Their first lovemaking, lit by the lamp, with the blue moon in the window, was more tender than either had words for (and he was a poet). The second, later that same night, was…less gentle. And both were very deeply pleasing for both of them. Almost shockingly so.

Afterwards, lying awake, he said, very softly, “I don’t feel I deserve this much kindness from life?”

“Kindness?” She laughed. Almost luxuriously, he thought. “Oh, Thierry. And besides, if you don’t, I do. I deserve it!”

He laughed too. Then they were quiet together, entwined, in a room that seemed to contain more of light than a lamp and the blue moon still in the window ought to have been able to offer them. To allow.

“I’m sorry I punched you,” she said again, much later, lazily, drifting, almost asleep, the moon gone.

“I’m not,” he replied, feeling her head against his shoulder. But she was asleep by then.

Didn’t matter. She knew. And he really didn’t mind at all that she had hit him, before. It had led him to realize a thing about her, and then about himself, and how the two of them might fit together, going forward in the world.

—

Despite urgent attempts at intervention by his family, the young Vicomte de Mardol was hanged three days later on Gallows Hill.

It was a serjeant he’d slain, in a public place, and one not even wielding a blade. You couldn’t do that in Orane. And de Mardol had already drawn his own sword against a man protected by the provost. Known to the king and queen. There were many witnesses, and much anger.

You could think of it as sad. Fermin de Mardol had never been known as a violent or a troublesome man. Innocuous, had been the general view. He’d served honourably in the spring campaign. A skilled rider. Good swordsman.

In thrall to a woman, it was said. Not the first such man for that particular woman. She was exceptionally beautiful, it was widely reported.

—

I made a point of reminding myself of the serjeant’s name in the morning. Claquin Guiene. Newly among them, recruited by de Vaux after the night of the assassination, in fact. I went to the Châtelet very early. Offered to help his family, if he had one. I didn’t know.

Medor told me the provost’s office would look after that. He seemed angry I’d even raised the matter. We had much to discuss, but we didn’t talk any more that day. Entirely the wrong time. First death under his command, it appeared. And Medor had also been present that winter night when we’d encountered Guiene in the street.

He sent me home with a new escort. I didn’t argue, I remember.