The Prince of Midnight (31 page)

It might be a little difficult just to assassinate the fellow, as much as
S.T. suspected he'd be happy to do so after sitting through a Heavenly Sanctuary
service and an afternoon of Chilton's prosy philosophy.

He tried to conjure Leigh: her face set, her body shaking as she told him
what had happened here. But all he could recall clearly was the sound of her
voice as she reviled him with his failings.

He began to wonder if she was rational. Or if he was. Distress could break a
mind. Perhaps it had never happened at all—perhaps there had been no family, no
father or mother or sisters lost.

He knew that he ought to forget about Leigh Strachan.

But here he was.

The high street widened at the market cross, opening to the bridge on one
hand and a wide, gracious avenue lined with spreading trees on the other. At the
end of the avenue, mounting the steep flank of the fell, stood a handsome
mansion of silver stone, topped by a copper cupola and a graceful balustrade.

He stopped.

That, he had seen before. In the background of a young girl's watercolors,
he'd glimpsed that symmetrical facade with its tall windows, stately and
beautiful and warmly intimate.

Silvering, Northumberland, 1764
—

Long grass grew through the magnificent wrought-iron gates. There at the end
of its own fine avenue, with the neat houses marching up the slope to their
crowning gem, Silvering itself stood alone and unkempt, like a proud old
courtier still arrayed in fading paint and powder.

He felt a sudden hot longing for Leigh, an overwhelming ache at the base of
his throat. To stand here and look at the place that had once echoed to her
laughter—laughter he'd never heard himself—made him feel supremely alone,
jealously solitary.

They'd been a family here. He'd seen the pictures, witnessed the depth of her
grief at her loss.

He wanted . . .

Connection. Kinship. He wanted what that house had been. A home, and
something to fill it.

He wanted Leigh, and everything she refused him.

Except it wouldn't work. He saw that, suddenly, standing here beneath the
empty mansion. Between her sketchbook and this weed-grown house, there was no
human way to repair the broken bond. It had warped her mind and her heart and
her memories, this suffering, twisted reality into an obsessive search for
retribution that had carried her all the way cross France. Whatever had happened
to her family—and he no more thought these cheerful girls had actually killed
them than he believed they could be resurrected—the world of the watercolors was
gone.

The dragon had turned out to be a puppy, and S.T. could never win her what
she truly wanted, which was the life she'd lost.

Which left him with nothing. No way to merit her love, nothing to master and
prove himself. He had the weapons honed, his swordplay polished and the gray
rogue trained up to the foundations of his art. In three weeks, he'd
accomplished it, wanting the victory that badly.

All for naught. He could kill Chilton and go back to Rye with the man's head
in a damned basket, and it wouldn't buy him more than a curt thank you. Why
should it? She'd got herself convinced she wanted revenge, she'd made Chilton
into an evil scapegoat, but she'd find out just how empty vengeance was the
moment she had it.

She'd turn from S.T. and go away and leave him as she'd found him.

He crossed his arms, leaned his head back against the carved stone of the
market cross, and thought of what a sad coxcomb he looked now, like some eager
recruit arrived at the battlefield, only to find no one else there,

Merde.

For want of a better idea, he walked back down the street and smiled wanly at
a pretty girl who sat working at a pair of lace ruffles in a bright doorway. He
leaned on the garden gate. "Pray—will you tell me where I might find something
to eat?"

"Most willingly," she said, laying aside her work and springing up from the
stoop. She came forward and nodded up at him. "You must go down the high
street—that way"—She pointed, bending her head close to his shoulder as she
leaned over the gate. "Then give yourself the trouble of turning to the right,
toward the hill, at the first lane beyond the market cross. Be so good as to
continue past the infirmary, and in the first house on the left you will find
the men's dining hall."

She looked up at him, still bending close. Her plain, tight cap covered every
curl on her head, but her blue eyes and fair skin made S.T. envision a cascade
of blonde.

He took off his hat with grave courtesy and bowed. "Thank you, mademoiselle,"
he said. And winked at her.

She stared up at him. "It's no trouble," she said.

"Certainly it has been a pleasure for me." He put his hat back on. "But I'm
keeping you from your work."

