Red Rider RIsing: Book 2 of the Red Rider Saga by D.A. Randall (ebook e reader .txt) 📕

a surge of energy inside, a sense of strength I had never known, even when hunting.

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“Yes, Pierre,” I called back. “I’m ready now.”

“Here she is,” Pierre said, waving a hand toward Madame Leóne as he gently guided me toward her with his hand on my back.

Madame Leóne bent forward in her elegant homemade gown, spun of midnight blue silk with an embroidered bodice. The exquisite sort of dress Mama might have made for me, if I were wearing it for someone else’s funeral. She clutched me to herself as we stood outside la Chapelle de Saint Matthieu. “I’m so sorry, dear,” she said, cradling me.

I remained rigid, ashamed that I could not return her tender hug. All of my emotions had been burned to ashes, leaving me empty. I kept still and silent as a harsh wind began to whip at our skirts, warning of the approaching storm.

She finally broke off the embrace, as cautiously as she had started it, and offered a weak smile. She struggled to clear her throat. “That’s –

such a beautiful cloak, Helena. Your mother would have loved to see you in it.”

Monsieur Leóne emerged, holding open the door for us. “He’s about to start, Lisette,” he said in a subdued tone. “We should – .”

He gaped at me. At my bright red cloak.

“… Brianna …” he muttered.

Madame Leóne turned sharply to him. “Oh, dear. Is that – ?” She glanced back at me, her eyes 161

wide. “I had no idea. But – it’s so beautiful, isn’t it, Frayne?”

Monsieur Leóne continued to stare at me, not moving.

“No one’s really – using it, Papa,” Pierre broke in slowly. “And Helena’s old enough to wear it. I just thought – .”

Monsieur Leóne held up a hand, stopping him. “It’s fine,” he said. “Yes, she – she looks lovely. So sorry it’s – being worn for such a sad occasion.” He swallowed. “You’re welcome to the cloak, Helena. I believe – perhaps it’s right for you to have it.” He turned aside, staring at the dirt.

Then regained his composure. “Come along. It’s –

time to get things started.”

“Ashes to ashes, dust to dust …”

I sat quiet and still in the pew beside Pierre inside the church, watching Father Vestille prepare to give the eulogy and pray over the bodies of Mama and Suzette. Incense filled the air, within the dim candlelight that cast dismal shadows on the stone walls and stained glass windows.

The caskets were closed.

Nearly thirty people had assembled to pay honor to my family’s memory. As always, Duke Laurent’s presence in the second row gave the service added a significant prestige. His advisor, Monsieur Simonet, sat beside him, his usual frown now seeming appropriate.

Father Vestille hung his head, slow to begin. Finally, he lifted his eyes, grimaced, and 162

spoke in a hoarse voice. “My friends …” He cleared his throat and started again. “My friends.

Thank you for coming. We are here to lay to rest –

the bodies of Celeste Basque and – her youngest daughter, Suzette Basque. Both brutally attacked by beasts earlier this morning.” He paused, closing his eyes. Gathering his breath. “Our hearts cannot be heavier. My heart cannot be heavier. To lose such a wonderful woman and her innocent child.

The Basque family has been like my own family.

They welcomed me into this community and into their home. Their kindness, their openness and hospitality, inspired me to be more open to others.

To find ways to reach out and welcome neighbors and strangers, the way they welcomed me.”

Father Vestille observed the silent coffins.

He looked so sad, so defeated, as if he might struggle to lift his head. His voice choked. “Celeste and Suzette Basque have become – even closer to me these last few months, since – since Henri Basque died. He was also – He was also cruelly taken by a wolf. Their eldest daughter, Helena, is still with us. And I urge all of you to do whatever you can, anything you can, to