Chapter Seventeen:

Paris was a dirty city. This fact startled him and yet did not, his eyes searching out and finding the same filth and muck he thought marked every collection of houses in the world as a city, and therefore possessing more shit than simply a town or village.

Having been born in London, it was strange that he should have doubted that fact, but

James had other memories of green fields and air sweet with rain, and when others would

speak of the grandness of their home cities or the promise of the future of the New World, he found himself remembering the feel of wet dirt under his shoes. He had not the soul for farming, anymore than he had the soul for piracy, whatever the lady Mirena had thought, but he could remember, and decide that if there was ever to be Paradise in the world of man, it would be outside, in a field open to the Heavens.

The streets beneath them, outside the carriage's window, were filled with people despite gray sky and icy wind, their many voices just a murmur above the creakings of wood around him and the rapid thunder of the horses' hooves, drawing the coach at as fast a pace as the city would allow. Only upon entering the city, crossing a bridge that Etienne had recognized with a small huff of air, had they increased their speed. The chill in the air seemed to be reaching the son of Saint-Cyr, as René had referred to him in his sleep; Etienne was shivering in the thin clothes lent to him.

James let himself study the wisps of cloth that made up the other man's pantaloons and shirt, not surprised that even the heavier coat had holes in it. It was all the good lady pirate had been willing to share with him, her mind no doubt guessing James' purpose in asking for the clothing. Etienne had not said a word about them however, and had not yet complained of cold that James had heard; flicking one considering look to the long, warm coat that James had donned at the same lady's request. He had not asked for it, and James had not offered it, reminding himself of René's hatred of this man, and of his own already-committed treason in helping free him now.

He shifted his position, the long carriage ride in cold and silence preying on his mood and leaving him with an energy in his veins that he could not dispel. He had no desire to laugh, mayhap since his madness was already apparent in this act, but the need for motion—for battle, Deniau would say, remained. His belly turned with it, and he swallowed, tasting sourness along his tongue.

"You are in England." Such a tired, hopeless whisper.

He was not far from home, he knew. Two days of frantic travel would have him in London again. If he were to leave, cowardly but wise, he would be home, safe with his father and step-mother, ready to get up in the morning and resume work in the shop as though he had not ever left. Ben might be with him, eyes wide as Rebecca—his lady Mother, forced him to sit and eat her sweet soft breads and puddings until the bones no longer showed through his skin.

He looked so thin. Pale in his anger at James but for the fire in his cheeks and eyes, and

James closed his eyes, his sick stomach churning more to remember the number of ribs he could count on René's gaunt form, even seeing it before had not prepared him for the pain of it, the fingers extended across the white skin as though wanting to hide it from him.

"I will have thee clean," he had tried to speak so softly, not wanting even his breath to hurt, and yet he thought it had, for René's dark eyes had fluttered, open then closed, only to open again, his face flushed as the water had not made it.

He did not think René remembered him, after he had put René to bed, the whimpers of nightmares and the quiet that James' body, warm along his back, had brought at last. He did not think René would wish to remember, when he woke and discovered this.

But it was right, just as Etienne's mistreatment was wrong, whatever the reason. And René would be made to see it or he would kill James, and James could not stop his shame, or the shiver of his own, to realize that despite his words, he was not certain

René would not do just that for this interference. It would gain René nothing but another black mark on his soul for the act, for Etienne had been clear that nothing would stop his father from seeking revenge once the fate of Etienne's trading venture was known.

"Father is the Devil himself," Etienne had confessed in Parisian as James had cut the bonds from the other man's wrists and repeated the words of their bargain. "This will do no good." Etienne did not even seem to notice how solemn his vow seemed as he said it. His lips had formed a sneer.

"Some say that about René Villon," James had answered, without amusement, glancing away just as Etienne turned to him, eyebrows up as though he had been surprised. He did not comment on James saying the name to him, as he had not before, in Port Royal, and

James was left wondering what Etienne Saint-Cyr knew, or suspected, lay between René and himself. The silence had been a condition of their bargain; they both were aware of it even if not a word had ever been uttered directly.

