Ascendant (17 page)

“Pardon?”

“When he …” I tried to back away from the topic, but Isabeau’s gaze had me nailed. “Tried to kiss me, earlier.”

“He did.” Her expression was unreadable. “That was not what I referred to. Rather, I meant his behavior toward the einhorn. One does not tease a pitiful animal.” She tilted her head as she regarded me. “Or a dutiful unicorn hunter.”

“Please don’t say anything to him!” This was so embarrassing.

Isabeau shook her head in exasperation. “Of course not, Astrid. I am not one of your nuns here. So will you stay?”

“For the night,” I hedged.

“A start,” said Isabeau. She clapped her hands. I heard a scuffle in the hall, then Gog and Magog’s large white forms filled the doorway, gazing adoringly up at their mistress. For a moment, they reminded me of Bonegrinder, until I realized I couldn’t sense their thoughts.

Dinner was pleasant; we ate chicken and vegetables and salads with goat cheese. Isabeau sat at the head of the table, and her dogs curled around the back of her chair, not begging, but not leaving her side, either. She chatted about local festivals and the neighborhood cuisine, which seemed to feature more than its fair share of chestnuts. Autumn was a beautiful season in the area, and being so far inland meant a respite from a lot of the tourists who flooded the coast.

“Of course, you’re familiar with tourists, living right around the corner from the Colosseum,” Isabeau said.

“Grateful to them,” I said. “My Italian is still pretty poor, but lots of tourists mean lots of people who know some English and work in the area.”

“I think it’s important to take advantage of your travels, Astrid. When you decide to stay here, I will engage tutors for your French studies, as I have for Brandt. He’s improved immensely, you know.”

It was like that all through the meal.
When
. Not
if
. “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

“I speak five languages,” Isabeau continued. “And my husband put me to shame with seven.”

“Marten knew seven languages?” I asked.

“And English was his worst.” Isabeau chuckled, then stared into her wineglass. “Dessert, I think.”

Dessert was pastries and tea. “My mother was English,” Isabeau explained, “and I’m afraid I picked up the habit from her.”

“English and a Llewelyn,” I said.

“Not by name, but yes, that was her family.” Isabeau placed a pastry on her dish. “I believe it was an offshoot of your own mother’s. Mine knew her heritage, of course, but had far more important issues to deal with than old family legends. She came to France a teenager and a nurse and worked for the Red Cross—and the Resistance—during the occupation. My father was a physician, and after the war, they married and settled here.”

“Since unicorns were not around during your mother’s lifetime, how did she know anything about herbal therapy for hunters?”

“She was very interested in studying alternative medicine, which was only starting to come back into fashion. Her family history included many records from medically minded unicorn hunters. There was information about the Remedy, but also on wound treatment, mental health, menstrual relief.”

“Medically minded Llewelyns?” I asked. Cory wouldn’t believe that. To her, all the hunters in our family were killing machines.

“Oui!”
Isabeau smiled. “You are part of a very long tradition. My mother loved the idea of ‘old family recipes’ and wrote many books on herbal remedies based on her family’s store of knowledge. Would you like to see them? We have some in the library.”

I nodded, though French medical tomes were probably way beyond my understanding. I put down my untouched cup of chamomile tea and followed Isabeau from the dining room. The library turned out to be a small sitting room beyond Isabeau’s office decorated in the same ice blue and cream. The walls were covered in shelves crammed with books of all shapes and sizes. Some were new paperbacks with brightly colored spines; others were old, with cracked leather or canvas bindings embossed with faded gold lettering. There seemed to be some method to the shelving, however, because Isabeau beelined right for several large volumes on a lower shelf. They were aged hardcovers, probably from the 1970s to judge from the dark green and gold color scheme as well as the picture on the cover, which featured a pretty woman standing in an herb garden. She wore bell-bottoms and had backcombed blond hair, but her face was identical to Isabeau’s. Her name was listed as Claudia L. Landry.

“The L is for Llewelyn,” Isabeau said. “Which was most certainly not my mother’s middle name nor her maiden one.” She shook her head and ran her hand lovingly over the portrait before handing the book to me. “A silly affectation, perhaps, but she was very proud of her heritage.”

“I know what that can be like,” I replied. I flipped idly through the book, which seemed to be some sort of encyclopedia of herbal lore, shot through with illustrations of various plants and flowers. “Did your mother wish she’d been a unicorn hunter?”

“My mother never even imagined it,” she said. “Unicorns were long gone in her time. She did like the idea of a chain of educated, powerful women, however. She loved that her ancestors were working in medicine in a time when many women weren’t even literate.” She lifted her head. “We are both from a long line of very powerful daughters, Astrid.”

I wasn’t. My mother’s side was descended from Clothilde’s brother, and a long line of males—hence the fact we were actually named Llewelyn. And from my father’s side, well, there was my father at the very least. Still, I knew the drill. “Believe me, I hear that often enough. The way the people at the Cloisters talk, we’re practically superheroes.”

“All women are superheroes.” Isabeau took the book back. “Unicorn hunters or not.”

I looked at her curiously. “So you don’t regret missing out on being a unicorn hunter?” My mother did. Even Marten had seemed jealous that the abilities belonged only to the females of the family. “You don’t wish they were around when you were …” Don’t say eligible. Don’t say eligible. “ … younger?”

“Not a bit!” She shuddered. “I have no interest in hunting—unicorn or otherwise. I’ve always liked chemistry and medicine. And if I wanted a hobby, there was gardening. I like flower arranging, too, come to think of it.”

I could hardly compare unicorn hunting to flower arranging, and my face must have shown it.

