Chapter 11
CATHERINE CRIED OUT AND SAT UP IN her bed with a jerk. She breathed in frantic gasps, then forced control over herself, taking in deep slow breaths instead. Her heart still hammered, but as she sat and unclenched her hands, her heart slowed. She swallowed and looked about her. There was no one here. It was a dream. It was as Père Doré had said: the touch of a sorcerer would cure his victim of the spell.
She dreamed every night, dreamed the memories de Bauvin had stripped from her. He surely was the one who had done it; there was no other explanation.
She remembered it all now: how she had dressed herself carefully the day before her wedding to the marquis, for her father had beaten her until she had agreed to wed him, and the welts still burned when she put on her dress. She remembered how her aunt, Tante Anna—the Comtesse de Lisle—had visited her in her room. Her aunt had smiled slightly when she entered, but a shadow of fear crossed her face as she looked at her niece. She looked anxiously about her, then focused her attention on her niece and clasped her hands tightly in her own. Catherine had looked questioningly at her.
“Listen to me, Catherine—” The comtesse’s voice hesitated. “You must not marry the Marquis de Bauvin.”
Catherine wet her suddenly dry lips. Her aunt’s voice was full of fear, and she remembered again the rumors that had floated about her bridegroom. She had met de Bauvin once, but though he was handsome enough, there was coldness underneath his civil veneer, and she could not like him. But her father had beaten her when she refused the marquis’s proposal of marriage, and she knew she had no choice. Her father would beat her until she either married de Bauvin or another, perhaps worse man. She had hoped that at least de Bauvin would not beat her. She looked at her aunt, and her heart ached, for she knew her uncle the comte was brutal to her, and beat her gentle Tante Anna when he was drunk. At least she had not heard that de Bauvin was a drunkard.
Catherine squeezed her aunt’s hand. “Tante, the marquis is not a drunkard—” She stopped and bit her lip, ashamed she had blurted out what must be an embarrassment and pain to her aunt. She gazed at the older woman’s tired face, aged more than her forty years, and noticed a bruise on her cheek, barely hidden by her cap atop her curling hair. Anger flared in Catherine and her hands turned into fists at the thought of her uncle. If she were a man, she would fight him—
But she was not. She opened her hands and laid them neatly one on top of the other on her lap as she had been taught since a child, and was glad they did not tremble with the hatred she felt for her uncle . . . and her father, for they were one and the same in nature.
Her aunt looked away for a moment, then met her eyes squarely. “My dear, I would spare you worse than what I suffer daily. De Bauvin is an evil man . . .” She swallowed, and looked about her in fear again. “You remember my Jeanette—”
Dread crept into Catherine’s stomach. “My father said she had a fever—”
Her aunt shook her head, and when she gazed into Catherine’s eyes, her own were full of agony. “No. She disappeared. She was last seen—I saw her—in de Bauvin’s company. And then she was gone, no one knew where. But then my husband took me to a dinner at the marquis’s house, and I found her necklace and rosary, just outside de Bauvin’s study. What else could it be but that he took her away?”
Dread clutched Catherine’s heart harder, making it beat painfully. “No, no, surely it cannot be true,” she said, her voice lowering to a whisper in spite of herself. “Perhaps she dropped it the last time you visited—”
A knock silenced Catherine’s words and both women looked toward at the door. Catherine glanced at her aunt’s frightened face. “Be easy, Tante, it is no doubt only my maid—entré, Minette!” The door opened, and she heard her aunt sigh with relief when she saw it was indeed the maid who entered.
Minette gave a curtsy. “Has mademoiselle decided on the flowers she will wear?”
Catherine itched with impatience and almost blurted out that she would wear a funeral wreath. She kept her face composed and her hands in her lap instead. “Roses,” she replied. “We have many in our gardens, and I believe red will do.” Rebellion boiled in her gut, even though she kept herself still. She hoped Minette would get some roses that had long thorns that would scratch the marquis should he come too close to her. The thought made her smile, enough so that she could say pleasantly, “Do leave me to my aunt’s attention, Minette, for we have not seen each other this age, and I would have a comfortable talk with her.” The maid curtsied and left.
She turned to her aunt. “Come, my dear tante, help me undress and put on my other clothes. It is not proper for me to greet guests in my wedding gown.”
She hoped the distraction of the maid would turn their conversation in another direction, but it did not. Her aunt clutched her arm.