The prisons in the city were famous enough; James had no wish to visit them. Had he been at home, a great crowd would have enjoyed watching him hang. And neither direction offered much to comfort to his father and mother, or Ben.

There were heavy framed churches everywhere along the road they traveled, or perhaps they were not churches at all. The large buildings of stone had no spiraling towers or magnificent arches, just the carved stone and glass facades of such grand buildings, and for a moment James admired them, recalling the wood and thatch that had so easily fallen to the fire in his own city. If it was arrogance or faith that had led so many rich Frenchmen to construct houses that could have served as cathedrals, he did not know, but he counted the number of them to distract himself, noting that for all the fine houses, the streets before them were still lined with straw and refuse.

"You have not been to Paris, have you, James?" Etienne questioned him softly, and James turned to see him staring out at the same scenery. "We are not on the island," Etienne whispered, unknowing or uncaring that James did not understand his meaning. Then his body shook, a slight shiver seeming to start at his feet and then working up to a strong shudder that sent the dark hair spilling over his shoulders. Etienne had found his face paints again, from some dark source, but he had not found a wig. At least not one to his liking.

He looked strange now, in his borrowed finery and his dusted face and stained lips, shaped as a woman's might be. His mouth was no match to the red of René's, and yet James had watched him use his smallest finger to smudge the colour onto his face. The paint did not hide the darkness under the other man's eyes, or his body's thinness, but it had pleased Etienne enough that he had grown silent, only his eyes belying his stillness, darting in every direction as though expecting an attack.

"Here," Etienne barked and lifted a hand to bang on the wall of the carriage before James could do more then turn and stare at the darkened front of yet another hôtel. If they had not stopped he would have thought it empty, or that the family were mourning, curtains were drawn over every window, and the glass seemed dirty, not as polished as some of the other houses had seemed, gleaming even with the gray sky above.

"Our home in Paris." Etienne smiled thinly and waited, startling James into leaving the carriage first with his very act of waiting. He stood like a fool in the dirt of the street, his stomach turning as Etienne floated up the small stairs to the door of the house, uneasy to see how lightly Etienne sought to treat this whole situation. But he followed, he had no choice now.

Only a single candle lit the entryway, and James blinked, stopping behind Etienne as the darkness of the house blinded him. He saw movement, and turned in time to see the liveried back of a servant disappear behind a black velvet curtain. What room lay beyond the shrouded door he could not tell, and he looked back to Etienne, wondering if one of the Saint-Cyrs had died.

Etienne’s step was quick, lively, so happy to be home perhaps that James shivered as the last gust from the closing door hit his neck and pushed him forward. If this was not a place of death, then it was not a place of life either.

There was another set of doors just in front of them, closed and silent, and James could not guess how many doors he would have to open to be allowed into this place. But Etienne grasped the handle without waiting for the servant to return to do so, likely having sent the man away when James had first been too stunned to notice much of anything.

Light crept out from behind the burnished doors and James had to blink again, focusing rapidly as he stepped into a large hall where gray curtains had been opened on the opposite wall, letting in what sunlight there was to be had.

“Etienne, my darling!” The excited cry of a young girl was the last sound James had thought to hear upon coming to this house, and to hear it addressing Etienne Saint-Cyr made it seem all the more strange. He felt his brows rise as he looked up to find the speaker.

A slim form was frozen in place at the top of a long, curling staircase that went higher than the long, rectangular windows, with one small foot still extended beyond the hem of the young lady’s skirts as though she had forgotten it. Her slipper was black, and faded, and James blinked to see it before he looked away from the glimpse of her stocking, glancing back at Etienne.

The other man was smiling, his cheeks curved far enough to show the smile as genuine, though it was already fading, slipping away to his usual thin smirk.

“Your sister,” James murmured, barely earning a nod from Etienne. He felt a fool; Etienne had mentioned his sisters in Port Royal, and his mission to earn dowries for them. James simply had not expected to see one of them, or to find her so different from her brother.

