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Chapter Three

The Straw Man

The next morning, it feels like I’ve swallowed glass as I creep through the armory, careful to keep my footsteps light and my coughs quiet—because even Lou’s tea cannot heal a night of screams. The sun hasn’t yet risen, and my brethren haven’t yet descended. With any amount of luck, I’ll finish my training session before they arrive for theirs—in and out without an audience.

Jean Luc assured me I wouldn’t need training in the traditional sense, but clearly, I can’t serve as a huntsman without it.

The other Chasseurs waste no time with books and traps.

I run cold fingers over colder weaponry, almost nicking myself in the darkness. Storm clouds shroud the pale gray light of dawn through the windows. It’ll soon rain. Another excellent reason to get on with this. Seizing a lance at random, I nearly wake the dead when it slips from my grip and clatters to the stone floor.

“Christ’s bones.” I hiss the words, swooping low to retrieve it and struggling to lift the awkward, bulky thing back to the table. How anyone can wield such an instrument is beyond me. My eyes dart to the door, to the corridor beyond. If I strain, I can just hear the low voices and gentle sounds of servants in the kitchen, but no one comes to investigate. They don’t come at night either—not the servants, not the huntsmen, and not the captain. We all pretend not to hear my screams.

Flustered now—inexplicably agitated—I choose a more sensible staff instead. My Balisarda remains tucked safely away upstairs.

I certainly don’t need to stab anything today.

With one last glance behind me, I tiptoe to the training yard, where straw men loom along the wrought iron fence, leering at me. Notched wooden posts and archery targets join them, as well as a great stone table in the center. A striped awning shields it from the elements. Jean Luc and Father Achille often stand beneath it, speaking low and furtive about those things they refuse to share.

It doesn’t concern you, Célie.

Please don’t worry.

Except nothing seems to concern me, according to Jean Luc, and I do worry—I worry enough to avoid my brethren, to sneak into the training yard at five o’clock in the morning. After my first bout in the yard all those months ago, I quickly realized my skills as a huntsman lay... elsewhere.

Like building traps?

Rubbing my eyes, I scowl and sidle up to the first of the straw men.

If my dream last night proved anything, it’s that I cannot go home. I cannot go back. I can only go forward.

“Right.” I narrow my eyes at the unpleasant effigy, widening my stance as I’ve seen men do. My skirt—heavy blue wool—blows slightly in the wind. Rolling my neck, I hold the staff out in front of me with both hands. “You can do this, Célie. It’s simple.” I nod and bounce on the balls of my feet. “Remember what Lou told you. Eyes”—I swipe my stick for good measure—“ears”—I swipe again, harder this time—“nose”—another swipe—“and groin.”

Mouth twisting determinedly, I lunge with a vicious jab, prodding the man in the stomach. The straw doesn’t give, however, and my momentum drives the opposite end of the staff into my stomach instead, knocking the wind from me. I double over and rub the spot gingerly. Bitterly.

Applause sounds from the armory door. I almost miss it amidst the rumble of thunder overhead, but the laughter—I can’t mistake that. It belongs to him . Cheeks blazing crimson, I whirl to find Frederic strolling toward me, flanked on either side by a handful of Chasseurs. He smirks and continues to applaud, each clap of his hands slow and emphatic. “Bravo, mademoiselle. That was brilliant.” His companions chuckle as he slings an arm across my straw man’s shoulders. He doesn’t wear his coat this morning, just a thin linen shirt against the chill. “Much better than last time. A marked improvement.”

Last time I tripped on my hem and nearly broke my ankle.

Thunder reverberates around us once more. It echoes my black mood. “Frederic.” I stoop stiffly to retrieve my staff. Though large in my hand, it looks small and insignificant compared with the longsword in his. “How are you this morning? I trust you slept well?”

“Like a babe.” He grins and plucks the staff from me when I move to turn away. “I must admit that I’m curious, though. What are you doing here, Mademoiselle Tremblay? It didn’t sound as if you slept well.”

So much for pretending.