“Listen to me, ma chère. I know my daughter; she would have given me word had she been able, but all she could do was leave behind her rosary. It was a message from her, for she was a clever girl.” She shook her head again. “I am not as clever, alas, but at least I can keep you from him, the evil one.” She put her hand in the pocket of her skirt and drew out a bag, pressing it into Catherine’s hands. “Take this and leave, my dear niece. And if you cannot, then use what I give you to kill him. And if you cannot do even that, kill yourself, for le bon Dieu must forgive you if you refuse to live with le Diable himself.”
Catherine gazed, confused and horrified at her aunt, for the woman’s voice grew more frantic as she spoke, her eyes more wild. Her aunt talked of murder and suicide—surely she could not mean it, surely her husband’s treatment of her had made her become mad with fear. Catherine swallowed down her own fear and slowly untied the string that cinched the bag. She went to the bed and emptied it there, then looked at the bag and the contents strewn on the coverlet. Money, enough to travel far from home, and . . . a dagger in its sheath. She picked it up and drew out the knife. It was obviously old, its hilt made of smooth wood, but the blade was polished, as if someone had taken good care of it. She wondered from what armory her aunt had taken it—probably from her uncle the comte’s. He had many such daggers, however, amd would probably not miss it. She pulled out a rosary peeking from under a part of the bag, and then picked up a cross on a necklace that lay next to it. The cross was very plain compared to the rosary, of grey metal—iron, she was sure—and adorned only with a small pearl and a tiny ruby.
She had slid the cross into her hand, and a small shock made her start, so quickly gone that she thought she must have imagined it—but no, a small drop of blood formed on the palm of her hand. She had wiped it away with her other hand, then carefully turned over the cross, examining it for sharp edges, but found none. Perhaps she had pricked herself earlier while doing needlework, and had not noticed it until now.
That night she had picked up a book she had left on the bedside table, then curled up on her bed and began to read, smiling a little at the fanciful fairy tale a court lady had penned and published. As she neared the end of the story, her eyes began to droop—she had been through much and was quite tired.
She had not known what awakened her—a noise, a presence. It had been dark, and the flickering candle only enhanced the shadows around her bed. Her hair hung down in her face, and she pushed it away, annoyed—she had forgotten to undress it. It would be tangled in the morning without a proper brushing. But she yawned and shrugged. Her maid was very good with a brush, and the tangles would come out quickly enough. She turned to blow out the candle.
And choked back a scream. The Marquis de Bauvin stood in the shadows there, his arms crossed over his chest, staring thoughtfully at her.
Catherine shoved herself away from him. “Monsieur, you should not be here,” she said, making her voice as stern as she could. “I may be your fiancée, but I am not your wife, and I have kept my virtue as my father has assured you, and mean to keep it until the day I wed—which is tomorrow. Please leave.” She wondered how he had entered—she always locked the door when she went to bed. Had he bribed one of the servants? Her aunt’s words came back to her about her father’s financial obligations—or, dear heaven, had he bribed her father? She closed her eyes briefly and swallowed down fear.
The marquis did not move from leaning against the wall, and he seemed only to watch her, his face half in shadow, his expression not easy to discern. There seemed to be a sense of curiosity about him, as if she were an interesting species of insect, and he were studying her.
“Please leave,” she repeated, more forcefully this time.
He moved at last, but came closer to her, then seized her wrist before she could move farther away from him. He took her chin in his hand and forced her to look at him. She shuddered. His eyes were flat of expression, empty of emotion, empty perhaps even of a soul. Something flickered at his throat, and she became conscious of his state of undress—he wore only the breeches he had worn earlier, and his fine shirt was open at the collar. The flicker caught her attention again—the candlelight shone on an amulet at his throat. The dark crystal seemed to stir with a sluggish, greedy light, and she was drawn into it, pulled as if by a hundred spidery filaments.
She felt herself move toward him on hands and knees, and fear guttered in her stomach so that she felt she could not breathe. She clenched her teeth and a sharp prickling in her hands began. Her nightgown pulled against her back and pain from the weals forced her to gasp. . . .
She wrenched her eyes away from the amulet and looked at the marquis.
He released her then, his brows raised.
“Interesting,” he said at last. “You should not have been able to do that.”
Catherine scrambled away from him and swallowed down bile. She had not had any control over her own body; she had crawled toward him as if she had been a dog, she who had taken pride in her self-control. The thought made her want to vomit, and the dread that spread from her heart to her gut made her want to scream.