“You are not alone?” Etienne’s sister took another step down the stairs, pausing to pose the question to her brother. Though when James turned back to her, he found her studying him intently, her head dipped to one side.

“Suzette.” Etienne said her name sharply, drawing a vexed noise from the girl and starting her into motion again. She slipped one pale hand from her side and draped it along the stair’s railing, smoothing down the wood of the banister as she moved. The scarf at her wrist reached all the way to the floor, and she let it trail after her with each gliding step, the red a contrast to the light yellow shade of her gown.

Closer, James could see her hair was dark, nearly black in fact and held up by an arrangement of roses so that a few curls rested on her collar. She wore no jewels, and James did not think that such a lady needed them, though he could easily imagine her wearing earbobs of purple, or gold as the one he wore now. The girl held all of her brother’s grace, and James knew he was smiling too, as she came nearer.

Something sharp poked into his side and James straightened, his eyes widening at the realization that Etienne stood next to him, holding some sort of blade, the end digging into James’ skin.

His mind could not grasp the threat he posed, and he swallowed, firming his lips when Etienne spoke low in his ear.

“Tell her nothing.” Ferocity gave Etienne’s voice a weight it had never carried before, and then the blade was gone, tucked away into a sleeve as the lady Suzette placed both of her white hands on her brother’s shoulders and pulled him close to kiss his cheeks.

James put a hand to his side though the pain was dim, nothing to the throbbing that still stung the flesh of his ear. His mind instead chose to dwell on the knowledge that Etienne had been armed, and for a moment, James recalled René in his room the night before, weak near to fainting, but still clutching at a knife hidden in his clothing.

“You are pale. Did it go well? He is not at home.” She whispered quickly but James still heard her, narrowing his eyes when she glanced over to him and then blinking in confusion when she smiled brightly and stepped back from Etienne to face him.

“Our visitor is handsome, oh, Etienne, have you brought me a husband?” Lady Suzette clapped her hands together and smiled, pausing only a moment to sick out her lower lip as her scarf fell to the floor. James stooped to pick it up but Etienne was faster, grabbing it and handing it back to his sister with a little laugh.

“No, my dear, he is no husband for you.” The fabric slipped through Etienne’s fingers as his sister draped it back around her shoulders, the movement so silken James imagined he could feel the cool rush of cloth over his palm. But Etienne’s small grin was not a pleasing sight, and James lifted his chin, wondering if the mockery he saw there was real or imagined.

“La, so threatening…” It was the hushed voice of the lady that brought James back, made him realize that he was scowling at the man he had chosen to follow here. It was in Etienne’s power to have them all detained, perhaps even killed or stripped of their possessions, and yet he had not killed James now, or told his sister the truth of what had happened. At least, he had not done so yet; his dealings with René had taught James to beware that, at least, and wait and see what would come next.

His face was warm, and James realized that he had blushed, that somehow he still had some shame, and he was grateful he had left behind the weapon lent to him. If the lady had not reminded him of his appearance, he might have been grasping at that in anger in the same manner as René.

“He is a sailor?” Suzette continued to speak to her brother without looking in any direction but at James, her eyes so dark that it seemed to James that she could not be anyone but Etienne’s sister. Only the Saint-Cyrs seemed to have eyes so black and penetrating. “And he blushes!” she paused to sigh, almost sadly, and James felt his shoulders twitch. “But he does not speak.”

“Forgive me,” Etienne nodded in his direction, and then coughed delicately, speaking abruptly in English. “And forgive my sister, she is but a child and does not know when to be silent.” As though a grave insult had been offered, the girl’s smile faded, and for a small moment her gaze was hard on her brother. But in profile James could see the truth of Etienne’s statement all the more clearly. Her skin had the high colour of youth, as though a light were deep inside of her that had not yet been dimmed. A few years beyond Ben’s age, at most, though he thought she might be striving to appear older.