“I do not mean to belittle your skills, Astrid,” she added. “And I do think of it that way. You have a marvelous skill, and one that is very useful to my work. Which is why I wish to hire you. The same way I would hire a skillful architect to build my house or a skillful chef to prepare my food. I can admire your abilities without being envious of them.”

“My life isn’t something to envy,” I said softly.

Isabeau regarded me. “No. I don’t think it is.”

The bedroom she led me to was spacious and placed near the front of the château, at the farthest possible corner from the einhorn enclosure. The walls were papered in a subtle gold and cream stripe, and the bed linens matched in shades of gold, beige, and ivory. Lamps burned in every corner, and a tall vase of white flowers stood near the door.

“I’ll get you something to wear and be right back,” Isabeau said. “The bathroom is right through that door.”

The bathroom was almost as big as the cell Cory and I shared at the Cloisters, and featured a claw-footed tub with a high back, a marble vanity, and gold fixtures.

I was almost afraid to touch it.

Isabeau returned with a pair of white satin pajamas. “This probably isn’t your style,” she said, “but it’ll do for the night.”

“Thank you.” The material felt almost cold to the touch, and slipped over even my bowstring-calloused fingers as if made of water. “You’ve been way too kind.”

“I’ve been nothing more than civil, Astrid. I’m sorry if your experiences have led you to expect anything less.” She came closer and tucked a strand of loose hair behind my ear. “I don’t believe you are being properly looked after,
ma chère.”

I swallowed heavily and looked away.

Isabeau still seemed to be looking at me. “Were you my daughter and charged with such a difficult duty, I would wish for someone to take very, very good care of you.” Her voice broke on her final words. “Have a good night.”

I looked up, but she’d already turned away.

Once alone, I decided to run a bath. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d taken one—they didn’t have bathtubs at the Cloisters—and this tub was especially lovely. There was even a selection of bath oils placed nearby, all in pretty glass vials stopped with tiny corks and smelling strongly of fresh herbs. I picked the one that reminded me most of chamomile and sprinkled it liberally into the bathwater, then sank in up to my neck and closed my eyes, breathing in the scented steam and letting the heat seep into my bones.

I soaked until I was pruney and ready for sleep, then wrapped myself in a big towel and combed out my hair in front of the beautiful mirror. I put on the silky pajamas and padded back into the bedroom, breathing a sigh of relief. For the first time in ages, I’d sleep under a ceiling not studded with the bones of murdered unicorns. I couldn’t feel their buzz in my head. I couldn’t even sense the ones in the yard anymore. The satin I wore didn’t irritate my scars like most of my shirts. Instead, it almost seemed to caress the raised bumps on my skin. The bed sheets smelled like lavender, and the scent of herbs misted their way through my unicorn-wracked senses.

I laid my damp head against the cool, fragrant pillow, and breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Were you my daughter … I would wish for someone to take very, very good care of you
.

But I wasn’t her daughter. At best, I was her extremely distant cousin. She was a Jaeger. The head of Gordian Pharmaceuticals.

I sat up, startled into wakefulness by my sudden comprehension. Isabeau was all of these things. And I really, really wanted to work for her.

I wanted to see what was going on here. I wanted to take part in the search for the Remedy. I wanted to fulfill my duty as a unicorn hunter, but I hated life at the Cloisters. I hated being stuck there, polishing weapons and wearing habits and traveling around killing wild animals. Here, I could protect people from the threat of killer unicorns without necessarily having to kill them. It was win-win.

Besides, if I stayed here, I could keep an eye on Gordian, make sure they weren’t doing anything sketchy. I would be right here if, by chance, they did hear anything from Seth. I could go back to school—I could take collegelevel science classes.

And I could learn more about some Llewelyns that I actually respected. Medically minded Llewelyns like Isabeau was talking about. Like Isabeau herself.

When Clothilde Llewelyn had wanted to leave the Cloisters, she hadn’t taken the coward’s way out, availing herself of the services of an actaeon who’d strip her of her powers and leave her in the lurch. She knew that her duty was not necessarily to the Cloisters but to the human race. She was charged with protecting people from unicorns, whether that meant killing them or sending them away from the human population for good.

Or even watching over a herd to make sure they didn’t escape their dedicated enclosure.

I could fulfill my duty as a hunter right here, and I was far more suited to the job than anyone else at the Cloisters. Couldn’t say that about the position as Cory’s bodyguard. Any of the other girls could do that, maybe even more skillfully.

I’d take the job. I just had to convince my friends it was the right choice.

“W
ell, it’s no secret you’ve been miserable here,” Phil said when I called her. “Which is why I agreed to let you go with Cory in the first place.”

“So, in your mind, there’s no difference between me living in London and me working for Gordian Pharmaceuticals?” I asked.

She sighed. “Whatever, Astrid. You didn’t seem to think I needed to know what you were up to when you left here. Why do you want my approval now?”

Maybe because she was my most trusted confidante. Or had been until recently. Neil’s revelation had been accepted, begrudgingly, but now Phil was mad at us for keeping secrets. Or as she’d put it, “conspiring against her to undermine her authority as donna.”

Perhaps it was good I wasn’t at the Cloisters this morning.

“It’s not your approval I want,” I said. “Just your understanding. I’m doing this partially for you, you know.” I’d come to France for her to begin with. “The extra money will come in handy at the Cloisters. It’ll relieve some of the pressure you’ve been under, some of your dependence on the Church. You can concentrate on your conservation efforts.”

“Don’t you think there’s a particular irony to helping support my conservation efforts through precisely the kind of exploitation my efforts are trying to eradicate?”

I didn’t know how to respond to that.