The Spymaster's Lady Read Online Free PDF

while fifty yards away guests came and went on the front steps of the chateau and music of unearthly purity hung in the air like crystal.
    Now she led them forward and whispered encouragement and direction and caustic complaint. “The ruts are deep because wagons turn to go into the back gate of the chateau.” “The wall on the right is abundant with sharp stones. Avoid it.” “Ah. That is a low branch. You will come to it in a moment.” He could see her walking into hell saying, “On the right, take note of the chained demon. Take care to walk around him.” His respect for her, and his wariness, grew with every step. He’d take every care, capturing her.
    She said, “It is not far, the gate to the orphanage.”
    On the other side of the River Seine, a line of pinprick lights marked the city of Paris. A few streets away, a single bright window hung in the night. Other than that, it was black as the belly of a cow. “How the devil can you tell?”
    She laughed in the darkness. She was another one glad to be out of that cellar. “I walked this road many times when there was daylight for me. My memory is most excellent.” Joy lilted in her voice, like singing. It was strange to hear her sound so young, like a brave child, instead of the coiled serpent he knew her to be. “This tree we stand beneath,” she banged the stick against bark, “which naturally you have not been introduced to and cannot see anyway, is a beautiful cherry which was old already when I first came here. I have climbed it and stolen many cherries in my time. The whole corner smells of the fruit that fell a few weeks ago. The road you seek, the driveway to the Sisters of the Orphans, is opposite. There.” She touched his shoulder lightly, showing where she meant.
    Her night vision was extraordinary. “I can’t see a thing.”
    â€œStop trying to see, English. Listen instead. The night is telling stories all around you. The Rue Bérenger lies ahead…oh…fifty paces perhaps. The baker on the corner is even now making bread. One can smell that. Rue Bérenger runs east toward the bridge, to Paris, where men of your profession likely have friends. Or go uphill to the west, and you will come after a time to England, where you have even more friends, beyond doubt. The little wind in our face—feel it—is blowing from the northeast, from the Bois de Boulogne.”
    He closed his eyes and tried to sense the currents of the night as she did. She was right. It was easier listening and feeling the wind on his skin, not straining to see. “You’re good at this. You’ve done your share of sneaking around in the dark.”
    â€œMore than I would like, certainly.”
    â€œDid you learn all that working for Vauban? You were one of his people, weren’t you?”
    â€œYou ask many questions. Have I told you that? Now pay attention and I will teach you secrets. When you face the wind you will always know where you are. It is the direction of the river scent.” He heard her swallow. “The smell of the water.”
    And with that, he’d found the bait to lure her in. Her voice gave her away. The catch basin in the garden held barely enough to wet their mouths. She was thirsty. Hurting with it.
    He chose his words carefully. “I’ll be glad to get to the chapel. I hope there’s water.” He felt her attention quiver. Good.
    â€œIt is most likely.”
    He picked a few more insidious words. “There should be a well. Do you think we’ll find a bucket or something to draw the water up?”
    â€œYou will doubtless discover. It is not far, as I said.” Her voice had thickened and he heard her swallow again. “I shall leave you to your so-secret rendezvous. Me, I have business elsewhere. I am not anxious to enlarge my acquaintance with the English spy community of Paris.” But her voice said she was