Page 88 of The Darkest Oath

When Élise finally emerged with her hair unkempt and her dress wrinkled, she found Rollant standing at the small table. He pulled a chair out for her like nothing in the world was amiss. The scent of warm eggs mingled with the faint smoke of the dying hearth. Her stomach grumbled, but her mind wouldn’t let her relax.

“You are too kind,” she murmured, but before she sat down, she paused. Her fingers curled around the back of the chair, and her gaze averted. “At Versailles, you said everything was a lie. Everything.” Her voice was quiet, but the words trembled with accusation. “Was that a lie as well?”

Rollant stilled, his hand brushing the sleeve of her dress as if grounding himself. Slowly, his fingers reached beneath her chin, tilting her face up to meet his. His eyes softened.

“Of course it was,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Her breath hitched at the touch of his hand, the warmth of his skin against hers. “But why?” she pressed. “Why would you say that? Why would you—” her voice faltered, breaking on the word “lie.”

He leaned down, his forehead almost touching hers. For a moment, he hesitated, his hand cradling her cheek as if weighing the cost of what he was about to do. Then, he kissed her—a fleeting, feather-light touch that was gone as quickly as it came. A promise, not a possession. An apology, not a demand.

“I will tell you everything today,” he promised with a gaze solely and steadily on her. “But for now, let us enjoy a quiet breakfast.”

* * *

Rollant debatedhow to tell Élise all through their meal. And after they cleared the table, Rollant led her to the sofa and lowered his hand to hers.

“I’ll answer all your questions, Élise,” he said softly. “But let me start from the beginning.”

He closed his eyes, drawing in a deep, steadying breath, bracing himself for what was to come. She waited, quiet and poised, though he feared the truth might shatter her. He could have left her to think he’d died, could have let her grief bury the questions—but that would have been a guilt he could never tame. She deserved the truth, however cruel it might be.

He kissed her hand, hoping it was not the last time he kissed her. “I couldn’t tell you I was Captain of the King’s Bodyguard,” Rollant admitted, his voice low, “so I told you I was a navy man.”

Élise blinked, her brow furrowing. “So, you’re nobility?” she asked, her tone edged with curiosity and suspicion.

“Forgotten nobility,” he replied.

“Then how did you rise so high?” Suspicion sharpened her voice.

He hesitated, his gaze falling to the floor. “Through service. Loyalty. And proving myself when it mattered most.”

“Were you an informant?” She leaned forward, pleading to know. “Did you throw any of us in prison?”

“I informed the king of the city’s reactions to his decrees per his command,” he answered, meeting her gaze evenly. “I was on Rue Saint-Honoré last night, seeing where loyalties lie. And no, I never threw anyone in prison, nor did anyone ever go to prison from my reports to the king.”

He paused, waiting. He knew there was more she needed to ask, more she had to understand before she could forgive—or condemn.

She nodded slowly, as if weighing his answers before her voice softened. “Then what about Amée and Cateline? Were they lies?”

A shadow passed over Rollant’s face. He smiled, but it was a smile touched with sorrow. “Everything I told you about them is true, except they passed from life as old women with silver hair.”

Her brow knitted, and her eyes closed, processing his words. “How could they die old women,” she whispered, her eyes narrowing, “when you’re only twenty-seven?”

“They lived a long time ago, Élise,”—his voice grew heavy—“and . . . I will always be twenty-six.”

She rubbed her neck, her head tilting as if to shake loose the growing knot of questions. A chuckle escaped her lips, full of disbelief. “What do you mean?”

The bitter truth stuck in his throat, reluctant to emerge. But he forced it out. “I was born in the year 1122.”

Her brow furrowed. “Eleven?” Her tone was incredulous, her eyes narrowing as though she were trying to decipher some cruel joke. “You mean 1762, surely.”

His silence was her answer. Her lips parted, but no words came. Finally, she shook her head. “I don’t beli?—”

“Please,” he interrupted, his voice almost a plea. “Let me tell you the truth, all of it, and then you can choose to believe it or not.”

“I hoped you thought me deserving of the actual truth, Rollant,” she whispered as tears glistened. “Not another lie?—”

“You are,” Rollant crooned. “And I will tell you.”

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