face and stops.
“Julian,” Mallory says from her hiding place, “I’ve never been touched or held by anyone in my whole hard life the way you hold me when you love me, and when we sleep. You gave me something I didn’t know I wanted, that I didn’t know was real. For that, I thank you. But the most important thing to me is not love, not even yours. It’s to save my own life. It’s the only one I’ve got, and it’s what my mother kept saying she wanted for me. I do this partly to honor her.”
“You poisoned a man to honor your mother,” Julian says.
“It was never going to last between me and you,” Mallory says. “Don’t look so upset.”
“I don’t look upset,” he says. “I am upset. Do you know the difference?”
“I do. But don’t be. You are young, passionate, beautiful. The girls swoon over you. Pay me no mind. You’ll find someone else.”
“You don’t love me?”
“I love you,” Mallory says. “But I can’t trust you.”
“You can’t trust me?”
“That’s right. You sold me to the lord. What you wanted came first.”
“I didn’t sell you!” Julian exclaims. “I gave you what you wanted. I would’ve never done it. You begged me to help you. You wanted to make money. I gave that to you.”
“And you wanted to have me—at any cost. Well, this is the price.”
“Mallory! You killed a man who took care of you so you could get to his gold, and you’re talking to me about trust?”
“What did you do for his gold?”
“I didn’t kill him. I didn’t betray my benefactor.” Julian shudders. Little did he know that his girl was in the fourth ring of the ninth circle of hell. And he was right by her side. “Oh, Mallory.” He shrinks and bends like a bow.
“You traded your body and mine,” she says. “You don’t think that’s worse?”
“No.”
“You whored yourself out, and you whored me out.”
“Stop being cruel. I did it for you.”
“You say for me. I say for you. So you could have what you want. Well, I did the things I did to have what I want.” Mallory whispers this, but her words are so deadly she might as well be screaming.
Julian doesn’t know what to do. To tell her or not to tell her? Who’s to say his own fate will be different from the Temporal Lord’s? She’s already disposed of one man. What’s one more?
“I saved some money, Mallory,” Julian says. “You can have it. Let’s go. Let’s run together.”
She shakes her head.
“You said you want to save your life. That’s also what I want. I swear to you.” Julian clenches his fist over his heart. “To save you is all I want. You’re in terrible danger. You don’t even know. Parker suspects you of foul play. And you know the punishment that awaits you. Please, let me protect you. You can’t do it alone,” he adds when he gets no reply from her.
“Is that a threat, Julian? Are you going to give me up to the constable?” There is something merciless and frightening in Mallory’s expression.
Julian becomes certain if he tells her about the treasure, she will kill him. She will poison his wine, too, and form a Satan’s alliance with Ilbert, and like Fabian, Julian will be tossed face down into the shallow canal by Savoy Palace.
“I’m not going to give you up,” he says, struggling to his feet and pulling her up with him. “You are my country. My allegiance is to you.” He fights to avoid placing a confrontational emphasis on my. But also—he can’t form a coherent thought anymore. He will have to deal with this tomorrow. It will be here soon enough.
He makes her lie down with him in the bed and with cold scared arms holds her cold scared body, hiding his terrified face behind her. Cyril Connolly is wrong. It is possible to be made wretched in a brothel.
Half-dressed, they fall into a restless sleep, the sleep of guilty lovers in anguish as they choose something else over what they feel for each other.
A NOXIOUS COMMOTION AWAKENS THEM A FEW HOURS LATER. Sitting up against the headboard, Mallory looks like a cornered animal.
“Margrave is dying! Margrave is dying!” Julian hears as he opens the bedroom door.
Casting Mallory a long backwards glance, telling her to stay in his room and not come out, Julian runs upstairs, hoping it’s hyperbole.
But Margrave does not look well. She’s winded, profusely hot, abnormally thirsty, wet, and gray. He crouches in front of her low bed. No one else wants to get near her; the other girls are afraid it’s pestilence (though Julian doesn’t think so); most of them have cleared the room. Only the lowly and unwanted Greta remains unafraid by Margrave’s side, holding her hand.
“I didn’t feel well all night, sire,” the girl whispers, reaching for Julian. Her swollen tongue is bleeding. She has foam around her mouth.
Julian races downstairs to the kitchen, grabs a few coals from the basket by the hearth, and shaves them down with a knife until fine powder lines the bottom of a mug. He fills the mug with a bit of ale and flies upstairs. In the ten minutes he is gone, Margrave has gotten worse. Her body is jerking. She mumbles incoherently. Greta is down on her knees. “Margrave, drink this,” Julian says. “It doesn’t taste great, but it will help you.”
The girl takes a sip, makes a face.
“I know,” he says. “It’s activated charcoal. It’ll absorb whatever’s making you sick. It’s an antidote for poison. Please, drink all of it.” God help them all, is it the rosary pea?
Margrave drinks all of it. He waits with her while Greta mouths words of extreme unction from the Gospel of James. Is any among you afflicted? Is any among you sick? The prayer of faith shall save you. The Lord shall raise you. The hot burning wind blowing in through the open windows isn’t helping. Carling and Ivy reluctantly bring wet rags and Greta wipes Margrave down while Julian paces the room, smelling the wind. A rat king of anxiety is gnawing out his guts.
Greta lays down her rags. Carling and Ivy cry.
“What?” he barks. Margrave has stopped convulsing.
From down below, he hears the Baroness holler. “Fire! There’s a fire!”
Shrieking, Carling and Ivy push past Julian and plummet down the stairs. “You’ve done all you can for Margrave, O noble sire,” Greta says. “But she is gone.”
Alas