"Yes," she said, and turned back to the house without another word.

S.T. paused a moment, slightly disconcerted by the abruptness of her
withdrawal. Then he turned away and followed her directions, walking slowly down
the street the way she'd pointed.

The little black flock of visiting clergy came out of a shop a few yards
ahead of him. They spoke quietly together, full of wise nods and thoughtful
looks. One of them appeared to be taking notes in a journal. S.T. lifted a
finger to the brim of his hat and walked on alone.

At the house that held the men's dining hall, no one answered his knock.
Following the scent of food, he found his way to the kitchen, but the aproned
cooks were politely adamant that no meal would be put on the table until after
the noonday service. They wouldn't even give him a bannock off the tray hot out
of the oven. He grinned and talked nonsense and stole one.

They found him out before he managed to sidle through the door, and seemed so
genuinely upset at the loss that he confessed and gave it back, in spite of his
watering mouth.

Turned out of the kitchen in disgrace, he wandered back down the high street.
The same girl was still mending lace in her doorway.

S.T. leaned on the gate. "They aren't serving yet," he said sadly.

"Oh, no," she said. "Not until after noonday sermon."

He smiled wryly. "You didn't mention that."

"I'm sorry. Are you very hungry?"

"Very."

She bent her head over her sewing. Then she looked up and down the street.
After a moment, she said softly, "I saved a pork pie from yesterday. Would you
like it?"

"Not unless you'll share it with me."

"Oh, no. I couldn't—" She looked down at her lap and up again. "I'm not at
all hungry. But you may have it."

She stood up and disappeared into the house. When she returned, S.T. opened
the gate and walked up to the door. She handed him the pie, wrapped in a napkin,
and he sat down on the step.

She hesitated, and he reached up and took her wrist, pulling her down beside
him. "Do have a seat, mademoiselle, or I shall look a pretty rudesby if anyone
comes by."

"Oh," she said.

For a moment they sat silent. S.T. bit into the pie. The crust was stale and
the pork full of gristle, but he was hungry enough to swallow it.

"Samuel Bartlett," he said, "very much at your service, mademoiselle. What
may I have the honor of calling you?"

She blushed and took up her handwork. "I'm Dove of Peace."

Lord spare us
, he thought.

"A lovely name, Miss Peace," he said. "Did you choose it yourself?"

She giggled faintly, then pressed her fingers to her temple. "My master Jamie
chose it for me."

He watched her as she rubbed her head and then went back to her needlework.
"Do you feel quite well?"

"Oh, yes," she said, with a ghost of a smile. "I have the headache, but I
always do."

"I'm sorry," he said. "Perhaps you should see a physician."

"Oh, no—there's no need of that." She smiled more firmly. "I'm quite well."

"Have you lived here long?"

"Several years," she said.

"Do you like it?" he persisted.

"Oh, yes."

He finished the pie and crumpled the napkin into a ball. "Tell me—how did you
come to be here?"

"I was lost," she said. "My mother was a wicked woman. She took me away from
my father, so that I never knew him. I never had food enough or clothes to keep
warm, and my mother taught me to steal. She used to pinch me if I didn't bring
back what she wanted."

"Did she!" S.T. said mildly.

"Yes, sir," Dove of Peace said. "I didn't know that I was doing wrong, but I
was very unhappy. I was like-like nothing but an ant, among all the other ants.
I was lonely, and there was nowhere to go, and no one cared." She bowed her head
over her folded hands. "And then I came upon some girls who were giving away
clothes at the street corner. They gave me a skirt and a cap." She looked up,
with a musing smile. "They seemed so merry. So happy. They asked me to be their
friend; they took me to the place where they were staying and gave me food. They
said I shouldn't go back to my mother. When I told them I'd nowhere else to go,
they gave me money enough to take the stage to Hexham, and from there I walked
here, and was welcomed just the way that you were. It's a wonderful place. Like
a family."

"Is it?" He snorted glumly. "Perhaps I'll join you."

"Oh, do!" she exclaimed. "I wish you would."

He looked at her sideways, his eyebrows lifted.