“My Lady.” Uncertain on what to say, James greeted her quietly, holding out a hand, and then pulling it back, only to extend it once more when she held hers up for him to take, the gesture so exquisite that James almost hesitated again. The last woman he had spent any time with at all had been L’Aranha, and her hands were even more calloused than his own; a hundred times harder and quicker.

His face heated, unexpectedly caught by the memory of the lady Mirena’s hands passing over him needlessly only hours ago, to hold him still she had claimed. He had not moved until her needle had first pierced the flesh of his ear, and even then it had been due to the heavy breath at his neck, and tickling of blood on his skin as her gift to him, a small, gold circle, had settled. The weight was greater than he had thought, a constant tug at a spot that still pained him, and James blinked and focused in a slight panic on Mademoiselle Suzette in front of him, on the black eyes that seemed to read his thoughts and traveled to his ear, studying the ring in obvious fascination.

“What have you brought me, Etienne?” the lady breathed, for all her years sounding like a willful child. James could feel his face growing as hot as the throbbing flesh of his earlobe.

Much too late to hide his clumsiness, he took her hand, bending over it briefly and then letting go as he straightened. If he had erred there was no sign on the lady’s face now, only a sharpness that he thought somehow he should not have noticed behind the perfume and rice powder.

James glanced to Etienne, and found Saint-Cyr looking at him as well, all of them silent as though manners still left them with no way to converse equally. It was James’ fault, he knew that. The French needed no title to claim nobility and he was a bookseller’s son at best, a pirate at worst. He had followed here uninvited as well, mayhap not trusting in the promise from Etienne though he had said he did, and now he had forgotten his purpose, just as he had at the first sight of Etienne’s sister. He interrupted what should have been a pleasant homecoming, but he could not leave yet, there was something unfinished here, even if he could not call it by its right name.

“My Lord?” Faint, gasping words drew James’ attention to the same tall doors he and Etienne had stepped through only moments ago, and from the corners of his eyes he could see the Saint-Cyrs turning as well, the girl exclaiming softly at the sight of a dark haired servant trying to pull away from the grip of a smaller man, the servant’s eyes wide on the blade shining in the smaller man’s other hand.

“James ne sera pas tué!” René spat his words and then paused for breath, taking far too long to inhale before he spoke again, no hat or wig hiding his shorn head or white face, dotted with unnatural circles of red. “Meurtriers! Saint-Cyr voleurs, you will not take this!” The crushing hold on the servant ended on the last word, the servant nearly falling to the floor before he stumbled from the room, doubtless seeking assistance in removing the madman invading the house, and James took a step toward René’s shaking figure, his mouth tightening when René turned the blade on him.

A moment later, René’s black eyes were wide and the blade was lowered, his gaze seeking out James’ face and then shifting away, flinching when the bodies behind James moved. “Chiens,” René whispered, shaking his head and turning away from all of them as though he had forgotten them. He looked up; following the velvet runner up the staircase and then swinging the long boucan back out.

He held it still in the air, curving his wrist to expose the sharpest point of the blade. And then he licked his lips, breathing with his mouth open. The movements of his chest were visible even across the space of the room.

“Where is he?”

“Who?” It was the lady who spoke, barely breathing the word, and James imagined her eyes shining with interest at René. He tried for a bare second to think of her as frightened, and found it odd he could not, when René had fear writ plain on his face, at least to James’ view.

René Villon was afraid, though the man would deny it, though others who had never seen it might not see it now, the Devil’s Own was in terror of something here, in this house. True, it was the home of his enemy, but René had fought his enemies in close quarters on a ship, had fought a Judas over twice his size without the least trembling.

And though René might deny this too, James had beheld the man’s face as he had dreamed in his fever, and the same gleam of tears gave René’s black eyes the brilliance of diamonds. Even the lady Suzette could not compare. It would have been beautiful if the smell of death were not still fresh in James’ memory.

