Hidden Huntress

  Hidden Huntress

  Danielle L Jensen

  By the Same Author

  Stolen Songbird

  For my mom, who reads the dreadful first drafts, the polished final drafts, and the many, many versions in between. Thanks for everything you do.

  One

  Cecile

  My voice faded into silence, though the memory of it seemed to haunt the theatre as I slumped gracefully, trusting that Julian would catch me, however much he might not want to. The stage was smooth and cool against my cheek, a blessed relief against the heat of hundreds of bodies packed into one place. I tried to breathe shallowly, ignoring the stench of too much perfume and far too few baths as I feigned death. Julian’s voice replaced mine, and his lament echoed across my ears and through the theatre, but I only half-listened, my attention drifting away to fix on the all too real sorrow of another. One far out of reach.

  The audience erupted into cheers. “Bravo!” someone shouted, and I almost smiled when a falling flower brushed against my cheek. The curtain hit the stage floor, and I reluctantly opened my eyes, the red velvet of the curtains pulling me back into an unwelcome reality.

  “You seem distracted tonight,” Julian said, hauling me unceremoniously to my feet. “And about as emotive as my left boot. She won’t be best pleased, you know.”

  “I know,” I muttered, smoothing my costume into place. “I had a late night.”

  “Shocking.” Julian rolled his eyes. “It’s tiring work ingratiating yourself with every rich man and woman in the city.” He took my hand again, nodded at the crew, and we both plastered smiles on our faces as the curtain rose again. “Cécile! Cécile!” the audience shouted. Waving blindly, I blew a kiss to the sea of faces before dropping into a deep curtsey. We stepped back to let the rest of the cast take their bows before coming forward again. Julian dropped to one knee and kissed my gloved fingers to the roaring approval of the crowd, and then the curtain dropped for the final time.

  The moment the fabric hit the stage floor, Julian jerked his hand away from mine and rose to his feet. “Funny how even at your worst, they still scream your name,” he said, his handsome face dark with anger. “They treat me as though I am one of your stage props.”

  “You know that isn’t true,” I said. “You’ve legions of admirers. All the men are jealous, and all the women wish it was them in your arms.”

  “Spare me your platitudes.”

  I shrugged and turned my back on him, walking offstage. It was two months to the day since I had arrived in Trianon and nearly three since my dramatic exit from Trollus, and despite arriving with a plan I had thought was good, I was still no closer to finding Anushka. Julian’s jealousy was the least of my concerns.

  Backstage was its usual state of organized chaos – only now that the performance was over, the wine was pouring more liberally. Half-dressed chorus girls preened at Julian, their overlapping words barely intelligible as they rained praise upon his performance. I was glad for it – he didn’t get the credit he deserved. Me they ignored, which was fine, because all I wanted was to be done with working for the night. Eyes on my dressing room, I wove through the performers until the sound of my name stopped me in my tracks.

  “Cécile!”

  Slowly, I turned on my heel and watched everyone scatter as my mother strode through the room. She kissed me hard on both cheeks and then pulled me into a tight embrace, her strong fingers digging painfully into the long livid scar where Gran had cut me open to repair my injury. “That was positively dreadful,” she hissed into my ear, breath hot. “Be thankful for small mercies that there was no one of taste in the audience tonight.”

  “Of course not,” I whispered back. “Because if there had been, you would have been the one onstage.”

  “Something you would be grateful for if you weren’t so ignorant.” She pushed away from me. “Wasn’t she brilliant tonight!” she announced to the room. “A natural talent. The world has never known such a voice.”

  Everyone murmured in agreement, a few going so far as to clap their hands. My mother beamed at them. She might criticize me until she was blue in the face, but she wouldn’t tolerate anyone else saying a thing against me.

  “Yes indeed, well done, Cécile!” A man’s voice caught my attention, and looking around my mother, I saw the Marquis strolling across the room. He was a bland man, as remarkable and memorable as grey paint but for the fact he usually had my mother on his arm.

