Witches With the Enemy Page 9

  Anton stepped forward, took her hand, and kissed the back of it.

  “Forgive my intrusion at this time, and I offer my condolences,” he said. “My father sent me to assist you.” He motioned toward Céline and Amelie with one hand. “And he asked me to bring my two seers.”

  Lord Hamish frowned. “Seers?”

  “Yes, they have proven invaluable to my family,” Anton answered. “My father himself recently sought their help to resolve a difficult matter.”

  “Indeed,” Damek put in with some bravado. “And our father would do anything to offer you all the resources of the house of Pählen.”

  As Lord Hamish was about to speak again, voices came from the archway, and Céline looked over to three much younger people who swept into the hall, side by side. From Anton’s earlier descriptions of the family, it was not difficult for Céline to know who was who.

  Rochelle was on the left. The first word that came to mind was “exquisite.” She looked to be about eighteen years old. She was tall for a woman, probably reaching Damek’s nose, with a slight, willowy figure. Her hair was red-gold and hung to the small of her back. Her eyes were so light brown they seemed to glow. Her complexion was creamy and flawless, and she wore a light green gown of crushed velvet, similar in cut to Céline’s, with a V neck that exposed her slender throat and collarbones. Her walk was so graceful she might have been gliding on ice.

  To the right of the trio was a much shorter girl of perhaps fifteen. This would be Lizbeth. Although she shared her elder sister’s coloring, there the resemblance ended. A few spots—commonly suffered by those her age—marked her cheeks. She was of a healthy, slightly stocky build. Her hair had been carelessly woven into a loose braid, and she walked with both arms swinging at her sides. The skirt of her satin gown was already wrinkled. She exuded a youthful energy and struck Céline as one of those people who showed every emotion on her face.

  Finally, in the center was a young man . . . Rochelle’s twin brother, Heath, already a baron, wearing a sleeveless cream tunic over a black wool shirt. He was only an inch or two taller than Rochelle, with her same willowy build, coloring, and delicate features.

  On her the effect was ethereal. On him . . . it was something else. It gave him an aura that was borderline effeminate. While Anton and Damek were both slender of build, the bones in their wrists, arms, and shoulders looked solid, as if neither would put much effort into swinging a sword, hurling a spear, or handling an unruly warhorse.

  The young baron could be described as fragile and almost pretty.

  Directly behind these three young people came a tall, armed man, most likely their bodyguard. However, he wore the pale yellow tabard of the house of Äntes.

  All of them stopped only a few paces into the hall.

  “Who are they?” Lizbeth asked bluntly, looking at Anton, Céline, and Amelie.

  “My dear,” Lady Helena said, her voice rising in reprimand. “Please remember yourself.” She gestured somewhat regally to Anton. “This is Prince Damek’s brother.”

  Damek strode to Rochelle and took her hand. “Anton, I introduce my bride-to-be, Rochelle Quillette.”

  Rochelle dropped her head and blushed prettily, but the pride in Damek’s voice was clear. Perhaps he truly valued her?

  Or . . . was he just throwing his good fortune in Anton’s face?

  Further introductions were made, along with the background that Anton had created for the sisters—as the daughters of a wealthy wool merchant—and Céline found herself caught up in a current of polite nods and responses.

  The young baron was barely able to make eye contact with the new arrivals, and as a result, Céline felt an unwanted rush of pity. He seemed even shyer than his twin sister.

  Lizbeth, however, did not labor under any form of shyness, and as Céline was further assessing Rochelle, she heard Anton use the word “seers” again.

  “Seers?” Lizbeth asked. “Why would your father want you to bring them?”

  Anton’s expression flickered, as if he wasn’t certain how to broach this topic with a fifteen-year-old girl, and so Céline stepped in.

  “As it has been feared that your sister might have been poisoned, the princes’ father hoped my sister and I could uncover whoever was responsible.”

  “She was poisoned,” Lizbeth returned. “That’s not in doubt.”

  Céline found herself thrown somewhat off-kilter by this straightforward girl.

