“But Father Colin doesn’t know that,” she pointed out. “You could give it to the church, and he would never question it. You wouldn’t even have to say where you got it.” She wanted absolution, Isabel could see, someone in authority to tell her she could dance now in the druid’s circle without fear of retribution for her and her husband’s great sin of looking out for themselves. So she had come to the lady of Charmot, a spinster virgin who had never danced there and never would. Thanks, Papa, Isabel thought with an inward bitterness that was becoming something of a habit with her. You left me a fine legacy indeed.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said aloud, managing a smile. “Go enjoy the dance.”
Mary’s face broke into a smile. “Thank you, my lady.” She bobbed a peasant’s curtsey. “Thank you so much.” Before her lady could answer, she had gone.
Isabel studied the purse again. Strange characters she could not read were embroidered in the leather in a tarnished golden thread. She fished out the gold coin she had seen before and held it between her fingers. Perhaps the next time a suitor appeared, she could pay him a ransom to leave her in peace. Or perhaps she would give it to Father Colin as Mary had wanted, buy them all a bit of indulgence for their sins. But just now, she didn’t much care.
She dropped the coin back into the purse and the purse into her pocket. Brautus would need his supper.
Simon felt his way along the cavern wall, loath to trust even his demon’s sight in this dark, dank hole. “The floor is wet again,” he told Orlando, who was creeping a few paces behind him. “Bring the light.”
The two of them had been fumbling in the dark like fools in a fable for weeks now, searching Sir Gabriel’s catacombs and coming no closer to finding the Chalice than they’d been the night they started. The tunnels seemed to twist for miles, deeper and deeper, water occasionally pouring through the ceiling in icy silver drapes or seeping through the floor. Orlando had produced a phosphorescent powder from one of his many purses that left a glimmering, reflective trail as they went; otherwise they would have lost themselves forever.
“Here,” Orlando said, handing over the torch. “Oh, dear.”
As Simon had suspected, the puddle at his feet already glowed—they had crossed this path before. “Lovely,” the vampire grumbled, stalking ahead to the next turning in search of a fresh tunnel. But in truth, he thought, what was the point? They had no idea how long the glow in this powder might last once Orlando dropped it—for all they could tell, they’d been retracing their own steps for days. “It’s hopeless,” he grumbled aloud, stopping to lean against the wall. “We will never find anything like this.”
“And what would you suggest we do instead, warrior?” Orlando said, stumbling as he hurried to catch up. “I would love to hear.”
“I don’t know.” The wall opposite him was painted with rough figures, men and women in a circle, most with bright red hair. They seemed to be dancing, arms upraised, and a spiky blue and yellow shape at the center of the circle could have been a fire. The catacombs were covered in such paintings, and they always made Simon feel strange, as if he had forgotten something important, something just out of his memory’s reach. At first, Orlando had been convinced this was a good omen, that the crude figures and Simon’s reaction to them would somehow point them to the Chalice. But after weeks, they had found no more pattern and order to the paintings than they had to the tunnels themselves.
He raised the torch closer to the painting, studying a single female dancer with long, red locks entwined around her slender form. “Isabel,” he murmured. Her mother was a native of this island and the forests around it; she had woven a figure very like this one in her tapestry, a maiden taming a wolf.
“What are you thinking, warrior?” the wizard said. Simon started back the way they had come, leaving his companion to chase after him. “What is in your head?”
“Isabel,” he answered without slowing down. He reached Sir Gabriel’s study and fastened the torch into a holder on the wall. “She may know something,” he explained as Orlando caught up at last, looking vexed and out of breath. “We should have asked her long since.”
“No, Simon,” the dwarf said, alarmed. “You must stay away from her—”
“Why must I?” But he knew the answer. For weeks he had avoided his pretended cousin, venturing from the catacombs only in the dead of night when he was sure she would be sleeping. He had kissed her, not carelessly, not for the pleasure of a moment, but because he had needed her kiss. And he knew that was dangerous, not only to him but to his quest.
But if she could help them, if she knew some piece of local legend or myth that could lead them to the Chalice, wasn’t that worth the risk? The sooner his quest was accomplished, the sooner he could leave Charmot, and the sooner Isabel would be safe.
“Stay here and keep looking if you wish,” he told Orlando. “I won’t be long.”
“Wait,” the wizard ordered, pushing past the vampire to reach the dead knight’s desk. He tossed his fortune-teller’s bones across it and studied them for a moment, his expression first grave, then alarmed. “No,” he decided. “I forbid you to go to her.”
“You forbid me?” Simon echoed, incredulous.
“I will speak to Lady Isabel myself, if you think she may have something of value to tell us,” Orlando said briskly. “You must not go near her, this night or any other. You have a duty, warrior, a better promise to keep.”
“Orlando, I will not abandon the Chalice,” Simon said, trying to be patient. “I’ve already told you.”
“I speak not just of the Chalice, warrior.” He reached into the pocket closest to his heart and took out the ruby-colored bottle that held the essence of Roxanna, the little sultana he loved. “She trusts you to save her,” he said, his eyes alight with feeling. “She will need you, a warrior who understands her kind and her past, who can protect her when her curse is broken.”
“No, Orlando.” In his mind, he could see his vampire sister holding the dagger that had killed Duke Francis, his beloved patron’s blood staining the blade in her hand, a monster’s tears of scarlet on her face. “That will never be.” He started to walk past the dwarf, unwilling to say more, but Orlando blocked his way.
“No,” he insisted, putting up his wizened little hands as if to hold the vampire back by force. “You will not— you will destroy her—”
“I will not.” For the first time in all their years together, Simon lifted the tiny wizard off his feet, an indignity past all forgiving.
“I will tell her!” Orlando raged, struggling in his grasp. “I will tell Lady Isabel the truth!”
“No, you won’t.” He put him down on the far side of the room, then crossed to the door again in three long strides. “I’m sorry,” he said, going out and closing the door before the dwarf could catch him. He turned the key and left it in the lock. “I will be back here as quickly as I can.”
Isabel came back down the circular stair with the tray Brautus had barely touched, feeling very put upon and cross. Her ancient friend had been in an extremely foul temper. His shoulder was still not healing as it should have done long ago, and it pained him very much. “One more thing to fret about,” she grumbled to herself as she rounded the corner into the great hall.
“What did you say?” Simon asked from the shadows by the hearth, making her scream and drop the tray in fright.