Gritting my teeth, I struggle to keep my voice even. “I’m here to train, Frederic, same as you. Same as all of you,” I add, casting my brethren a pointed look. They don’t bother to avert their gazes, to blush or busy themselves elsewhere. And why should they? I’m their greatest source of entertainment.

“ Are you?” Frederic’s grin stretches wider as he examines my staff, rolling it between his calloused fingers. “Well, we hardly train with shoddy old staffs, mademoiselle. This scrap of wood won’t debilitate a witch.”

“The witches don’t need to be debilitated.” I lift my chin to glare at him. “Not anymore.”

“No?” he asks, arching a brow.

“ No. ”

A Chasseur across the yard—a truly unpleasant man by the name of Basile—drops from the top of a notched post. He raps his knuckles against it before calling, “Only two scraps of wood will do that! A stake and a match!” He guffaws as if he’s just told an enormously funny joke.

I glare at him, unable to bite my tongue. “Don’t let Jean Luc hear you.”

Now he does avert his gaze, muttering petulantly, “Take it easy, Célie. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Oh, how silly of me. You’re hilarious, of course.”

Chuckling, Frederic tosses my staff to the mud. “Don’t worry, Basile. Jean Luc isn’t here. How could he know unless someone tells him?” He flips his longsword and catches it by the blade before thrusting the handle toward me. “But if you really want to train with us, Célie , by all means, I’d like to help.” Lightning forks over Saint-Cécile, and he raises his voice to be heard over the thunder. “We all would, wouldn’t we?”

Something stirs in his eyes at the question.

Something stirs in the yard.

I take a tentative step backward, glancing at the others, who stalk steadily closer. Two or three have the decency to look uncomfortable now. “That—that won’t be necessary,” I say, forcing a deep breath. Forcing calm. “I can just spar with the straw man—”

“Oh, no, Célie, that won’t do.” Frederic shadows my steps until my back presses into another straw man. Panic skitters up my spine.

“Leave her alone, Frederic.” One of the others, Charles, shakes his head and steps forward. “Let her train.”

“Jean Luc will crucify us if you hurt her,” his companion adds. “I’ll spar with you instead.”

“Jean Luc”—Frederic speaks smoothly, casually, unperturbed except for the hard glint in his eyes—“knows his pretty little fiancée doesn’t belong here. What do you think, Célie?” He offers me the longsword once more, tilting his head. Still grinning. “Do you belong here?”

I can hear his unspoken question, can see it reflected in all their eyes as they watch us.

Are you a huntsman, or are you the captain’s pretty little fiancée?

I’m both , I want to snarl at them. But they won’t hear me, perhaps cannot hear me, so I straighten my shoulders instead, meeting Frederic’s gaze and wrapping my fingers around his longsword. “Yes.” I bite the word, hoping he hears the snap of my teeth. Hoping they all hear it. “I do happen to belong here. Thank you for asking.”

With a derisive laugh, he releases the blade.

Unable to bear its weight, I stagger forward, nearly impaling myself as my hem snares my feet, and the sword and I tumble toward the ground. He catches my elbow with a beleaguered sigh, leaning close and lowering his voice. “Just admit it, ma belle. Wouldn’t you prefer the library?”

I stiffen at the diminutive.

“No.” Wrenching my arm away, I straighten my skirt and smooth my bodice, eyes and cheeks hot. I point to the longsword and struggle to keep my voice steady. “I would , however, prefer a different weapon. I can’t use that one.”

“Obviously.”

“Here.” Charles, who drifted to my side without notice, offers me a small dagger. The first drop of rain lands upon its needle-thin blade. “Take this.”

Before I joined the Chasseurs, I might’ve lingered on the smile lines around his eyes, the gallantry of such a gesture. The compassion of it. I would’ve imagined him as a knight in shining armor, incapable of associating with the likes of Frederic . I would’ve imagined the same for myself—or perhaps imagined myself as a maiden locked in a tower. Now I resist the impulse to curtsy, inclining my head instead. “Thank you, Charles.”

With another deep breath, I turn toward Frederic, who twirls the longsword between his palms. “Shall we begin?” he asks.