“Stay away from me. Stay away.” Her voice sounded unnaturally loud in her ears, but she could not have shouted, for her throat felt closed with tension.
“Tell me, Catherine,” the marquis said in a conversational tone. “Do you have a dagger, a weapon of particular . . . power? Something that gives you more strength than you normally would have?”
He must be mad. He talked to her as if she had not spoken at all, as if they were in a drawing room conversing upon the weather. How was she to respond? She glanced at the door. If she were quick—
The marquis seized her wrist again and pulled her to him. “No, mademoiselle. Neither one of us will leave this room until I find and take the source of the de la Fer power, whether it is a weapon or . . . something else.”
She would scream. Surely someone would hear her. She drew in a breath, but the marquis clamped his hand over her mouth. “Don’t. It is useless to cry out. No one will pay attention. I have made sure of it.” He looked down at her, and his expression changed, no longer empty now, as he pulled her even closer against his body.
She bit his hand.
A growl burst from him, and then she could not breathe, for he had pushed her down to the bed, his hand now clamped around her throat. She clawed at him, at his hands, struggling to draw in air, then kicked at him. He moved quickly aside, a practiced move, and Catherine wondered with horror if he had done this before.
“I will release you—slowly. You will tell me what I want to know. If you tell me, I will be generous.”
She could feel the blood pulsing in her ears, her senses fading into black, but managed to nod. He released his grip, and she coughed as she gasped for air, but he still kept her immobile with his body on top of hers.
“There is a power in the household of the de la Fers,” he said. “I have sensed it, and I desire to have it. I have heard that the blade that pierced the side of Jesus of Nazareth passed through this house, and then nothing was heard of it since. If anywhere, it is here. The power is stronger around you than anyone else here. Therefore you must have it.” He looked deep into her eyes and reached between them, pulling out the amulet. “You will tell me where it is.”
He was mad. She had no power. Neither did she know of any in her household who did. If she had had any, she would have used it to render her father and her uncle powerless.
The marquis must have caught something of her thoughts in her expression, for he smiled ironically. “What, did you think I desired to marry you because of your looks? You rate yourself too high.” His hand gripped her chin, forcing her to look at the amulet again. “You will tell me where the source of power is.”
The tendrils of darkness drew her will to the amulet again. She twisted against him to get away, but it did nothing but make his eyes half close and let out a soft breath. “Yes, I will be generous if you tell me.” He moved his hips against her. “Be still, and tell me.”
She wanted to vomit. “I . . . don’t know. I know nothing about power,” she said, struggling for control over her fear and her roiling stomach.
“Don’t lie. Your will is strong, but it will break in time. I will make sure of it.” He pulled up her nightdress and trapped her hands above her head.
“No, no, don’t, please, mon Dieu, Jesu, Marie—!”
Anger flamed in his eyes at last, and he put his hand over her mouth again. “Don’t say those things. Tell me about the power, the blade.”
The blade—was it the dagger her aunt had given her? But it was the only thing that would help her escape. She remembered she had put it under her pillow—but he had her hands trapped, she could not get it—
She got one hand loose from his at last, but it was useless, for he forced her to look at the amulet again, and her muscles went lax.
“Tell me about the blade of power.”
“I . . . have . . . no . . . blade of power.” The words came through her lips, stiff and sounding so harsh it seemed not her own voice.
The marquis stared at her for a moment, his body stilled and resting against hers. “Then there is no dagger. And yet I still sense the power strongly about you. I sensed it from your cousin, as well.”
The amulet’s influence faded enough for Catherine to close her eyes briefly in despair. It was true, then. The marquis had indeed taken her cousin Jeanette and perhaps killed her, killed her for some indefinable power neither she knew nor anyone else had told her of.
“You are mad!” she cried, gasping. “I know nothing about this power.”
He forced her to look at the amulet again. “Tell me that you have no power, mademoiselle. Tell me, and I will make this pleasurable for you.” He moved against her, touching her in her secret places, and her forced gaze into the amulet caught a red spark in its depths that seeped into her loins, enflaming them and making her press herself into him against her will.
“No!” she cried. She felt ill. She opened her mouth to tell him she knew of no power within her, but no words came forth. They were stuck in her throat—out of terror, out of pain, out of despair, she knew not what.
