Chapter Twelve

T he flames swirled high into the night, as if trying to reach the sky, and bathed the square in a crimson glow. Nicolas tilted his neck and watched, awestruck, unable to say a word or move a muscle.

What could be said? What could be done? Nothing. Not a bloody damn thing.

"By the time we heard there was a fire, it had already reached the roof. Best the brigade can do now is make sure it doesn't spread."

He tore his eyes from the flames' eerie dance. Raoul stood next to him, breathing hard, hair slicked down with sweat on his forehead. The firemen, yes. Pumping water onto the facades of the surrounding houses. Not on Saint Aphrodise. It was done for. The stone walls might hold even when the roof caved in, but only charred wood and blackened tiles would remain inside. It would simply be a ruin now, waiting for the authorities to raze it.

The acrid smell of burning wood filled his throat and lungs. The ring, the ropes, the sacks of straw. All he had when he'd started to train students. He'd made his own fortune since then, had gained access to higher circles of society. Yet all of it was flash, whereas Saint Aphrodise was solid stone. Gone now, up in smoke.

Suzanne laid a hand on his shoulder and he flinched. "You'll start again, Nicolas. We'll help you. And soon you'll have much better facilities, I'm certain of it."

Her voice was kind and soft, but any comfort she might have brought was swept away with the rising flames. Pure, destructive rage festered in his gut like an infected wound, and now it was open again, making him feel like a wild, wounded animal ready to lash out.

Estienne must have done this. There was no other explanation. Some drunken lout might have happened to drop a lantern inside, but the chances were far too slim. Violette had disappeared, now this… It had to be him. Coming from that twisted bastard, it was an almost friendly warning. Don't tamper with my property, or I'll tamper with yours. Happy New Year!

If Estienne had set fire to Saint Aphrodise in retaliation, that meant Violette was held captive. And the next time Nicolas crossed him, it wouldn't just be an old church burning. The Boneman had far more gruesome ways to send a message.

He turned away, his throat tightening until he struggled for a gulp of air. He couldn't leave Violette in the hands of that monster another second, and yet whatever he did would put her and his friends into still graver danger.

He was trapped. Hands tied. He could only watch helplessly as, all around him, Estienne sowed chaos.

First Laurine, and now…

No . No, he would not let it happen again. He curled his hand into a fist and pounded the wall of the building in front of him.

"Nicolas," Raoul growled. "No use doing this to yourself. Come now, let us go somewhere else."

"I need to do something," Nicolas grated. " Anything . I can't bear to let that whoreson destroy whatever he pleases on a whim."

"Right," Suzanne said. "We'll come up with a plan that doesn't involve mangling your own hand by punching the wall. But not here."

She gently slid her arm into his and led him away. The three of them made their way to Raoul's shop. Locked in the backroom, seated at the table in the soft glow of a lantern, Nicolas felt like he could once again breathe properly. Breathe and think.

Raoul crossed his arms. "I know you don't want to hear this, but we cannot bring down the Boneman by ourselves. We need Malenfant's help."

Nicolas shook his head. "No, I've just started repaying my debt to him. There has to be another way."

Suzanne leaned forward, her expression unusually stern. "First things first. You want to find Violette, don't you?"

He nodded. No need in telling her the thought of Violette had blotted out every other concern for the past three days. Sharp as she was, Suzanne may have guessed that on her own.

"I have no more sympathy for Malenfant than you," she continued.

"Really? Your cousins work for him."

She snorted. "And a rotten lot they are, same as him. Still, it'll be quicker that way. Malenfant has fewer men working for him than the Boneman but far more connections that could inform us of her whereabouts. You've already told him what you know about Violette, that makes finding her even easier."

"Suzanne is right," Raoul grumbled. "Just the three of us won't get very far with the Boneman hunting us down."

"It shouldn't be the three of us," Nicolas said. "You two should steer clear of me for the time being. If anything should happen to you…"

"Ha!" Suzanne laughed. "I've survived in the Palais Royal longer than you have, pretty boy. My choice of friends is my business."

"When we lived in Marseille, we faced almost certain death half a dozen times together," Raoul added. "What's once more? As long as we're not racing headlong into an early grave. Without Malenfant's help, you would have never taken down the Kingfisher. You wouldn't have even tried, because you're not an idiot."

Damn him, but Raoul was making far too much sense. Nicolas sighed. "You're right. I'll pay Malenfant a visit first thing in the morning. Though I know full well what he's going to ask in return."

Loyalty. Allegiance. The very things he'd vowed to avoid. After that night Estienne and Lenoir had tied him up and made him watch…

I'll never be under anyone's orders, ever again.

He'd told Raoul those very words when they'd met. Even if it meant staying in exile on the other side of the country, far from Paris, he would stay free, unfettered, with no master to order him what to do. And when he had returned, he was strong enough to live by his own rules.

Now his principles paled in the face of what he was up against. Not only Estienne himself, but the idea of losing Violette forever. No, he couldn't risk it. Even if it meant renouncing his own freedom.

*

Clink.

Violette's eyes shot open, and she scrambled to a sitting position, heart pounding. The brocade bed cover was scratchy beneath her fingers. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry. The door opened a crack and let in a sliver of light.

