positively
demonic—and his fists were tightly clenched as if he were exerting every ounce
of control he possessed to keep from doing her bodily harm.
“Faster,
mademoiselle. I would like to retrieve Forli’s horse and carriage before it
goes the same way as my horse.”
So
that was what was bothering him. Because of her, his valuable horse had been
stolen, and the loss to his pocketbook infuriated him. “Never fear, monsieur,”
she said scathingly, “I will make certain my father reimburses you for your
loss.”
“Loss?
What loss?” he muttered, mopping his streaming brow.
She
stared at him in amazement. Was the man mad? Or was he running a fever that
addled his brain? Why else would he be bathed in perspiration when the cold
dampness of the traboules chilled her to the bone?
With
the grim-faced Englishman on her heels, she forced herself to sprint the
remaining quarter of a mile to the entrance of La Croix Rousse. “Here we are,”
she said breathlessly. “We have only to cross through this district and we will
reach the confluence of the Saône and Rhône rivers where Monsieur Forli said
his horse and carriage were hidden.”
“Thank
God,” Tristan Thibault murmured, staring at the sky above him with a rapt
expression in his strange, pale eyes. Here the walls of the buildings bordering
the narrow alley were two stories high, but the passageway itself was
uncovered. He leaned against the nearby wall, taking in great, gulping breaths
of air, as if their short sprint had left his lungs totally depleted. For a man
who appeared so strong, he was certainly in terrible condition.
Madelaine
pressed her finger to her lips, cautioning him to silence. Once again she
covered the lantern with her jacket, but this time the waning moon and the
light pouring from the many open doors lining the alleyway dispelled the
darkness. She took a deep breath. The air was heavy with the waxy smoke of
dozens of guttering candles and an odd, musty smell she remembered her
grandfather telling her emanated from the bolts of fabric waiting to be
delivered to the shops of the silk merchants for which Lyon was famous.
Tristan
Thibault touched her shoulder. “That noise? What is it?” he whispered.
Madelaine
listened to the familiar click, clack, bang…click, clack ,
bang. “The canuts —silk weavers—at work,” she whispered back. “Every
household in the district has its own bistanclaque . The family members
take turns weaving and sleeping in the lofts above so the looms are never
silent.
She
frowned. “Weaving is hot work. The doors of the canuts ’ apartments are
rarely closed. We will have to pass dozens of open doorways to reach our
destination. I pray we can do so without being seen.”
“I
take it these canuts are Bonapartists.”
“To
a man, though apparently not even the return of the emperor can lure them from
their bistanclaques . Still, it is well known they hate the old
aristocracy and anyone connected with it. They would turn us over to the gronards without a qualm if they suspected our true identities—or mine, anyway—and I
cannot think how we would explain a priest and his acolyte wandering the traboules in the dead of night. We will not be safe until we put La Croix Rousse behind
us.”
Tristan
paid but token heed to Madelaine Harcourt’s dire warning. In truth, he felt
almost giddy with relief that he’d managed to keep from turning into a babbling
idiot back in those beastly traboules, and even more relieved that the
balance of their journey could be accomplished under the open sky.
Shifting
the knapsack to a more comfortable position, he prepared to follow her down the
shadowed alleyway, but not before he caught a glimpse of the first candlelit
loom and the nocturnal weaver who labored at it.
Click,
clack, bang…click, clack , bang. Over and over the
white-haired canut threw his shuttle—as intent on his work as
Rumpelstilskin, the evil dwarf of the German folktale Tristan had learned as
demonic—and his fists were tightly clenched as if he were exerting every ounce
of control he possessed to keep from doing her bodily harm.
“Faster,
mademoiselle. I would like to retrieve Forli’s horse and carriage before it
goes the same way as my horse.”
So
that was what was bothering him. Because of her, his valuable horse had been
stolen, and the loss to his pocketbook infuriated him. “Never fear, monsieur,”
she said scathingly, “I will make certain my father reimburses you for your
loss.”
“Loss?
What loss?” he muttered, mopping his streaming brow.
She
stared at him in amazement. Was the man mad? Or was he running a fever that
addled his brain? Why else would he be bathed in perspiration when the cold
dampness of the traboules chilled her to the bone?
With
the grim-faced Englishman on her heels, she forced herself to sprint the
remaining quarter of a mile to the entrance of La Croix Rousse. “Here we are,”
she said breathlessly. “We have only to cross through this district and we will
reach the confluence of the Saône and Rhône rivers where Monsieur Forli said
his horse and carriage were hidden.”
“Thank
God,” Tristan Thibault murmured, staring at the sky above him with a rapt
expression in his strange, pale eyes. Here the walls of the buildings bordering
the narrow alley were two stories high, but the passageway itself was
uncovered. He leaned against the nearby wall, taking in great, gulping breaths
of air, as if their short sprint had left his lungs totally depleted. For a man
who appeared so strong, he was certainly in terrible condition.
Madelaine
pressed her finger to her lips, cautioning him to silence. Once again she
covered the lantern with her jacket, but this time the waning moon and the
light pouring from the many open doors lining the alleyway dispelled the
darkness. She took a deep breath. The air was heavy with the waxy smoke of
dozens of guttering candles and an odd, musty smell she remembered her
grandfather telling her emanated from the bolts of fabric waiting to be
delivered to the shops of the silk merchants for which Lyon was famous.
Tristan
Thibault touched her shoulder. “That noise? What is it?” he whispered.
Madelaine
listened to the familiar click, clack, bang…click, clack ,
bang. “The canuts —silk weavers—at work,” she whispered back. “Every
household in the district has its own bistanclaque . The family members
take turns weaving and sleeping in the lofts above so the looms are never
silent.
She
frowned. “Weaving is hot work. The doors of the canuts ’ apartments are
rarely closed. We will have to pass dozens of open doorways to reach our
destination. I pray we can do so without being seen.”
“I
take it these canuts are Bonapartists.”
“To
a man, though apparently not even the return of the emperor can lure them from
their bistanclaques . Still, it is well known they hate the old
aristocracy and anyone connected with it. They would turn us over to the gronards without a qualm if they suspected our true identities—or mine, anyway—and I
cannot think how we would explain a priest and his acolyte wandering the traboules in the dead of night. We will not be safe until we put La Croix Rousse behind
us.”
Tristan
paid but token heed to Madelaine Harcourt’s dire warning. In truth, he felt
almost giddy with relief that he’d managed to keep from turning into a babbling
idiot back in those beastly traboules, and even more relieved that the
balance of their journey could be accomplished under the open sky.
Shifting
the knapsack to a more comfortable position, he prepared to follow her down the
shadowed alleyway, but not before he caught a glimpse of the first candlelit
loom and the nocturnal weaver who labored at it.
Click,
clack, bang…click, clack , bang. Over and over the
white-haired canut threw his shuttle—as intent on his work as
Rumpelstilskin, the evil dwarf of the German folktale Tristan had learned as
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