Snippet #1458720

The cobbled courtyard seemed to glitter in the sun of late afternoon. The burbling of a fountain could be heard only a few feet away; coming from all directions. Wind rustled softly through the leaves of the trees, and birds chirped from their sweeping branches. Nobles paced quietly down the gravel paths, admiring ponds full of fish, but more often admiring each other. There was gossip, there was giggling. There was an air of early-spring love in the air. The world was warming, and so were the hearts of the court.
All except Cyrille's.
In years past, Cyrille had bubbled just like these silly young nobles. He had smiled and run in the grass, sat on the hill with a good book and enjoyed the feel of the water on his toes. He had gossiped like an old maid and chattered with those he had once called friends. He had flirted, courted, chased the young women of both the court and the street. He had spent nights disgracefully drunk at local taverns. He had sparred with those he called brothers.
He had talked to his sister.
But no. Deonne was dead now. He had found her like that, nailed to the ceiling, her blood forming a pool on the floor beneath. He still remembered slipping, falling in it. Remembered how it had covered him, hot and sticky, from head to toe.
How it had filled his sense with scarlet and iron and salt.
His boots clicked lightly over the stones. He scanned the area. Deonne had come here often, to these gardens, to spend time with her lady friends, and with the queen who was so very fond of her. She had been such a sweet girl.
Why? Who would have wanted to kill her?
He couldn't imagine.
His fist clenched over the note in his hand. Someone had written it. Written it in blood; her blood; and left it on her doorstep.
Meet me in the courtyard at noon-time. Near the mermaid fountain. Wear only black, and a feather in your hat.
And so he had come here, wearing lack, with a feather in his hat and his long golden hair done up in a sleek braid. He did not know what was waiting for him here.
He only knew that he recognized the handwriting. It was Deonne's. It was impossible, but the script on the letter was Deonne's.
Who had she wanted him to meet here?


(Patrick Giroux, talk to Van Giroux, your older brother. I sent him a message detailing the Deonne you knew and the organization from which you come.)