“So I thought. There is power in the de la Fer women, if not in the men, and I will take it now,” de Bauvin said, and thrust himself inside her.
Pain. Screams. The prickling in Catherine’s hands became sharp as knives, and she jerked as if she were newly beaten.
She could not see. Darkness enveloped her, though she fought and fought and fought the pain, the darkness, and the terror. The palms of her hands were pierced with agony, dispelling the red darkness, and she opened her eyes and saw her hands become fists, striking the man above her. Pain again as he hit her, and hands fell above her head on the pillow.
There was nothing she could do. Nothing. She was Catherine de la Fer, of an old and noble family, but she could do nothing. The place between her legs burned harshly; even moving a little brought more pain, so she did nothing . . . but keep herself from weeping. She would not do that. No, she would not give him that satisfaction, at least.
She turned her head and looked away as he worked on her . . . she felt as if she were not in her body, as if she had somehow floated away. She wished she did not have a body, not this one, not this one so full of pain.
She wished she were dead.
Pain lanced her again, the palms of her hands, her back, and now her womb. She glanced at him and looked away—the marquis’s eyes were closed and his face harsh, his amulet . . .
The amulet had ceased its hold on her. De Bauvin was not looking at her, was not asking about the power or the dagger . . .
The dagger. Slowly she moved her hand beneath the pillow, remembering her aunt’s words to kill herself rather than be the wife of de Bauvin. Her hand felt metal, then the haft of the knife that had fit her hand so well earlier. It fit well now.
The marquis had asked her about her power—she had it not then, but somehow her hand struck and struck again, hard, she knew not how many times.
He only groaned, stiffening once, then was a dead weight. She struggled under him, pushing him forcefully away, and his head struck hard against the corner of the bed table and then against the floor.
Catherine rose to her knees on the bed, the knife still in her hand. There should be screams and cries now, there should be alarms sounding. But no sound came to her ears except the snapping of the fire in the hearth and her breath coming harsh through her teeth.
There was blood. Blood on her gown, blood on the bed, blood flowing from her hands—had she cut her hands with the knife? She did not know.
All she knew was that she was not Catherine de la Fer any longer. She was not the girl who was about to be married, she was someone else whose body was different, whose soul was not the same as it was.
She looked at the dagger in her hand that did not seem to be her hand; it was a stranger’s, for it was covered in blood. The dagger dropped from the hand to the bed—see, it could not be her hand, for it was numb, and she felt nothing.
Nothing but a terrifying ache between her thighs—no, no, she would not think of that. Her back did not pain her, or the palms of her hands, and that was good.
She moved to the edge of the bed and slipped from it to the floor, stumbling on something that lay there. The guttering candlelight flickered over the floor and the body slumped against the bedside table. Blood shimmered in a pool next to it.
Nausea filled her throat and she spewed her supper on the floor.
Jesu, Marie. God help her.
Panic rose. She had to get away. She could not stay here. Her father would beat her if he found out what she had done—
An hysterical laugh cut off her thoughts. Her father’s beating would be nothing compared to what she would receive. She had killed the Marquis de Bauvin. The thought pierced her numbness, and flooded her with fear. He was an important man, with connections at the king’s court. She was nothing, less than nothing. She would be taken away, imprisoned, executed for murder.
She wanted to die, she deserved to die, but the thought of being imprisoned, of being cut off from the open air, perhaps to be beaten again—
The stench of her vomit came to her, and she realized she was on her hands and knees on the floor, in the same way she had been on the bed when de Bauvin had forced her will to his. She forced herself to her feet, her knees shaking. No. No. She could not let herself be imprisoned in a lightless cell, and she would never be beaten again. She would not let anyone touch her.
She looked about her again. It was dark and quiet. Someone had screamed; it should have roused the servants, but she heard no voices, no running feet. She swallowed nervously—her throat hurt.
She had screamed. She shook her head dully. No, it was someone else, someone who had belonged here. She did not belong here, she was sure.
There was a bowl on the washstand near the fire, and water within. She would wash herself there, and she would leave this place.
She worked steadily, washing and cleaning, and setting the bed as neatly as she could. There was nothing she could do about the man on the floor, or the blood. She would leave it for the servants.
