Page 65 of Love Beneath the Guillotine
A shallow inhale of breath, a rumble so deep from the sky it seemed to shake the very floor of the building. A murmur went around the restaurant, a protest from Émile at the inclement change, a surprised exclamation from Souveraine, but Léon concentrated on Catherine. “They’ve taken him back to Reims.”
“No. No.” It was a hopeless utterance, as though it could change a thing. “No.” Tears started fast to her eyes, and drop, drop, red spatters of rain hit the window hard.
Léon’s mind snapped closed like a mousetrap on the understanding that had been dogging him for days.
“I’m going back for him,” he rushed to say, but Catherine was up. Her chair hit the floor as she stumbled back, reeling away. And as the tears rushed to her eyes, ran down her cheeks, so the sky darkened and the windows gushed red.
Léon rushed to her, arms on her shoulders, but she spoke distantly, as if in a trance. “There’s no getting him out of there. Not now. Not after what we did. They’ll find out he’s a highwayman, that he saved me…” A high-pitched whine broke from her chest, the cries of a young woman who’d just lost her last family member, and with it, every piece of china on every table began to rattle. Tables dropped to their sides, the ceiling above them began to buckle and crack.
Léon turned panicked eyes on Souveraine. “Get Émile out of here now. Run!”
Souveraine, frightened by the scene, was fast to act, stopping only to grab at Léon’s hand on the way past, but he pulled it away, instead resting both hands on Catherine’s arms. “Be calm. Calm. I’m going back for him.”
Catherine gripped his wrists with a strength Léon would never have imagined her capable of, her touch burning into his skin, searing ten long and red marks into his flesh. He tried to pull back, but she held him tight. “He is everything.” She shook her head, then gave into a full wail, dropping to the floor as lamps and bottles fractured and broke all about them, as the windows cracked apart, smashing to the floor in long, wet, bloody shards.
Léon stumbled to his knees as the building swayed. He fought to bring a hand to her cheek. “I will get him. I promise you. I will bring him to you. Look at me.”
She did, but her eyes were wild, and he saw the madness there. The clinging, broken girl, and he remembered Henry’ssubservience to her, Henry’s desperation to get to her, the gun in Henry’s hand and his intention to walk into that prison and kill his sister himself.
And that’s when Léon understood. That whole time, that whole desperate game.
Henry hadn’t been trying to free her for his own happiness, or even Catherine’s.
He’d been trying to protect the entire city from Catherine.
If Léon had developed feelings for Henry, that crystallised them into full-blown adoration, a deep and abiding loyalty and faith, and a violent longing that could only be healed with one balm.
He tightened his grip on her, looked deep into her eyes, and promised, “I won’t let them touch him. I have a plan, and I’m going to break him out. Trust me, Catherine. You have to trust me. I won’t let anything hurt your brother.”
Her breath came shakily into her lungs, her fingers, her hands, her entire body trembling, but she let Léon pull her head to his chest, let him wrap two arms around her.
She cried, the rain fell, but gradually, slowly, the room stopped shaking, along with her body. The longer she stayed there on the floor with Léon, the calmer all the world around them became, all while he whispered to her, over and over, “Henry’s coming. I promise you. I’m bringing him back.”
31
AN INDECENT PROPOSAL
When Léon and Catherine emerged from the coffeehouse, the townspeople were in a panic. The grounds outside had lifted, huge gashes in the dirt running in some places as long as a road did. Plaster and tiles had fallen from buildings, and the occupants, too scared to stay inside lest their homes collapse, were soaked scarlet. Souveraine, too, was awash with red rain, standing protectively over Émile, watching the door, waiting for Léon.
She saw his hand in Catherine’s as he led her out—saw the way she clung to him—perfectly ignorant that he was now the closest thing she had to a brother, father, protector of any sort. That he was now Catherine’s best and only hope of ever seeing Henry alive again.
Souveraine’s fingers tightened on Émile’s shoulders as she steadied herself, and for the second time in the space of a day, Léon came face to face with her hurt and betrayal.
“I need to talk to you, Souveraine,” he said softly.
The pearl of one shining tear fell onto her hand, but she gave a small tilt of her head.
“Wait here,” Léon said to Émile. Catherine squeezed Léon’s hand as he pulled away, and he tried a kind smile back at her,perfectly fake. He was lost. He was a mess. And he felt now what Henry had been carrying on his shoulders for years. Only that mixed with his own lot—all the responsibilities he already had, not least of all to Souveraine and Émile.
He drew Souveraine away, where she raised her eyes to his, and awaited his explanation.
“I’m sorry,” he began. Her tears overflowed at once, but he didn’t understand the full meaning behind them. “I’m sorry I’ve put you through all this.” He made to bring his arms around her, but she pushed a weak hand into his chest to hold him back.
“All this way,” she said. “All this way, all this time. And…” She glanced over at Catherine. “When were you going to tell me?”
Léon’s mind ran a million miles an hour. Tell her which thing? Had she put two and two together? Did she understand that Catherine was a witch? That Henry was one? Or was it something else she alluded to? Those feelings Léon had developed for Henry. This late madness that seemed to have taken over his life. That made him save Catherine’s head, that made him run after Henry, that even now, had him here, in front of this wonderful friend, about to ask even more of her.
Lost for any other words, he said, “Things have happened these last few days?—”