  I dropped into a curtsey. “Thank you, my lord.”

  He waved me up, his eyes on the chorus girls. “Wonderful performance, my dear. If Genevieve hadn’t been sitting right next to me, I would have sworn it was her onstage.”

  My mother’s face tightened and I felt mine blanch. “You are too kind.”

  Everyone stood staring mutely at each other long enough for it to become uncomfortable.

  “We’d best be off,” my mother finally said, her voice jarringly cheerful. “We’re late as it is. Cécile, darling, I won’t be home tonight, so don’t wait up.”

  I nodded my head and watched the Marquis escort my mother out the back entrance. I wondered briefly whether he knew she was married to my father, and if he did, whether he cared. He’d been my mother’s patron for years, but I hadn’t known he existed until I came to Trianon. As to whether my family had been kept from that knowledge or my family had kept the knowledge from me, I couldn’t say. Sighing, I made my way to my dressing room, closing the door firmly behind me.

  Sitting down on the stool in front of the mirror, I slowly peeled off my stage gloves and picked up a short lace pair that I habitually wore to cover my bonding marks. The silver of my tattoo shone in the candlelight, and my shoulders slumped.

  How much torture could a person endure before breaking? A knot of continuous pain sat in the back of my mind – pain laced with wild fear and anger that never diminished, never seemed to rest. A constant reminder that Tristan suffered in Trollus so that I could be safe in Trianon. A constant reminder of my failure to help him.

  “Cécile?”

  I twisted around, instinctively covering my bonding marks with my other hand until I saw it was Sabine, and then I let my arms drop to my sides. Her brow furrowed when she saw my face, and she came the rest of the way inside, shutting the door behind her.

  Despite her parents’ protestations, my oldest and dearest friend had insisted on coming to Trianon with me. She’d always been a talented seamstress and had proven to have a knack for hair and cosmetics, so I’d been able to convince the company to hire her as my dresser.

  While I had been recovering, my family had told everyone in the Hollow that I’d gotten cold feet about moving to Trianon and fled to Courville on the southern tip of the Isle. But keeping my secret from Sabine had never been an option. After what she’d gone through during my disappearance, allowing her to believe that I’d let her endure all that hurt because of performance nerves would have been unforgivable.

  “You weren’t all that bad,” she said, dipping a rag in some cold cream and setting to work removing my makeup before fastening my gold necklace back around my throat. “In fact, you weren’t bad at all. Just not your best. Who could be under the circumstances?”

  I nodded, both of us aware that it wasn’t my mother’s words troubling me.

  “And Genevieve, she’s being a right old witch to say otherwise.”

  Apparently my mother’s whispered criticism had not gone unheard. “She wants the best for me,” I said, not knowing why I felt the urge to defend her. It was a childhood habit I couldn’t seem to break.

  “You’d think that, you being her daughter and all, but…” Sabine hesitated, her brown eyes searching mine in our reflection. “Everyone knows she’s jealous of you �
� her star’s setting while yours is on the rise.” She smiled. “It looks better onstage when it’s you playing Julian’s lover. Genevieve is old enough to be his mother, and the audience, well, they’re not blind, you know?”

  “She’s still better than I am.”

  Her smile fell away. “Only because your passion has been stolen by what’s happening to him.”

  She never said Tristan’s name.

  “If you sang how you used to before…” Sabine huffed out a frustrated breath. “You worked so hard for this, Cécile, and I know you love it. It makes me angry knowing that you’re throwing your life away for the sake of some creature.”

  I’d been so angry the first time she picked this argument; hackles up and claws out in defense of Tristan and my choices. But I’d come to see events from Sabine’s perspective. All that resonated with her was the worst of it, which made my decision to put aside everything to try to free my captors incomprehensible to her.

  “It’s not only him I’m trying to help.” Names drifted through my mind. So many faces, and all of them relying on me. Tristan, Marc, Victoria, Vincent…

  “Maybe not. But it’s him who’s changed you.”

