When she emerged, sir Corentin had left. The noble was headed to a farm from which his men had yet to come back.
Two men stayed to guard the carriage, with the knight to guard those villagers assembled in the church's courtyard. From up close she could easily see their mix of hope and helplessness.
Those who had stayed behind were those too weak, of body or heart, to leave at all.
"A wrenching sight, isn't it?"
Grisval approached the group that had met her at the door. The hunter had taken the time to check around, then question some of that crowd.
His words carried how satisfied he was to see the almighty Joan of Cormoran so broken.
She pushed the priest away to stand. Her hands closed the mantle on her.
Her eyes turned on Brenin.
"Brenin. I need a quiet place to work."
"The carriage is all yours."
"Take its curtains and set a private part for me at that pottery shop."
The woodcutter, in his rich gray clothes, gave a look at the ruins she talked about. The space for the incense could indeed be kept hidden from sight.
He sighed.
"I've really become your lackey."
"Grisval." She ignored him. "Tell them."
The hunter shook his head, not to refuse but with the same resignation that had befallen the werewolf. He only gave the oathless knight a glance.
"Men burned this church, I admit. They struck at the end of the storm, surrounded the place and let no one escape. They broke the altar with hammers, stole the treasure and burned everything." He smirked: "They left the wax and resin to the flames."
Supernatural creatures would not use hammers, nor would they steal anything but would target sacred resources such as wax.
"The storm was two days ago." The oathless knight observed.
"Indeed. Sir Frederic, was it? Most villagers missed the screams and flames. For those who saw it, it must have been a devilish scene."
Sir Frederic's eyes fell to the ground, weighed down by a soft guilt.
"Is there anything you want to add, lady Joan?"
"Who did this?" Brenin pressed.
"That," the hunter admitted, "only the saintess knows. All I can say is those were not bandits. They were trained, they came prepared and were able to slip in and out during the night."
In other words, men-at-arms.
But human affairs hardly concerned her. She turned to brother Aymon who, with her gaze on him, fell back as if hurt by fire.
"Wash that robe." She ordered. "And prepare that stone basin."
"Y... yes... yes."
"And you."
Joan turned to sir Frederic. His hostility toward her had not diminished in the slightest, but still he listened.
"Gather flowers."
"You want a knight to pick flowers?!" Brenin exclaimed. "Do you even... you have no idea, do you?"
"Peace." Grisval calmed him. "The villagers will help."
"What about you, Grisval? I don't see you busy. Go see if you can find us some orchid for her ladyship! Flowers, really? The whole domain is damned but petals, that will make it better!"
"Petals..." The priest chimed in. "Petals are the... the..." He shied a moment. "They are the saintess' oldest symbol."
"See? You're badmouthing a tradition! Have heart, Brenin, the saintess has not abandoned you yet!"
She loved how that hunter could be a viper.
He took the priest with him to the well, to help him wash while the woodcutter returned to the carriage. As for her, she headed for that ruined workshop.
Her heart could still not accept it, this weak body, her ineptitude, all those failings that came with her curse. To be outdone by humans was more than she could stand.
Brenin arrived soon after to set those curtains.
The man stayed on the other side while she worked. All he could feel was some warmth but by now the curse had taught him to recognize when his mistress took a beastly shape. That had him on edge any time anyone seemed to approach.
Boredom however proved even stronger. Soon Brenin had slipped to sit on the ground.
"What should I do?" He asked. "Time is running short."
"You have an excuse to go hide in the hill."
"Which is?"
"Food."
The men-at-arms still had not come back. If she had to guess, that farm had less to offer than they had hoped and the men of Pivert were pushing further to complete their loot.
For a farm to be so poor, she could imagine in what state lay the village.
"How long have you... you know, been that?"
"A day longer than you."
"That's not even a good lie. To switch at will, to not even fret about it, it's like you've spent your whole life like that."
"The curse is forbidden. Don't ever let your heart desire it."
"But you desired it!" He shot back. "Nobody forced you to be a mons... to be like this! Why did you even curse yourself to begin with?"
What Brenin wanted to ask was how he could control the hunger, tame that blood. At no point did he really care for her motives, only the means by which she seemed spared.
She knew that, she could tell, all too well that that man did not care in the slightest about her.
"To seek love."
"Ah! Ah, sure, you cursed yourself for love. And that's why you treat everyone like dirt."
He received no answer. Behind the curtains it seemed that the werewolf had stopped her work. That would have given him the opportunity to just get up, to leave, hide in some hole somewhere away from sight.
Brenin did get up, only to stand there near the curtain.
"You really don't know anything about love. One day you meet someone and you don't know why, your heart bursts aflame. From that day on you only live for that woman. You watch the stars with her and the chores feel so far away."
His tone had gone light, cheerful like a bird. It fell afterward, similar to a stone.
"You watch her fall ill and the realm dies. A monster like you will never experience love, you are incapable of that. The only person you care about is yourself, Joan of Cormoran, and I bet you devoured her."
The lack of answer told him to leave but he insisted.
"I guess when all you are is a beast, love must sound mystical. Are you listening? You cursed yourself for nothing. Eh, are you okay?"
He motioned to open the curtains, held back, hesitated.
But for all he knew, that werewolf was doing nothing special. So he slipped past the curtains to join her inside, in that small space where his legs practically touched her shoulder.
Her claws finished sculpting the saintess' visage.
"How..." The man let out, eyes wide. "Just, how..."
He could not look away from the marble statue, an copy of the one lady Joan had only seen smashed in pieces. But in every detail, in the wings, in the drapes, in the features and the hair she had given that saintly figure a divine air few sculptors could approach.
The werewolf had, in fact, done such a good job that her fingers were bleeding from touching that holy figure.
She had been clenching her fangs the whole time.
"Where... how..." Brenin repeated in disbelief. "Why would you..."
"Carry it outside." Joan hissed in pain. "Then go hide."
"Why..." He repeated.
"Because a man found me in the woods and I won't rest until my heart bursts aflame."