Page 53 of The Darkest Oath

“I’ll go put on my dress,” she said and stood up, but Rollant reached over and grasped her wrist.

“Please sit and eat, Élise. Let your dress dry. There is a miller down the road. We can go later today and order a few more dresses.” His tone was straightforward. He was clearly uncomfortable.

“You don’t have to do that, Rollant. I can see I have upset you. I will go put on my dress.”

He stood as her hand slipped through his. “I don’t want you to be cold and wet,” he said. “You will need at least two dresses anyway. One to wear while the other is hanging to dry.” He gestured to her empty chair. “Please sit and eat, especially while the food is warm.”

He sat down and refused to touch his food until she returned to her seat. He dipped his chin to thank her, but said nothing more.

She sipped her tea and let the cool bite of mint chase away the shame on her cheeks.

“You didn’t have to make breakfast as well,” she finally whispered. “You’ve done so much already.” But her heart silently begged him never to stop and never to leave.

He swallowed his bite of bread. “It is my honor to care for such a woman as yourself,” he said.

The world beyond the walls faded as she observed him eat in the quiet room. The plaster walls enveloped her like a safe cocoon. In a fleeting moment, she envisioned Rollant, an old man, and her, with gray hair, eating their breakfast peacefully. With a slight smile at the passing image, she took a bite of bread and cheese.

“I heard your name whispered in the streets as I was going to the bakery,” he started with a quick glance. He stopped to gauge her reaction. “But we can choose another topic if you’d rather not discuss the burdens of the city.”

The murmurs of the people in the district, their talk of food shortages and growing unrest, pressed against her thoughts like an unwelcome draft. With it, the vision of their advanced years was whisked away in its current. The corners of her mouth fell flat. “Yes, at Gabin’s disapproval, I have been leading angry women, supporting them, encouraging them to be free from oppressive masters and men. Their anger doesn’t fade quietly. Many have starved and are no longer willing to die without a voice.”

Rollant nodded and averted his gaze to his half-eaten egg. “Their fight is yours too, then,” he said. As he studied her, his brow furrowed. “Does this mean you will not stay here in Charonne?”

She shifted in her seat, understanding that all he had done for her was to keep her safe. But she had earned her bruises and shed her blood to be one of Paris’ voices. “The prisons are full of men, women, and soldiers like me, who have spoken out against our king.” Her words came out softer than she intended, almost fragile against the steady crackle of the flames. “I doubt I will stay away for too long.”

She turned her gaze back to the fire, fingers tracing the rim of her cup. “Everyone is suffering. The women, especially. We’ve gone too long without answers, and we are demanding them now.” She took a deep breath, not wanting to snub the massive generosity offered to her but knowing the deep pang of hypocrisy would eventually smother her will to live should she stay out of the movement she had helped inspire. “You are asking me to abandon them. Staying here would be a betrayal to?—”

“What if you end up killed or in prison and are worse off than with Gabin?” Rollant asked, lowering his cup without taking a sip as if he had lost his appetite.

“Then,” she lowered her head and licked her busted lip, feeling the torn, delicate flesh with her tongue. “I hope I can find the will to survive or die quickly.”

Rollant placed his cup on the table. He stood up and wrapped his hands behind his back. The sound of his booted steps fell in a soft cadence as he paced the main room. He stopped and looked out the window.

“Why do you care whether I stay here?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Because someone needs to.” His gaze met hers, a pleading look in his eye. A gaze that told her she was everything to him, not the look of love he had when first mistook her for Amée, but one of great care and affection.

“Can you at least promise me”—he began with a measured breath—“you will stay in Charonne until the Estates-General is adjourned? Maybe the people’s demands will be met and their questions answered. All through a more peaceful venue, and you can avoid prison?”

She couldn’t outright refuse the plea in his eyes. “Do you believe anything will come of the Estates-General?” she asked, her heart growing heavy.

A flicker of uncertainty crossed his face. “What are the people demanding?”

“We want equality with the nobility and the clergy,” she said with a lifted chin. “We want the law to be fair. We want the wealthy to share the tax burden. We want accountability with the state’s finances. We want democracy. We don’t want a king.”

Her hands balled into fists as she remembered the rallying cry of the gathering at the Bastille. “We want to be something when we have been treated as nothing, though we have done everything.”

A shadow settled over his features.

“Don’t you want the same?” she asked.

He nodded. “Of course, Élise.” But his focus shifted to the view out the window.

“Are you not willing to fight for it?” she asked, leaning forward.

His arms crossed, and he leaned back with a sigh. “Fighting does not always bring peace. I’ve seen what fighting leaves in its wake: widows, orphaned sons, broken families living with a cost no one expected.” He glanced back at her. “It breaks people. Twists their minds. Perverts judgment.”

He winced and returned to the table. The affection in his tone resurfaced. “Please, Élise. Stay in Charonne until the Estates-General adjourns. I know, or rather, I hope it will improve the conditions.”

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