The basin water had already gone pink by the time I wrung out the first shirt.

  I worked the cloth against itself, knuckles burning as I forced the soaked fabric through my hands. My special blend—ash-alkali, spirits, and salt—cut through the blood faster than lye alone ever could. A sharp, clean scent rose from the water, biting at the back of my throat as the red loosened and ran. I kept my face turned aside and my sleeves wound tight around my wrists.

  I dipped the shirt again, watching the stains pale from dark rust to watery rose, then to something that only looked like shadow if you knew where to stare. That was as clean as it was going to get.

  I twisted it hard and hung it on the line strung between two splintered posts. Drops fell from the hem and struck the dirt below, dark at first, then clear.

  I reached for the next piece of cloth and pushed it under the surface.

  The murmur reached me before the words did.

  It drifted over the low roofs and broken stalls, a soft, uneven swell that rose and fell as people gathered where the square opened out. Somewhere in it, a voice lifted, then another. I could not make out what they were saying, only the shape of it—maybe relief, or the first awkward attempt at gratitude.

  It sounded like Etienne and Lumiere were doing well.

  I wrung out the second shirt and hung it beside the first. The line sagged under the weight of wet cloth, sleeves and hems dripping slow, patient beads of water onto the ground.

  Etienne had promised to leave a handful of his men behind. Not a parade, not a garrison, just enough steel and order to keep the bandits from waltzing back in once we were gone. They took over the old guard posts by the river and the market gates, and the townsfolk started walking a little straighter when they passed them.

  Not everyone had been in the chapel.

  The sick and the elderly. A few who could not walk that far, or would not. A handful who had stayed behind out of stubbornness, fear, or habit. There had been no clean way to account for them in the rush of it.

  Doug and Dougs did not get that luxury. Someone had decided two unmarked men in armor running through the smoke looked suspicious enough to be bandits, and they were hauled in with the rest. Evelyn let them sit with it for a while, just long enough to make her point, before she vouched for their release. They came back bruised, indignant, and more than a little cowed.

  Still, the streets felt different.

  People lingered near the guard posts instead of skirting them. Doors stayed open longer. Voices carried a little farther than they had the day before.

  They wanted a feast. Their gratitude needed somewhere to go.

  Etienne had declined it. Regretfully, he said. In truth, he was anxious to get back to the Duchy, to find where things had strayed.

  Lumiere appeased them by promising one more sermon. One st reassurance. A word from the Saintess, the Hero, and the Duke.

  All that was left was for me to fade quietly into the background. Then this would be a story about heroism and faith, not subterfuge.

  I dipped another sleeve into the basin and watched the st of the red bloom and fade.

  Something shifted beside me.

  The water in the basin rippled, just slightly, as another pair of hands dipped into it. Cloth slid under the surface, heavy and stiff with dried blood.

  I gnced up.

  "Rocher?"

  He didn't answer.

  "What are you doing here? Why aren't you on the podium with Lumiere and Etienne?"

  He worked the shirt against itself, eyes on the water as the red bled out of it.

  "I got out of it." He shrugged.

  "Weren't you supposed to give a few words?"

  "That might be appropriate for the man everyone remembers," he said. "Not the one I am now."

  I looked at him with my brow knit.

  He smiled faintly as he wrung fabric out.

  "Corveaux used to stand between me and the crowds," he said. "He told me where to be, what to say. When to look at people and when not to."

  I set the shirt I was holding on the line, hands suddenly clumsy.

  "And now?" I asked.

  "I don't know how I ever learned to be the Hero. Over on that podium, they're turning what I did into something clean. Something they can cp for." He swallowed. "I don't think I can do that. Not without help."

  He dipped the cloth again, slower this time.

  "But this," he said quietly. "This I can do."

  The basin water clouded around his hands.

  I watched it for a moment.

  "I'll help you," I finally said.

  He looked up.

  "You don't have to be whatever they want out there," I went on. "Not yet. What makes a Hero is staying with the consequence."

  His eyes widened.

  "You can start small," I said as I crouched beside him. "Just like this—washing blood out of cloth."

  A breath left him.

  "I'm afraid I won't be good for much else right now."

  I nodded. "You just need practice. I'm with you every step of the way."

  I took the shirt from him and hung it on the line. It joined the others, dripping slowly into the dirt.

  "Are you volunteering to be the captive audience for my rousing speeches?"

  I looked down at him then. At some point, his wry smile had returned.

  "No." I rolled my eyes. "Just an audience. It's up to you to capture me."

  He tucked his hand under his chin. "Then I'd better bring my best net."

  The convoy departed to appuse and raised voices, a ripple of sound that followed the carriages as they rolled back onto the Royal Road. People crowded the edges of the square and the mouth of the street, hands lifted, some waving, some csped together as if in prayer. Relief needed motion, and this was what it found.

  Lumiere rode in the lead carriage, the door left open despite the steward's protests. She stood with one hand braced against the frame, the other raised in farewell, smiling as names were called out to her from the crowd. The white of her mantle caught the light, unmistakable even at a distance.

  The vicar stood at the steps of the chapel, staff in hand, watching them go. He murmured a blessing as the first carriage passed, then lifted his voice, steady and practiced, carrying over the square. The words were familiar ones. Protection. Gratitude. Safe passage. People bowed their heads as the carriages rolled by.

  I was not in any of them.

  Fritz shifted under me as we fell in at the rear, his ears flicking at the noise. I hoped beyond hope he would behave.

  I sat sideways in the saddle in my nun's habit, one arm looped around Evelyn's waist, her weight solid and warm against my side.

  Doug and Dougs rode at our fnks, soaking in the crowd, the events of st night a distant memory to them.

  We moved when the road cleared, not before.

  As we passed the chapel, my gaze lifted.

  The vicar's eyes met mine for a brief, unguarded moment. There was no anger in them now. No approval either. Just recognition.

  Then he looked away, his attention returning to the Saintess and the crowd gathered around her.

  Fritz carried us onward, hooves thudding softly behind the st wagon, until the noise of the square faded and the road narrowed again.

  Night had settled fully by the time Etienne gave the order to press on. Lanterns were shuttered down to slits. The road ahead narrowed into a ribbon of darker dark, hooves and wheels keeping time by feel more than sight.

  When he finally drew the curtain aside and inclined his head, it was already decided.

  "Inside, Miss Cire," he said quietly. "We intend to ride through the night. You should rest."

  I did not argue.

  The carriage rocked gently as I climbed in, the smell of oil and clean wool a small, enclosed mercy after the open road. Lumiere shifted at once to make space, skirts rustling, one hand already reaching for me without looking.

  I sat, then sagged.

  The weight I had been holding up all day chose that moment to let go. My shoulders slumped. My spine followed. Before I could think better of it, I leaned sideways and let my head rest against her.

  Lumiere inhaled, surprised, then settled. Her arm came around me, firm and warm, palm resting between my shoulder bdes as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

  "Here," she said as she gently guided my head to her p.

  I was dimly aware of Etienne across from us, posture immacute even in the half-light, gaze fixed anywhere but here. If he thought it improper, he did not say so. The Duke had seen worse breaches of decorum.

  "You can sleep," Lumiere murmured, barely more than breath. "I've got you."

  That was all it took.

  The carriage swayed. Wheels hissed over packed earth. Somewhere outside, a horse snorted softly. I let my eyes close.

  For the first time in days, there was nothing I needed to hold together.

  I slept.