“There is none here but us, René,” James spoke quietly though he had the urge to yell, watching René staying on his feet through will alone. The lady made a noise behind him, and René’s gaze dropped to them once more, flicking with disdain over Etienne and then settling on the lady Suzette with sudden concentration.

“You are a child.” René’s voice was bare; his statement silly when the girl’s age was obvious, but not even Etienne dared to laugh. James heard a rustling, as though Suzette was moving, or being moved, and then Etienne was answering.

“You did not kill me on your ship, pirate. Do you mean to kill me now?” Etienne was armed, which René could not know, and he would defend his sister; for all his airs and pretense, James had seen him smile at Suzette’s approach. He loved her, and he was a noble after all, believing as they almost all seemed to profess to, in the idea of honour.

“I do not accept the challenges of a dog.” René hissed his hatred without taking his eyes from Suzette and then flinched slightly, his body twitching as though his weariness was taking its toll.

“I would not issue a challenge to a common thief.” Etienne was gasping; the indignity of René’s remark seeming to cut him, and James extended a hand.

“René…”

“You came here, with him.” At last René turned from the girl, and James found himself pinned by the same stare he had first seen on the Queen of Sheba. His heart seemed to stop its pounding and then resume with a terrible force that nearly made him raise a hand to his chest to try and slow it. “You let him go.” The nakedness left René’s voice for a moment. He seemed to realize what James had done even as he said it.

“Aye,” James answered, nodding slowly. He had known that he would face René’s wrath for releasing Etienne when he had first decided upon it. And he had known the betrayal would cut deep, even if René would not speak of what made his feelings so strong. But it was right, and even a sinner like René Villon could be made to see that.

René shuddered, but he did not lower his weapon.

James could feel himself blinking, raising his hand to his chest now to see if the organ still beat at all beneath his ribs. His foolish words above the bathing tub came back to him, and he nearly blushed at his arrogance in assuming René would not harm him because he had not thus far. Mayhap for anything else he would not have, but for this René would sell his very soul. Mayhap for this, René had already sold his soul.

James was shaking his head before he would allow his mind to venture further on that idea. There was goodness in René, as innocent as any faith that Ben had ever had in him. James had heard it in René’s feverish ramblings, and he had seen it in the concerned eyes of René’s friends. He had bloody well felt it, in a single, soft touch along his jaw. It would not be lost to this, whatever purpose René kept to himself. His anger was more than worth that. He still possessed his soul, even if he was careless of its value.

“So you would not have to,” James spoke softly, not wishing to see the hardness return to René’s eyes, as it would if he looked back on the others.

“That was not my plan!” The boucan came down, but only as René’s other hand came up, a silent gesture of annoyance that James had before only seen directed at members of René’s crew. His lips tightened, and he was not pleased to see René’s mouth in a line as well. “James!” René’s voice was so high it might as well have been a shriek, and James felt his mouth opening, ready to say, as he had said before, that René had never told anyone his plan, not even Deniau who had seemed to hate the French noble on sight.

“James?” Someone was speaking slowly at his left, hesitant and soft on his name but still clear. Strange that it should be clear when a sharp exclamation from behind him was loud enough to make him wince. But he had been trained some time ago to answer to that tone, that voice speaking his name, and James barely felt the gentle touch to his arm that accompanied it.

He turned his head and then shut his mouth with a loud snap that should have pained him. Air rushed from his nostrils, and he let his mouth fall open once more only to draw in breath. His head felt light, his vision blurry but something solid building up against the inside of his chest.

Drawing his brows together, James focused on the slender, white hand resting at his elbow, following the milky skin past the gracefully turned wrist until it disappeared beneath fine lace, and then he moved his gaze further up, into sharp, black eyes that softened quickly when the lady perceived his stare. She wore less paint than her brother did, and James felt that she did not need it to make herself appear different than she was. Of them all it was only Etienne who needed that artifice.