She could make out the silhouette of a servant on the other side. The girl set a platter on the floor without a word, then closed the door again. Locking it shut.

Clink.

Violette lay back on the cold mattress and hugged her knees. Her empty stomach was tied in a painful knot, and the thought of food brought nothing but a wave of disgust. Besides, how was she supposed to eat in the pitch darkness? Did Cransac think she was some sort of animal?

Obviously yes, since he was keeping her locked up. How long had she been there? The sky was beginning to lighten when she'd been taken to the room. Estienne himself had escorted her there, fingers digging into her arm, and pushed her roughly inside. She'd slept, uneasily, the slightest noise calling her awake. One hour? Six? Impossible to tell.

Was Cransac still drunkenly haggling over her price with the Boneman before coming to claim his due? Estienne had done his bit, parading her in front of that horrid man and his wealthy guests as they downed glass after glass of champagne and liquor. Men clad in the finest silks, their hair slick with pomade or covered with curly wigs. Ladies with garish rouge on their cheeks and lips, colorful plumes in their hair, glittering jewelry dripping down their cleavage to their low-cut necklines. Mistresses, of course. No wife would ever dare show herself in public in such scandalous attire.

She touched the rhinestones around her neck. Her fingers tightened around the necklace and anger boiled to the surface. She ripped it off and flung it into the darkness. It fell to the ground with a tinkle.

Damn him to hell. Damn them all to hell. She would sooner burn the place to the ground than let Cransac touch her. Maybe she should, and let herself burn along with it.

None of that. You must think of another way. You must get out.

But how? She'd been led up to the third floor of Cransac's house. If she devised some way to escape from the window, she'd either break both her legs or be spotted immediately. As for escaping from the inside…

Where will you go? The Boneman will find you, and he'll kill Emile.

She squeezed her eyes shut against upwelling tears. Giving in would be so much easier. Exhaustion settled over her, heavier than lead. If only she could fall asleep and never wake up.

She sank back into a fitful slumber. Woke again to the noise of the lock.

This time, light flooded the room almost immediately. Two servants entered, one holding a lantern and a stack of clothes, the other a large pitcher.

"Master said you're to clean yourself and wear this," the first girl said.

She set the lantern down and spread out a white nightrail with lace ruffles and ribbons.

The knot in her gut clenched. "Is this a jest? Why would he want me to wear this?"

Certainly, he didn't want her to have a good night's sleep. The way he'd leered at her… It was as if his gaze had left a viscous film over her skin.

The servant shrugged. "He gave us our orders and went right back to bed. Megrim. Might be awhile until he's up."

Unsurprising, given how foxed he'd been. "What is the time?"

"Three hours past noon."

The other servant poured water into a porcelain basin in a corner of the room. Violette stood and the first girl undressed her and took the pins out of her hair. After she'd washed herself, she slipped on the lacy nightrail. The servants left, but the lantern remained.

Violette sat on the edge of the bed and glanced around the room. Wallpaper printed with pineapples and exotic flowers, gold leaf on the furniture, the posts of the bed of solid oak. Opulent, just like what little she'd seen of the house. Even the nightrail felt as if it were made of the softest, lightest muslin.

Easy to tear off. The thought filled her head to toe with icy dread. What was the point of dressing her if that's not what Cransac intended to do?

Think. There must be a way out.

Hour after hour, her mind whirled fruitlessly as she lay on the bed and stared at the velvet canopy, then got up to open the window and test the bolts on the shutters. Again and again, as if they would somehow open if she tried enough times. But it was no use. There was no open window, no hidden door in the walls. She had no means of reaching out for help, nothing she could bargain with.

Would Emile notice her absence? Would he worry, seek help? No, she could not expect anything from him. He couldn't even look after himself.

Nicolas…

She covered her face with her hands. She couldn't bear to think of him now. She should have stayed with him instead of fleeing. Stayed in the warmth of his arms, his golden beauty and low, murmured words stoking everything that was alive and vivid and true within her.

Perhaps if she could convince one of the servants to pass a message, to help her escape…

The thud of heavy footsteps and creaking floorboards sent blood pounding in her ears, and all her thoughts vanished. She bolted to her feet.

The door opened to reveal Cransac. Good Lord, he looked even more revolting without his wig. His thinning hair and the dark circles lining his eyes made his pudgy face distinctively toad-like.

"Come closer," he said. "Let's have a look at you."

She took a small step forward, hands curling into fists under the lace edge of her sleeves.

"Scared of me, are you?" He shook his head and snorted. "You're good at playing the frightened virgin, I'll give you that. But I want to make sure I got what I paid for."

What did he mean by that? She stood perfectly still with a strange energy coursing through her limbs.

"I'm going to have someone examine you properly," he added. "Blast, I'm in no state to enjoy much of anything with this bloody headache in any case."

He retreated toward the door and stopped to look at the platter that still lay untouched on the floor. "Eat your food. I won't have you fainting or flopping around like a dead fish. I like it better when a girl has a little fight in her, and Estienne told me you had plenty."

Clink.

She let out a breath. A reprieve. A short one, perhaps, but she would take what she could get.