When he laces his fingers through mine, my heart does its now familiar panicked flight, bumping painfully against my ribs. My shoulder twitches as if to pull my hand back, but my heart overrules it.
He smiles then, and even though it is well past midnight, its as if the sun has just come out.
I am a handmaiden of Death. I walk in His dark shadow and do His bidding. Serving Him is my only purpose in this life.
You would throw away all that we have given you for a man’s love?” “Not a man’s love,” I say softly. “But Duval’s. And I would find a way to serve both my god and my heart. Surely He does not give us hearts so we may spend our lives ignoring them.
Perhaps that is because you mistake death for justice, and they are not the same thing at all.
He does not start guiltily, as he should, but frowns in annoyance. "Who are you?" I slip my hand through the slit of my overskirt, and my fingers close around the hard wood of the crossbow tiller. "Vengeance," I say softly.
Do you need anything before I go? I want you to return my wits, I long to say.
... then he offers me his arm. As I take it, I wonder what folly decreed that women cannot walk unassisted.
And so it is with us; we serve as handmaidens to Death. When we are guided by His will, killing is a sacrament.
His divine spark lives within me, a presence that will never leave. And I am but one of many tools He has at His disposal. If I cannot act - if I refuse to act - that is a choice I am allowed to make. He has given me life, and all I must do to serve Him is to live. Fully and with my whole heart. With this knowledge comes a true understanding of all the gifts He has given me.
He barks out a laugh. "My little rebel.
God's Teeth,' he says. 'I was only trying to wake you. You were crying out in your sleep.' 'I was not,' I say, then look from his neck to my knife. 'When I tried to wake you, you stabbed me.' He sounds sore put out. and I cannot blame him.