  Before she could respond, Amelie broke in. “Why would anyone want to poison Carlotta?”

  “Why, to put a stop to this marriage, of course,” Lizbeth answered derisively, as if the question were foolish. “She’d been negotiating the match for weeks.”

  Lady Helena’s face tightened with undisguised anger. “That has nothing to do with why some mad person would poison her wine, and you will keep your ignorant assumptions to yourself.” She turned back to Céline. “Forgive my youngest daughter. I fear she has not the years or the sense to be out in polite society. Whoever committed this horrible act most likely has a grudge against those better than him or herself and wished to do my family harm.”

  Lizbeth’s face tinged red, but she kept silent, and Céline’s mind raced. Carlotta had been the one negotiating the betrothal? That was a worthwhile piece of news.

  An awkward moment followed until Damek said, “Miss Céline presented me with another possibility today.”

  Céline’s eyes flew to him, and he gave her a hard, almost threatening look. He wanted her to repeat what she’d told him in the cellar.

  With little choice, she turned to Helena. “My lady, I am not certain your eldest daughter was killed intentionally. In addition to serving as Prince Anton’s seer, I am also his court healer and apothecary.” She hesitated at the next part, wondering how it would be received. “Prince Damek allowed me to examine Carlotta’s body . . . and although it was a difficult task for me to conduct, I saw no signs of death by poison. Almost every form leaves some telltale mark, and your daughter bore none. It is possible she died of a natural cause . . . perhaps a weak heart.”

  Both Lady Helena and Lord Hamish suddenly stared at Céline as if she were their savior. Helena even grabbed her hand. “Oh, my dear, is this true? If so, you are the bearer of good news.” Then, perhaps mindful of how that might have sounded, she quickly added, “Of course we are in pain over the loss of Carlotta, but the thought of her being murdered has been too terrible to bear. If indeed her sad death was natural and unavoidable, it would give me some peace.”

  Helena glanced at Damek with a gleam in her eye, and Hamish looked as if he’d just been granted a great boon.

  With a jolt, Céline realized that they wanted the marriage to take place just as badly as Damek and Prince Lieven. An ugly murder at the dinner table was hardly conducive to negotiations, but if Carlotta had simply died . . . things could move forward with much greater ease.

  “Perhaps you and I could speak later in private?” Céline asked Helena. “It would be helpful for me to know the history of Carlotta’s health. I may be able to shed more light.”

  “Of course, my dear,” Helena answered readily, “as soon as you like.”

  Johanna approached silently, carrying a tray laden with goblets and a large pitcher.

  People began taking goblets from the tray as Johanna moved between them, pouring dark red wine. All talk of Carlotta’s death ceased, as it would be unseemly for her mother to discuss her health history in such a setting.

  “Let us have wine and conversation before dinner is served,” Damek said, playing the gracious host. “We are still missing the Lady Saorise. I’ve tried to speak to her about listening for the gong, but I fear it is a losing battle.”

  At the mention of that name, Amelie’s eyes went wide, and she froze in place. Thankfully, no one but Céline noticed.

  What was wrong?

 
Further movement in the archway caused Céline to half turn, and as if she had been called by Damek’s comment, a woman walked into the hall. She was middle-aged and slight of build with long silver-blond hair. Her face showed signs of fading beauty. She wore rings on all her fingers, and as opposed to a gown she wore a long robe of purple silk, like that of a scholar or a priestess.

  “Ah, there you are,” Damek said. He turned back to Anton, “I don’t believe you have met my counselor, the Lady Saorise.”

  Amelie was taking in quick breaths, and Céline moved to her side. “Whatever is wrong, do not show it now,” she whispered. “Tell me later.”

  As Amelie recovered her composure, Lady Saorise entered the group. Céline smiled and nodded again, but she was beginning to grow slightly overwhelmed at having to take stock of so many people at once.

  Several guests took sips of wine, and Rochelle broke her shy silence by asking Anton, “Was your journey pleasant, my lord? I hope it did not rain.”