His eyes flicked back to Etienne, whose face seemed even whiter than before, his mouth gaping as though the powder in the face paint had affected him. He was alarmed that Suzette should touch James, or maybe that she was here at all with a crazed and armed René Villon so near to them. Silly of him, James decided, smiling slightly because the pressure rising in his chest urged him to. René did not wait before striking; if he were going to pounce, he would have done so long before now. He could have killed Etienne in Jamaica if he had chosen to, and it was odd that he had decided instead to punish Saint-Cyr with neglect.

That was a distracted thought, a part of James feeling himself nod in agreement as though someone had spoken the thought aloud. If he were mad, he would still not be as crazed as René Villon at this moment, frightened in the house of Saint-Cyr.

This was madness, to be standing here like this, with René wide-eyed and far away. James swung his gaze back and saw René still, quiet and arrested, his eyes above them all, toward the top of the staircase.

“Etienne.” A woman spoke, a whip–crack startling them all. Mademoiselle Suzette pulled back her hand and Etienne straightened. James felt himself frowning before he had even turned; surprised despite already hearing her voice that it was a woman who stood at the landing above them.

“You were sent to bring back money and goods, brother, not two commoners.” She did not move as Suzette had, but stayed above them, not much taller than the other lady, and not much older in looks. But she was no beauty, her black dress making the white and black colouring of the Saint-Cyrs all the more startling but making her seem ill as well.

“Louise.” Etienne recovered from the other lady’s sudden appearance and half turned to her, extending one arm easily even if his voice seemed tight. “You and Suzette wait upstairs, and I will join you in but a moment.”

“We may not have a moment, brother.” The woman, Louise, clasped her hands before her tightly and then separated them, holding them firmly at her sides.

“Who are you?” René demanded, his manners as forgotten as the sword in his hand, and James pulled a step away from the lady Suzette when René swung the blade down to rest at his side. “Where is he?”

“James…” It could only be Suzette, tugging at the sleeve of his coat much as Ben would have, staring out from behind James’ back as though seeking to hide even as he fought to appear fearless. It was then that Ben would seem more a child to James than ever, and for all his life on the ships, he was a child still.

Strange to think on Ben now, but James reached over to pat the lady’s small fingers, to offer her that comfort before he stepped even farther from her, eyeing René’s quiet, stiff form before he also turned to face the woman at the top of the stairs.

“These are our guests, Louise.” It seemed impossible that the lady’s Suzette’s voice would tremble, but James heard the tremor as she addressed her sister, and watched as her scarlet cloth fell to the floor.

“Did you bring nothing back from the Caribbean but dirt, Etienne?” The lady Louise dropped her gaze to study her brother’s borrowed garb, no cleaner than what René wore now though in colours less eye catching. Her hand rose to her breast, clasping at the fine chain of gold that was her only decoration.

“Louise…” Suzette spoke again and James cleared his throat.

“He brought back his life, lady.” James ducked his head, unsure how to greet this lady as well, watching her eyes widen and her chin go up nearly as high as René’s could.

“And what good will that do, Englishman, when our father returns home to this failure?” She answered him in rapid Parisian and then seemed to dismiss him, eyeing something behind him. René, James knew, would be glaring, his hand pale around the sword’s hilt and his eyes fierce. “He will have thieves who invade his home thrashed in the street.”

“And I will slit his throat if he tries.” René was hissing, and again James had the memory of the trapped, pacing leopards in the Tower menagerie. “But not before I slice him to pieces.”

His gasp echoed that of the lady at his side.

“You would…?”

“René, you cannot…”

“Do not talk to me of sin, James!” René silenced him viciously, and James could imagine the red of blood staining his mouth as he spoke. “These people do not know of sin. They do not know of good! They will leave your body to feed the dogs in the street.” René pulled in a sharp breath and James nearly turned to face him. Some cowardly impulse held him still as René finished. “The family Saint-Cyr has no honour.”

“All of them?” James questioned softly and found himself under the scrutiny of Mademoiselle Saint-Cyr at the top of the stairs.

