’m certain you can find a way to make him change his mind. You shall get close enough to him to steal a sample of his blood. The gem will come later.”

I’m not sure what “later” means, but that secretive, knowing smile of hers makes it clear that the full extent of her plan will not be shared with me. Not yet, at least. All I can do is follow along.

After all, this is what I signed up for—the cost of changing my fate. And if anything, the choice of the vicomte only proves that Dahlia is a woman of her word. She promised I won’t hurt anyone, that I will steal only from those who can afford it. None of those aristocrats who lost their Talents a few years ago were driven to poverty. None of them suffered the pain I know so well—they haven’t lost their identity and future. Just like them, the vicomte will lose his social standing, at most—his pride. But as a noble, his life of comfort and richness is promised, with or without his Talent. In fact, chances are he doesn’t even use his gift; most of the Elites only wear theirs for show. Taking it from him might well be a service.

Not to mention his entitlement, his rudeness.

Dahlia is right—of all the targets she could have given me, at least the vicomte is one I won’t lose sleep over. And if the choice is between him keeping a Talent he probably doesn’t even appreciate and my future, there is really no decision to be made. The only downside of this mission is the need to spend time with him.

Dahlia turns back toward the cathedral. “Expect Lirone in the evenings.”

Lirone? It takes me a second to understand she’s talking about the boy .

“You are to update him daily on any and all matters—nothing is too small or insignificant when it comes to creating connections with the upper class. And he can pass your letters and your sister’s responses between you two.” She pauses under a large chestnut tree, laden with late white blooms. “Can I trust you with that?”

I nod, and her smile makes my breath catch.

“In fifteen days, there will be a gala at the opera house to begin the summer social season, and if my sources are right, you are to open the concert. It’s a chance for the opera to introduce their new star. The vicomte will be there. For now, focus on getting close to him. I shall eagerly await the news that he’s completely taken with you.”

“I won’t disappoint you,” I whisper.

Dahlia steps closer to me, so close her warm breath brushes against my skin. An unfamiliar heat grows inside me, responding to her presence, her sensuality. But more than that, I feel a yearning for the intimacy of the woman I saw behind the perfect mask. My body tingles, suddenly craving things I only ever dared imagine in the shelter of night. My head starts spinning.

And when she speaks, I’m left with no air.

“I know.”