  There was something in her tone and the set of her jaw that made me turn from the mirror to face her.

  “You might be hunting this woman for the sake of them, but you’ve stopped living your life because of him.” Sabine bent down and took my hands in hers. “It’s because you’re in love with him that you’ve lost your passion for singing, and I wish…” She broke off, eyes fixed on my hands.

  I knew she wasn’t attacking, that she only wanted what was best for me, but I was sick of defending my choices. “I’m not going to stop loving him for the sake of improving the caliber of my performance,” I snapped, pulling my hands out of her grip, and a second later regretting my tone. “I’m sorry. It’s only that I wish you’d accept that I’m set on this path.”

  “I know.” She rose to her feet. “I only wish there was more I could do to help you find happiness.”

  Find happiness… Not find the witch. Sabine had been an integral part of my plan to find Anushka – her ability to ferret out gossip and information was second to none – but she’d been clear that she wasn’t happy about doing it.

  “You do enough by listening.” I caught hold of her hand and kissed it. “And by keeping me in style.”

  We stared at each other, keenly aware that the awkwardness between us was new and strange. Both of us longing for the days when it hadn’t existed.

  “Come out with us tonight,” she said, the words spilling from her mouth in one last desperate plea. “Just this once, can’t you forget the trolls and be with us lowly humans? We’re going to have our fortunes told in Pigalle. One of the dancers heard from a subscriber that there’s a woman who can see your future in the palm of your hand.”

  “I’ll not hand my hard-earned coins over to a charlatan,” I said, forcing lightness into my voice. “But if she happens to have red hair and blue eyes and seems wise beyond her years, do let me know.”

  If only it could be so easy…

  * * *

  I lingered in my dressing room so that everyone would have the chance to go out into the foyer or vacate the theatre. I wasn’t in the mood to entertain subscribers, and besides, I’d all but given up on finding Anushka on the arm of some wealthy nobleman out for a night at the opera. Or at parties. Or in private salons. All that behavior had earned me was legions of admirers and a reputation for stringing men along. I needed a new strategy, and I needed it soon.

  Drawing up the hood of my cloak, I hurried out the back entrance of the theatre and down the steps.

  “Took you long enough.”

  I smiled at Chris as he materialized out of the shadows. He was dressed in his work clothes, boots caked thick with mud and manure. “No loitering,” I said, pointing at the much-ignored sign.

  “I wasn’t loitering, I was waiting,” he retorted.

  “So say all loiterers.” I jumped down the steps and fell into stride next to him. “You have anything?” While Sabine had focused on researching the histories of the women I’d sent her after, Chris had been hunting down whispers of magic with the tenacity of one of the Regent’s witch-hunters.

  He nodded. Stepping into the shadows, he handed me a curved statue with a necklace of herbs twisted around its neck. “Let me guess,” I said. “Fertility charm.”

  “Put it under our pillow and you are sure to give me many strong sons,” he said, his voice full of wry amusement rather than the anticipation it had held when we arrived in Trianon.

  I held it for a moment, then shook my head. “Anything else?”

  He handed me a bracelet of woven twigs. “She called it witch’s bane. It’s from a rowan tree. If you wear it, a witch won’t be able to cast magic your direction.”

  I frowned at the strange item, and then shoved it in my pocket. What nonsense. “How much did it cost you?”

  He told me a number, and I winced as I dug the coins out of my pocket. I spent more than half my wages on potions and bobbles, and so far, it had amounted to nothing more than a strange collection of knickknacks. The few legitimate witches we’d discovered had known nothing about a mysterious redheaded witch or curses, and all had refused my request for tutoring in the arts.

  “You discover anything new?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “No one who looks anything like her. No one with an unknown or questionable past. No one who’s been inexplicably on the social scene for five centuries.”

  Chris sighed. “I’ll take you home.”

  We strolled, the walkway drifting from light to dark as we passed in and out of the golden glow of the gas lamps. But when we reached the street that would take me home to my mother’s empty townhouse, I stopped. I needed a change. “Let’s go see if Fred is at the Parrot.”