“Sin,” she repeated the word in English as though she had not before heard it and then returned to Parisian. “There is only survival.” There was strain around her eyes that James could see even from such a distance, yet he found himself looking down at her words, to the layers of fabric that made up her skirts. The fine cloth would cost more than James might earn in years of work of a printer. But he frowned to realize that he did not understand her meaning, though her thoughts held a familiar echo.

“Louise…” Etienne seemed to be pleading with that one word, for what James was not certain. But when his sister did not answer, Etienne spoke again, glancing from her to James and carefully not looking over his shoulder to the devil at his back. “My debts are my own, Louise, and I repay them.” Dark eyes found him and James knew he flinched away from the familiar look. “I honour my word, James.”

James moved his gaze beyond Etienne, studying a small table yards away from them all, empty but for a large vase that held no flowers. The table was finely crafted, and his gaze traveled over the painted surface in distant confusion, remembering the many prizes that had filled every spare surface of Sir Marvell’s house. Even René’s sparse cabin had held more, even if it had been shoved into chests as though it had no value. The Spanish gold in his ear at this moment might even have more worth than the vase displayed on that table, and James nodded slowly, some of Etienne’s desperation turning the spittle in his mouth bitter.

“What debts, Brother?” Mademoiselle Suzette posed lightly, indeed as she did everything lightly, and James wished he had had her delicacy upon le Diable Noir, facing Deniau with his own questions.

“Debts of blood.” The words left René with an obvious pleasure and James turned on his heel at the sound of footsteps, gasping to see René advancing on Etienne with intent.

“No!” Mademoiselle Suzette moved so quickly to stand before her brother that she seemed to have flown. She extended her arms wide, as though knowing James’ thoughts, and murmured something faintly, too low for anyone but Etienne or René to have heard, shrieking slightly when René did not slow.

“This will be too great a crime even for you, René Villon!” James shouted to him, his voice cracking when it should have been strong. In truth he could barely hear himself over the pounding in his ears, and Suzette’s harsh breaths. Another moment and Etienne had shoved his sister to the side, fumbling for the knife he had tucked into his sleeve.

“Etienne!” It must have been Mademoiselle Louise calling her brother’s name, but James did not take his eyes from René, moving forward too slowly for it to be anything but a wasted attempt to stop this. René was shaking, his frail body still too weak for battle, and spots of colour stood out on his cheeks and his hands, dark against his white flesh. His eyes still glowed fever-bright, and James no longer felt the same fear for Etienne.

“The blood of his first born on the floor of his home…” René smiled as he shared his idea with them all, and James inhaled sharply, speed at last returning to his limbs as he dashed forward.

“Etienne is not…” Suzette began to speak and returned to silence, abruptly appearing at James’ side as though she had same intention to stop any bloodshed.

James could feel his mouth moving, his lips parting to expel breath, perhaps words though he could not hear himself, not until René’s boots halted on the stone floor and René inhaled, a long, sharp desire for air that must have cleared his mind. René Villon was stopped, frozen in place an arm’s length from Etienne Saint-Cyr. Etienne held his knife now, in a grip that he must have thought quite steady.

His eyes seemed their blackest, only a thin line of either anger or pain touched his forehead, and James wondered if he were the only one to hear René release his breath at last.

Etienne’s knife clanged as it hit the table James had noticed before, crashing as it bounced and fell to the floor, sliding too far away to be of use to anyone. James only saw René’s blade move as René swung it back to his side, and he thought the ladies must not have either, for their gasps came far too late.

His gaze turned quickly to Etienne, ready for horror, and saw instead Etienne blinking, flexing the fingers of his now empty hand as though in search of the blade he had thought to use. Mayhap the single blow had hurt, shock loosening his grip. It was easy to forget the details of life and death when René’s eyes were fixed upon yours, James knew, and found himself shuddering when René sensed his thoughts as he had done long ago and glanced to him, contempt touching James for that one moment.