She had to leave. She took the dagger and washed it carefully, then put it in a velvet bag she found on the bedside table. There was something else in the bag—yes, money. A lady had given her money so that she could go away, and the lady had given her something else—ah, the dagger, a rosary, and a cross. She put her hand between her breasts and pulled up the cross in front of her eyes. It lay over a wound in the palm of her hand. She frowned. She must have cut herself somehow . . . but no matter; the wound faded, and the skin of her hand became smooth.
She tucked the cross between her breasts again.
She knew there were men’s clothes in the wardrobe next to the fireplace. Someone . . . someone named Catherine had put then there at one time when she wanted to practice fighting.
It was fitting that she put these on; she was not as she was before. She tucked the bag and the dagger in one pocket of the coat she put on, put on sturdy shoes, and left the room.
The hallway was quiet; the people who lived in this house must be asleep, she thought. She walked down the stairs and past an open door.
It was an armory. A vague remembrance of some unpleasantness came to her regarding this room, but she pushed it aside. It would be good to have some kind of protection, she thought. She remembered she had learned something about weapons.
The candles were faint in their sconces, but she could make out the various weapons on the wall. Daggers—she had one already, so needed none. But there was a fine rapier she remembered she had used once, and she took it in her hand. It felt comfortable, and strength seemed to flow into her from it. She also took a belt and a scabbard, for she could not let damage occur to such a valuable weapon. She settled the belt around her, slipping the rapier into the scabbard, and as she walked, the scabbard rested in a satisfying way against her hip.
The summer night air was cool but not overly so, and she was thankful for that. She walked to the stables. If she were to leave quickly, she would need to take a horse. She halted at the entrance for a moment, listening for movement, but there was none. She supposed the stable boys were probably sound asleep. She went inside to a stall that contained a familiar horse. It nickered at her, and she stilled, looking about her in case the noise might have wakened anyone. But nothing stirred.
She took the mare and wrestled a saddle on it. When she went astride, a sharp pain formed between her legs, and an echoing fear, but it only made her dig her heels into the horse’s sides and ride away as fast as she could from the memory.
Memory . . . Catherine forced herself to remember everything, even review once again the dream of her rape. De Bauvin had tried to take her power from her, and now he might try to take what power Blanche might have, in the same way. She knew he must be the one who had cursed her so; did not Père Doré say that one way of identifying a sorcerer was if an affliction disappeared upon touching that sorcerer? All her memories had returned when she had at last touched de Bauvin’s hand that evening she had returned home.
Catherine pressed trembling hands to her face. Jesu, Marie, what was she to do? De Bauvin wished to take some power that she had—he had thought it was in a dagger, but she did not know of any that contained power. But she did know that the supernatural had touched her and that she recovered from her wounds very quickly, more quickly than anyone else, and that she gained strength in only a few weeks once Jack had found her. It spoke of some kind of power within her, or about her, and perhaps that was what the marquis was after.
She did not know much about such power or of sorcery, but there must be some reason de Bauvin wanted to wed Blanche when she, Catherine, had disappeared. It was clear to her in the week since she had returned that the de la Fers’ financial affairs were not as stable as the fine clothes and cutlery they owned seemed to imply. Certainly the marquis was far more wealthy than the de la Fers. He could have his pick of brides, as noble as she, and more rich.
Therefore, he wanted something else the de la Fers had, and it must be the power he had spoken of. And if he was willing to wed Blanche, then it meant she, also, had it, as well. She thought of the marquis’s character and what she had heard of him from her poor aunt. He was not the sort to simply seek power only to hold it. He was someone who would use it and wield it. She remembered the conversations Jack would have with Fichet about the affairs of countries, and remembered the reason why her own King of France kept his nobles so close at court—so that he could keep his eye on them. She swallowed. Surely the marquis did not think to take the king’s power, as had the nobles during the Fronde revolt a decade ago?
Catherine forced herself to think over when she had the first manifestations of supernatural forces. She had never been aware of it growing up, nor as a young woman. It was only after she had been . . . violated. She closed her eyes and forced her body to relax, and her mind to be objective. It was only after she had been subjected to the marquis’s violence that she had found the strength to stab him and shove his body from hers onto the floor.
She swallowed. There had been much blood. Blood on the sheets, on the floor, some of it hers and some of it de Bauvin’s. The household must have known of it, for there was not one spot of it on the floor or on the bed when she returned. Someone had ordered it cleaned, but no one had mentioned the incident to her, and except for Blanche, who was at the convent at the time, everyone must have known. Including her brother.
