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Authors: Ari Marmell
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everything around her for the first time since she'd read those words, she lightly brushed a finger across the other woman's cheek.
“I think it is,” she said simply. “And I have to.”
“I know.”
“Will you…come with me?”
Robin hadn't known a human visage could twist in that many emotions at once, but when Faustine's finally settled, it was on a sad and gentle smile. “Came this far…”
Arms around each other, they passed through the gate and made their way along the snow-lined footpaths.
It was only a bit later that Robin finally thought to wonder why nobody had asked their business. The cemetery gates didn't precisely close at sunset, but they always picked up a guardsman or two to watch until they did shut, after dark.
Must've just missed them …. She was too exhausted, too distracted, to consider anything else.
She'd have known the resting place of Genevieve Marguilles even had she not been here multiple times before, both on her own and with… her . Unlike every other grave around it, the grasses that grew on that grave, the flowers that blossomed around the stone and the ivy that crawled along its surfaces, truly were evergreen. Something she and Olgun had done….
Except this time, it wasn't just a minor god's magic sustaining thefoliage where Genevieve's body lay. It was the blood of four additional corpses, scattered across the grave and the nearby grass, their deaths recent enough that the wounds still oozed in the rapidly cooling air. Browning streaks marred the headstone; flowers lay crushed beneath the dead.
“Oh, gods…”
Robin staggered from Faustine's grip, reaching out as though she could somehow wipe away the desecration with a swipe of her palm. The world blurred behind burgeoning tears, which she could only just blink away.
She heard the rustle of the courier's skirts, a faint scrape of leather, and then Faustine was again at her side, dagger in one hand, small-barreled flintlock in the other.
The woman did run around Davillon day and night, after all.
“Aww, how cute. I didn't expect two of you.”
Both women spun to stare at a figure across the path, in the lee of a small mausoleum; little more than a smaller shadow in the larger. Robin had the vague sense of a hooded cloak, but precious little else.
“What have you done ?!” That last was a shriek, but she couldn't contain it.
“Two pheasants with one shot,” the woman—woman? Yes, the voice was definitely female—informed them. “First, just a bit of a message.” A hand-shaped blur waggled at the bodies. “Recognize any of them?
“No? Huh. Must not be much family resemblance. That aristocratic and dignified corpse there on top is one Gurrerre Marguilles, patriarch of his house—until recently—and father of poor, rotting, beetle-infested Genevieve. Gurrerre declined an opportunity I offered him and, well, I think this rather makes a statement.”
Robin felt like she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only wait as two conflicting urges battled within her soul: to break down in tears, and to make every effort to strangle the stranger with her bare hands.
“Who are you?” She was startled that she'd managed to force the words out and only then realized it was Faustine who'd asked.
“Just a traveler finally come home.” Robin could hear the smarmy grin in her voice. “And by the way, if you take that shot, you will miss. And I'll be irritated.”
The barrel of the courier's pistol began to quiver.
“And your…second pheasant?” the younger woman finally demanded.
“Oh, getting you here, you skinny little worm. See, I have a second message—a very private, personal one—and you're going to deliver it for me.”
Robin would have sworn the woman didn't move at all, so fast was her lunge. It carried her from across the path to Faustine's side in the beat of a moth's wing, a bolt of lightning sculpted from shade.
The flintlock discharged harmlessly, batted to one side with a casual
“I think it is,” she said simply. “And I have to.”
“I know.”
“Will you…come with me?”
Robin hadn't known a human visage could twist in that many emotions at once, but when Faustine's finally settled, it was on a sad and gentle smile. “Came this far…”
Arms around each other, they passed through the gate and made their way along the snow-lined footpaths.
It was only a bit later that Robin finally thought to wonder why nobody had asked their business. The cemetery gates didn't precisely close at sunset, but they always picked up a guardsman or two to watch until they did shut, after dark.
Must've just missed them …. She was too exhausted, too distracted, to consider anything else.
She'd have known the resting place of Genevieve Marguilles even had she not been here multiple times before, both on her own and with… her . Unlike every other grave around it, the grasses that grew on that grave, the flowers that blossomed around the stone and the ivy that crawled along its surfaces, truly were evergreen. Something she and Olgun had done….
Except this time, it wasn't just a minor god's magic sustaining thefoliage where Genevieve's body lay. It was the blood of four additional corpses, scattered across the grave and the nearby grass, their deaths recent enough that the wounds still oozed in the rapidly cooling air. Browning streaks marred the headstone; flowers lay crushed beneath the dead.
“Oh, gods…”
Robin staggered from Faustine's grip, reaching out as though she could somehow wipe away the desecration with a swipe of her palm. The world blurred behind burgeoning tears, which she could only just blink away.
She heard the rustle of the courier's skirts, a faint scrape of leather, and then Faustine was again at her side, dagger in one hand, small-barreled flintlock in the other.
The woman did run around Davillon day and night, after all.
“Aww, how cute. I didn't expect two of you.”
Both women spun to stare at a figure across the path, in the lee of a small mausoleum; little more than a smaller shadow in the larger. Robin had the vague sense of a hooded cloak, but precious little else.
“What have you done ?!” That last was a shriek, but she couldn't contain it.
“Two pheasants with one shot,” the woman—woman? Yes, the voice was definitely female—informed them. “First, just a bit of a message.” A hand-shaped blur waggled at the bodies. “Recognize any of them?
“No? Huh. Must not be much family resemblance. That aristocratic and dignified corpse there on top is one Gurrerre Marguilles, patriarch of his house—until recently—and father of poor, rotting, beetle-infested Genevieve. Gurrerre declined an opportunity I offered him and, well, I think this rather makes a statement.”
Robin felt like she couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only wait as two conflicting urges battled within her soul: to break down in tears, and to make every effort to strangle the stranger with her bare hands.
“Who are you?” She was startled that she'd managed to force the words out and only then realized it was Faustine who'd asked.
“Just a traveler finally come home.” Robin could hear the smarmy grin in her voice. “And by the way, if you take that shot, you will miss. And I'll be irritated.”
The barrel of the courier's pistol began to quiver.
“And your…second pheasant?” the younger woman finally demanded.
“Oh, getting you here, you skinny little worm. See, I have a second message—a very private, personal one—and you're going to deliver it for me.”
Robin would have sworn the woman didn't move at all, so fast was her lunge. It carried her from across the path to Faustine's side in the beat of a moth's wing, a bolt of lightning sculpted from shade.
The flintlock discharged harmlessly, batted to one side with a casual
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