“What will we tell him if he comes?” Mistress la Fontaine asks, her voice trembling.
“The truth,” he answers, dropping his hand. “She came here, and I sent her away empty-handed.”
The housekeeper presses her lips together. “What about the man—”
“He is nothing,” interrupts Magister Thomas. “You will not mention him.” The architect focuses back on me. “Does the venatre know what you heard and saw?”
“Yes. He wants me to answer questions this afternoon.”
The magister doesn’t look pleased. “Then you must do so, but you will only speak of things you know and in the plainest terms. Don’t mention Perrete was here unless asked, and then say only you left as she arrived, so you know nothing. Make no speculations on whatmayhave occurred.” His gray eyes bore into my face. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, Magister,” I whisper.
“Good.” He sighs and sits back on his heels. “Now, tonight has been an ordeal, but did you find anything at the Sanctum while you were there?”
I nod eagerly. “There’s a huge crack in that beam I was worried about. It could fail at any time.” I start to rise. “Let me show you on the model.”
He pushes me back down before I’m more than a few inches off the chair. “Don’t bother. Do you think work should stop?”
The architect has always trusted me, but he’s never made such a major decision without verifying it himself. I swallow. “I think the whole section should be taken down.”
“That’s good enough for me.” He comes off his knees with a groan, and I realize he’s wearing different clothes from earlier. “The first workers will be arriving within the hour. I’ll get that started as soon as there’s enough men on the site.”
Mistress la Fontaine is already bustling around the kitchen, collecting cheese and meat and sawing on a loaf of bread with a long knife. Magister Thomas bends down to kiss my forehead. “Get cleaned up and get some rest. When you’re recovered you can…” His voice trails off, and he chokes a little. “You’ll see what needs to be done,” he finishes.
The housekeeper shoves a hastily prepared breakfast into his hands before he can leave the kitchen. Once he’s gone, she forces me to eat a slice of bread with butter and pulls out the wash-tub.The rain barrels outside are overflowing, so every kettle and pot she can fit over the fire heats up while she fills the bath one bucket at a time. It takes an hour to get it warm enough for her satisfaction, during which I doze off in the chair at least twice.
Once I’m finally in the water, Mistress la Fontaine rinses my breeches and jacket in a smaller basin. Seeing all the blood on them has me scrubbing to get any trace of it off my skin. The housekeeper indulges me as she works to brush the mud from my boots, adding another kettle of hot water to the tub every time it’s available. Then she insists on fully unbinding my hair and combing it out—a project that could last all day in lesser hands.
When my curls are tamed and rebraided, the housekeeper pulls a drying sheet down from a high shelf and wraps it around me twice. “You get to bed. Once you’re rested you can meet with the venatre. Then we can put all of this behind us.”
“He’s from Mesanus,” I say. “Do you know where that is?”
“Never heard of it.” She leads the way to the front room like she intends to dress me and tuck me into bed. “Best grab your boots, you’ll need them.”
I’m confused, but I bring them as she says.
At the doorway to the architect’s workroom, I halt in shock. The magnificent model of the Sanctum lies in pieces all over the floor. Some of the bigger walls are still partially intact, but tiny stone blocks and chunks of mortar are scattered everywhere. On the wide ledge under the closed shutters, tiny shards of colored glass from the miniature windows sit in piles. Several are arranged in patterns, like Magister Thomas had begun piecing them back together. “What happened?” I gasp.
“That girl happened, that’s what.” Mistress la Fontaine takes a broom and works to clear a path to the stairs. “The magistersaid not to speak ill of her, and I won’t, but I won’t speak well of her either.”
Perretedid this? How?
Broken glass glitters on the floorboards even where it’s been swept, so I slide my boots on. Before standing straight again, I pick up a wadded parchment near my feet. It’s the one with the names of the dead, ripped from the wall and thrown across the room. I glance up. The golden hammer is gone from its mount.
That was what Perrete used to wreak such havoc. And in a grisly parallel to the scene in the alley, the scent of her perfume lingers in the air.
My stomach twists and mist fills my eyes as I look over the wreckage again. It will take months to repair and rebuild. This is what Magister Thomas meant when he said I would know what needed to be done.
“Come now,” the housekeeper calls from the bottom of the stairs. She sets the broom aside. “You can worry about this after you’ve had a good sleep.”
I walk numbly across the room and up the steps. My suspicion that Mistress la Fontaine would put me to bed like a child is correct, but I let her. I’m consumed with the worry that anyone who learns what happened will assume Magister Thomas would’ve been more than just upset with Perrete over it.
But angry enough to kill her? Angry enough to do such terrible things?
I can’t believe that. Iwon’tbelieve that. Ever.
But would the venatre?