“You are no fight for me.” René addressed Etienne with a sneer, and James shivered for the other man but did not speak, pleased that at least René had not killed him. Again, René looked to him as though knowing his thoughts, but when James only stared back, René lowered his head to stare upward with eyes alone and sheathed his sword, careless with the sharp blade unless one looked close and saw the fever he was trying to hide. His grip was tight on the hilt.

In his fever dreams René had gripped James’ hand in the same manner, his voice rasping as he addressed demons, the Devil himself seeming to answer.

“It would not be enough.” René bit his words as though even those should bleed and this time James flinched from the look directed at him. It was nearly hatred, and he felt his own hand at his stomach, another hand pressed to his back with concern.

“You will not get satisfaction elsewhere,” Etienne insisted and his sister, the eldest, called to him in alarm.

“You will not challenge him, Etienne?” Her words were somewhere between and question and a demand, and James flinched to hear the mention of a challenge repeated. René simply looked up at her, serious and nearly still as he tapped his sword hilt once, then twice.

The madness or fever that had taken his mind seemed to leave him for a moment as he did; his expression almost calm as he studied Louise and James wondered how the lady could stand those eyes, if she could bear the knowledge in them that had killed others.

He heard her swift, hidden intake of breath, heard the rustle of cloth as though she had taken a step. Forward or backward, James did not see; his attention on René’s hand as it passed over his chest.

René touched the cross once, too fast to make a prayer possible.

“I will taste the blood of who sinned first.” A vow then, and James met René’s eyes in a long stare.

“If your complaint is against our family then it is Father who would answer you.” Suzette’s whisper drew René’s gaze away. René seemed to tremble, but James thought it only the shaking of Suzette’s hand at his back upsetting his vision. He stepped free of her and saw René blur for a moment, fading in the dim light of their dark-curtained house.

“He still must answer to me!” Etienne cried it out, becoming as young as his little sister, and René sneered, swaying slightly to one side.

“Etienne, no!” Louise shouted to interrupt her brother and Suzette echoed her.

“He is not well.” Her soft voice condemned them for the violence that had yet to occur but René still heard it, slicing her in quarters with a single glance. Her speech ended in a squeal as René’s spit landed on the hem of her skirts. And then she was gasping, surprise or terror leaving her unable to speak.

“You would bring a high price at your age,” René told her in a fierce, low voice. “Smooth skin will make them ignore your uselessness.” René wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swept his gaze over the girl, his expression so fierce James doubted Suzette saw the trembling of that same hand as it fell back to his sword. “Soft hands…” René’s voice rose, and James tasted bile, black and ugly in his throat.

“René…” He whispered and was ignored; his only answer a harsh cough as René’s breathing grew harder.

“Such a pretty, little mouth…” A violent shudder took René’s small body before he seemed to shove it away, his breath rattling in his chest. Pain carved lines in his face with every word, and James felt his belly turn, his heart so close to bursting that he thought it was only his need to see René that kept him from swooning.

His hands were tight, curled balls of rage, while René’s seemed limp, tired and pale at his chest, at his sword. Her words had been no lie, he was not well, surely they would see it.

A small sound escaped the young lady’s lips, and then her brother was shouting, a howl so furious that it should not have come from any of this noble house. Face paint could not conceal the family’s true nature, and did not hide Etienne’s fury at his sister’s dishonour.

“Bastard!” Etienne charged forward and René’s blade was out and cutting through the skin of Etienne’s arm before he could take more than two steps.

The effort brought a frown of pain to René’s face, and James reached out as René nearly dropped the sword, stopping only when René righted himself and slid the dirty blade back into its sheath. The leather of Etienne’s boots were splashed with René’s spittle as well, as the nobleman reached up to cover the rip in his flesh and the small trickle of blood.

“There is none but me.” René bared his teeth like a savage and turned his glare to James, standing like a fool with the rest of them. “None,” he panted the word and spun about on his heel, walking unevenly to the door. With a grunt he pushed the wood aside and slipped from the room, from the house to the streets of the city, leaving silence behind him.

Copyright R. Cooper with all rights reserved

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