  “I fear it did,” he answered, “but the distance is not too far, and we spent a comfortable night in Rékausi.”

  Céline again nodded politely in agreement as she silently tried to get a read on everyone. Although she’d seen no evidence yet that Carlotta had been murdered, something about Lizbeth’s absolute certainty was troubling.

  Lady Helena and Lord Hamish both seemed beyond eager to have a natural death proven to be the case. But how could it be proven? And if there was a killer here, and Anton took his own people and left, and then the killer struck again, Anton would look negligent to Prince Lieven. No, they couldn’t leave Castle Kimovesk . . . and yet, because Damek had forced her to share her initial thoughts on this matter, she was now uncertain how to continue with a murder investigation.

  Her mind rolled over other possibilities.

  What if Carlotta had been murdered after all? Céline tried to think of any poison she’d ever heard of that might leave no trace. She’d heard rumors of a few from distant lands, but how could such be obtained, and by whom?

  Her gaze moved to the tall bodyguard who had come in with the trio of siblings. He was handsome in a rugged way, with a weathered complexion. His chin was solid and his nose was aquiline. His dark hair curled down the nape of his neck, and his build suggested great strength. He wore chain armor over a wool shirt, covered by his pale yellow tabard. Céline couldn’t help noticing how his eyes constantly followed Rochelle whenever she moved, with a hint of hunger.

  As she continued her scan, she stopped on Captain Kochè. He, too, stared at Rochelle, but with an entirely different expression. His eyes were narrow . . . as if he hated her.

  What possible reason could he have? Prince Damek’s marriage wouldn’t affect him.

  “What exactly does Prince Anton mean when he says that you’re a seer?” Lizbeth asked Céline suddenly.

  Céline turned to the girl. “Pardon?”

  “What does a seer do?”

  Lady Helena pursed her mouth as if again displeased with her youngest daughter’s manners.

  But Céline saw a possible opening. “I can read a person’s future, and my sister, Miss Amelie, can read the past.”

  Lizbeth raised an eyebrow. “Prove it.”

  “Oh, Lizbeth,” Heath said quietly. “Can’t you just leave off for once?” His tone was not harsh or scolding. He sounded more embarrassed than anything else.

  “Why?” Lizbeth challenged him. “I want to see this. She says Carlotta may not have been murdered, and our mother can’t wait to believe her. Let her prove who she is.”

  Although the girl had a penchant for stirring up trouble, there was something refreshing about her . . . something that reminded Céline of Amelie.

  “Shall I read you?” Céline answered the girl. “Tell you your future?”

  Lizbeth’s gaze grew sharp. She shared the same light brown eyes of her siblings. “No . . . ,” she answered slowly, “not me.” Looking around, she pointed at Johanna. “Her. And have your sister read her past. That way, Johanna can verify if the reading is true.”

  A penchant for stirring up trouble indeed.

  * * *

  Startled by this quick change of events, Amelie glanced at Anton. What should she do? To his credit, Anton turned casually to Damek and asked, “What say you? It could provide some entertainment before dinner.”

  Amelie knew well that Anton had no interest in providing entertainment, but a successful show here could be useful if he had to press the family later—and try to convince them that their guards, their servants, or they themselves must agree to a reading. Or, if someone vehemently refused after seeing what Amelie could do . . . well, that could be just as telling.

  Prince Damek, however, seemed uncertain, and he smiled at Lizbeth. “Must it be Johanna? She so dislikes attention. Could you not choose someone else?”

  “No,” Lizbeth answered firmly. “Her.”

  Damek’s eyes glinted in warning at Lizbeth, but the girl was not daunted. Amelie began to suspect that there was something behind Lizbeth’s choice.

  When Damek did not argue further, his silence appeared to imply assent.

  “Good, then,” Lizbeth said, turning to Amelie. “How do you start?”

  This posed the next dilemma for Amelie, as Céline always took the lead in situations like this one. Céline knew how to play the game, how to put on a show . . . how to smile and put people at ease.