  Chris looked surprised, but didn’t argue as we continued down the street toward my brother’s favorite drinking establishment. Sidestepping a brawl out front, we pushed our way into the busy tavern. Almost everyone inside was a soldier of some sort – not the sort of place artists such as myself were normally found – but everyone knew I was Frédéric de Troyes’ little sister, and no one would bother me here.

  “Cécile! Christophe!” Fred shouted when he caught sight of us. He released the barmaid he had his arm around long enough to order a round of beer and deposit the flagons in our hands. He resumed whatever tall tale he was telling the girl, then his eyes went back to me.

  “Best I let you get back to work before the barkeep tosses me out,” he said to the girl, waiting for her to go back to serving drinks before adding, “You look terrible, Cécile. You should be at home in bed.”

  I grimaced, knowing that home meant the Hollow, not our mother’s townhouse. He was worse than Sabine, because not only was he adamantly against my hunt for Anushka, he was against my being in Trianon at all. “Don’t start.”

  He set his drink down on the bar with a clank, casting a black glare at a group of men who jostled against me as they passed. The tension radiating from him told me that he was looking for a reason to scrap. Any reason at all. He was angry all the time now. At my mother, at me, at the world.

  “You’re not going to listen to a word I say anyhow,” he muttered. “Might as well go on and do what you do.”

  Chris tugged on my elbow, drawing me towards a table at the back. “Fred only wants to protect you, Cécile,” he said. “He blames himself for what happened. For not being there for you.”

  “I know.” His first reaction to hearing my story had been a vow to burn Trollus and all its inhabitants to the ground, and the verbal brawl between us when I’d told him my intention to do the exact opposite was probably heard three farms away. Not only did he not agree with my decision, he didn’t understand it. And that made Fred angry. But then again, it didn’t take much to set him off these days – and I knew that that had nothing to do with the trolls. Something had happene
d long before my disappearance. Something that had occurred when he’d first come to Trianon. Something that had to do with our mother. He hated her, and there were times I thought he believed I’d betrayed him by choosing to live and work with her in Trianon.

  Sitting at the sticky table, I proceeded to drain my beer, hoping to wash away thoughts of my brother and everything else.

  “Easy there,” Chris said, sipping his brew at a more measured pace. “I take it something has happened, and it isn’t Fred’s perpetual sour mood.”

  “No.” I motioned for one of the girls to bring me another drink. “Nothing’s happened, and therein lies the problem.” I took several long swallows. “Just another day gone by where I’ve made no progress finding her. Another day gone by where Tristan suffers God knows what sort of tortures, while I sing on stage to crowds of admirers. I hate it.”

  “It’s the only way you can afford to stay in Trianon. And besides, I thought you liked performing?”

  I squeezed my eyes tightly shut and nodded. “But I shouldn’t.”

  “Cécile.” Chris reached across the table and tried to hold my mug down, but I jerked it out of his grasp and finished the contents. He grimaced. “You know that he doesn’t want you miserable every waking breath for his sake.”

  “How would you know?” I asked, digging money out of my pocket to pay for another drink.

  “We’ve tried everything,” he said, going with a different tactic. “For two months you’ve run in the circles you’d thought she’d occupy and not seen hide nor hair of her. You have lists and lists of women whose backgrounds you and Sabine have checked, which yielded nothing but gossip. I’ve lost count of how many witches, real or otherwise, that we’ve talked to. None of them would help us.”

  “Most of them can’t.” During my recovery, I’d pressed my Gran into teaching me all she knew about magic. She’d taught me how to balance the elements, why certain plants had the effects they did, and how to time a spell casting at a moment of transition: sunrise and sunset, a full moon, and the solstices in order to maximize the amount of power drawn from the earth. She didn’t know a great deal – and nearly all of it was relating to healing injuries and curing sickness, but I’d gained enough knowledge to know magic when I saw it.