She wondered how her father had died. She remembered now his blustering, his bullying abuse. She was glad her brother was not like that, at least not on the surface. But if her brother had known of her stabbing of de Bauvin, why then did he not tell her he knew, and why did he consent to have the marquis wed Blanche instead?
Either Adrian must know and approve of whatever de Bauvin planned to do with the power that existed in her or Blanche, or he was under de Bauvin’s arcane control. Either way, she could not mention anything to him of what she knew. She had to pretend that she still did not remember anything and find out why it was that Adrian had said nothing of the incident, and why de Bauvin still desired to marry into her family.
Catherine looked about her room, then rose from her bed and went to the window. She could hear a rooster crow in the distance—it must be the morning, though she could see no light on the horizon. Her brother had insisted they would go to Versailles to be presented to the king soon, though he had not stated exactly when.
So far, the marquis had not visited either Blanche or her for any long length of time, for which she was thankful. She wondered what he waited for, if he wanted the power that existed in her and in Blanche. He had not hesitated to try to seize it before when he—
She put away the memory for now. She had gone over it with as much objectivity as possible, and had even controlled her fear. She allowed herself to feel a bit of pride in that—she had vowed she would control her fear, and she had. Felice would be proud of her, she thought.
She wished she were back at the inn, with Felice and Fichet, and . . . and Jack.
She wished he had not gone, but she had as good as pushed him away. She had not wanted him to stay, thinking that she had been the source of the supernatural attacks.
Now she knew she was not. She groaned. It was just as well that Jack had not stayed; he could not love such an idiot as she was. She looked out the window again—useless. He would not come for her, although he might come back for the money her brother had promised him. She had made it clear she wished to stay at her home and that he was to go on . . . and he was at the beck and call of his king, after all. No, he would not return for her, but he might, to claim funds for his king. She could hope for that.
She found herself watching the darkness; she was not sure for what, exactly. Jack, perhaps, though she knew it was foolish. If she were to watch the night, it would be better if she looked for an intruder.
She turned back to her bed and flipped over the pillow. Her dagger was there, and her rapier beneath the bed. She was better prepared now to defend herself than she had been before. She knew how to use both a dagger and a sword.
Her expertise was something she kept hidden from her family, and of course de Bauvin. The less they knew of her training, the better. Her brother had seen her practice, but she made sure she looked clumsy at it, and had been so successful, he had laughed at her. She had grinned, shrugged her shoulders, and asked that he humor her, which he had.
She replaced the pillow and gazed out the window again. She frowned. Something moved out there, shifting back and forth in a pattern she remembered, and dread crept up from her stomach to her throat. She made herself lean forward and peered into the dark.
The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and her hands began to prickle with pain.
It was the demon, she was sure of it. Catherine gritted her teeth against the pain that seeped into her back, and ran to her bed, taking out her sword from under it. If it came to the house . . .
The pain faded, and she gazed out the window again. The weaving, shifting shape was gone.
She was certain it must have come from de Bauvin. Perhaps he sent the creature to keep guard over her and Blanche, to make sure that they did not leave without him knowing of it. Which could mean, of course, that he did not believe that she had totally lost her memory. She had been very careful, however, to reveal nothing, for both her life and Blanche’s depended on it.
Or it could mean that he sent the demon to guard against others.
Jack.
She swallowed. If Jack came back, the demon might attack him. It made sense. If de Bauvin had at all sensed that there was anything between her and Jack, he would wish to prevent it. How was she going to keep the demon from him?
She slowly went to her bed and put the rapier back underneath it. If the demon was set to guard her and Blanche, then it made sense that if they left their home, the demon would be sent after them.
It meant, then, that if Jack decided to return for the money, it would be best if she and her sister were not here. She swallowed. She would have to convince her brother to go to Versailles as soon as possible . . . and watch de Bauvin very carefully. It would mean, of course, that she would have to keep him close by.
She closed her eyes. Dieu me sauve. It was difficult enough now to see him, knowing what he was, and knowing that no one would believe her. Even if anyone wished to examine her claims of rape, it was possible she herself would have to undergo torture during investigation to ensure she was not lying. She could bear much, but by the time the investigation was done, de Bauvin would have done his damage.
But she would do it. She would watch de Bauvin, even flirt with him, if need be, to keep him under her eye. If she could find solid evidence of sorcery, she would turn him in and work to free her brother from his influence. And if she did not . . .
She would find some way to kill him before he hurt Blanche.