  Thankfully, Céline was well aware of Amelie’s shortcomings in this regard.

  “Over here,” Céline said, pointing to the table. “They’ll both need to sit down.” She smiled reassuringly at Johanna, who, as a servant of Damek, had no choice in this. “Amelie only needs to touch your hand.”

  Before she knew what was happening, Amelie found herself seated in a high-back chair, facing Johanna—who was seated so close their knees almost touched. Hoping that she sounded reassuring, Amelie said, “Just give me your hand.”

  Hesitantly, Johanna reached out, and Amelie grasped her fingers.

  As Amelie had no set question in mind to be answered, she closed her eyes and focused on the spark of Johanna’s spirit and then on Johanna’s past. Amelie’s gift as one of the Mist-Torn often showed her scenes that were important for one reason or another.

  She focused more intently on the spark of Johanna’s spirit.

  When the first jolt hit, Amelie braced for another. The second jolt hit, and she found herself rushing through the gray and white mists, moving backward in time.

  Her ability was slightly different from Céline’s in several ways. While Céline could only see someone else’s future as an observer, if Amelie wished, she could bond with her target and see the past through his or her eyes. In these cases, the people Amelie read could be just as conscious as she was of the scenes being replayed, and afterward they were aware of exactly what she’d seen. The people Céline read never had any idea what she was seeing. The two sisters had discussed these differences, and Céline guessed they might be due to the fact that the past was set in stone, and the future could still be changed—that she was just seeing one possible line unless something was done to alter it.

  This time, Amelie did not bond with Johanna. She wished to be only an observer. When the reading was over, Johanna would have no idea what images from the past Amelie might have seen.

  The mists rushed around her, and when they cleared, Amelie found herself in a familiar room with low velvet-covered couches . . . Damek’s private chambers.

  Looking toward the hearth, she saw Damek holding Johanna in an embrace. It didn’t appear to be forced, as Johanna wasn’t struggling, but her face was turned away from him.

  “Nothing has changed,” he whispered in her ear.

  “Everything’s changed. You’re to be married. She and her family arrive tomorrow. What would you have me do? I swear I will leave and not return.”

&n
bsp; His expression shifted to anger, and he shoved her away. “You have no place to go and we both know it. But I’ll not have sulking women about me, and you know that, too.” His tone was cruel as he asked. “Do you love me?”

  Tears streamed down her face. “I love you.”

  He reached out, slowly pushing the top of her gown over the edge of her shoulder. “Show me.”

  The image vanished, and Amelie was once again in the mists, this time rushing forward. Then she was back in the great hall trying to control her expression—wishing she were as skilled at this as Céline. Johanna had not been concerned before, but now she looked anxious as she took in Amelie’s expression. Perhaps she had not believed Amelie would see anything.

  Everyone around them waited expectantly.

  Damek stood by, tense and wary.

  Johanna could certainly not be exposed as Damek’s lover in front of Rochelle and her entire family. That would only cause embarrassment and further hinder the marriage negotiations. Panic flooded Amelie. What could she say? Céline would be able to tell the perfect lie here, but Amelie had never been skilled at the art of lying.

  “What did you see?” Lizbeth asked.

  Somehow Amelie managed to imitate her sister and she smiled, saying the first thing that came into her mind. “The mists took me back to Johanna’s youth. Her brother bet her a moon’s worth of chores that she could not ride a new horse purchased by their father. She accepted . . . and was promptly thrown into the mud . . . and did her brother’s chores for an entire moon.”

  Relief flickered across Johanna’s face, and Damek relaxed.

  Only Lizbeth frowned as she studied Johanna. “Is that true?”

  Johanna nodded. She must be more quick-witted than she looked, because she lied. “Yes, it’s true. I’ve never forgotten that day.”

  Lord Hamish stepped forward and held his hand out to Amelie. She didn’t care for the interested glint in his eye. “How charming,” he said. “You must read me after dinner.”

  Amelie bit the inside of her cheek and allowed him to help her up from the chair. “Of course.”