"You're lonely," she said. "I've watched you walking up and down by yourself.
The others—they always stay in their groups when they visit. They don't
understand what it's like, to be on the outside. They think the Sanctuary is a
good place because we work hard—and we do—but the best thing is that we all love
each other, and we're never, ever lonely." She glanced at him shyly. "Lots of
girls come and join us, but not very many men. Only the special ones."

S.T. leaned back against the door frame. He tilted his hat down over his
eyes. "And you think I'm special, do you?"

"Oh, yes. You have a noble soul. It's in your expression. I knew it the
moment I saw you. I don't usually speak to the visitors, but I was glad to talk
to you."

He smiled and shook his head. It was pleasant to be flattered, to have those
wide blue eyes fixed on him in admiration. "You've no notion what an agreeable
change it is to hear that."

She frowned a little. "Someone has hurt you."

"I've been a fool." He shrugged. "Same old story."

"That's because you put your faith in the wrong place. Here we don't despair
or feel forsaken or alone."

"How gratifying."

"It's warm," she said. "People are cold, aren't they? They say cruel things
and won't be pleased. Here we care about you as you are, even if you aren't
perfect in the eyes of worldly men."

He sighed, propping his arm on his knee. "Well, I'm far from perfect—in
anyone's eyes, I assure you."

"All of God's people are perfect," she said. "And so are you."

He allowed that to pass without comment. A bell began to ring, and she
gathered up her lace.

"That's noonday service. Will you go with me?" She darted inside before he
could answer, and came back a few moments later, closing the door behind her. As
he stood up, she took his arm and started down the steps. "Everyone will want to
meet you."

He'd intended to slip away quietly long before this particular threat
materialized, but Dove of Peace drew him along with such enthusiasm, and
introduced him so affectionately to everyone they passed that he couldn't seem
to find the proper moment to take his leave. He found himself inside the little
stone church, seated in the first row of pews before the bell stopped pealing.

He was in the middle, hemmed in by the prayer rail in front, a visiting
clergymen on one side, and members of Chilton's congregation on the other—all
men in the first three rows, while the rest of the church was filled with
females, overflowing the seats and standing three deep in the aisles. He sat
with his hat in his lap, looking around uncomfortably. Dove of Peace had melted
back into the crowd after introducing him to the fellow on his right, who
rejoiced in the interesting name of True Word.

"I'm most impressed, aren't you?" the clergyman murmured in S.T.'s good ear.
"It's very moving. Everyone we met in the street seemed energetic and
satisfied."

S.T. nodded and shrugged.

Mr. Word appeared to be disinclined to conversation, which suited S.T.
perfectly. He stared gloomily ahead, where the altarpiece, the pulpit, and all
the front of the church were hidden behind long lengths of purple silk sewn
together and hung from the roof to form a billowy wall.

The disorder of seating gradually softened to rustling and coughs, and then
to complete silence. A single girl padded forward and knelt in front of the
purple silk, her face hidden from view by a long white veil draped over her cap.

S.T. waited, expecting organ music or a choir.

Nothing happened.

He shifted a little on the hard bench. A quick look beneath his lashes showed
him that True Word was staring straight ahead at the purple silk, not blinking
or moving. The clergyman seated to S.T.'s right had his head bowed, his lips
moving in silent prayer.

S.T. closed his eyes. He let himself drift, thinking back to other churches,
the gorgeous Italian cathedrals of his childhood, the bell-like voices of boys
at vespers amid stained glass and soaring stone. He thought of paintings he
hadn't finished and images he still wanted to try. He wondered if he could
reproduce that incredible awesome hush, that arc of light and darkness that was
the cathedral at Amiens.

Perhaps he'd turn it into a forest, and paint Nemo as a shadow with yellow
eyes. Or just the wolf and the horses silhouetted on the open moor, the way he'd
left Mistral-free except for Nemo's watchful escort.

Suddenly the church bell began to peal madly, and True Word took S.T.'s hand.
S.T. cleared his throat and disengaged himself politely, but amid a general
movement of the congregation, the clergyman clasped his other hand firmly just
as True Word renewed his grip. S.T. sat with his lips pressed wryly together,
entrapped.