Sanctuary of Roses by Colleen Gleason Page B

Retna’s spine.
    As the woman next to him shifted, brushing
against him in her sleep, Fantin could not help but recall the many
times Mal Verne’s own Nicola had done the same. The woman’s body
had been sleek and sensual, and she fancied herself in love with
Fantin. He, in turn, had believed she was the woman God had
provided him in the replacement of his dead wife Anne. Mayhap not
as pure, but worthy to bed with Fantin and become one with him.
After all, God had given the earthly pleasures of coupling to all
humans, and, like his patron, The Whore Saint, Fantin did not deny
himself that release.
    It had been no hardship to avail himself of
what Nicola, Lady Mal Verne, offered the first time he’d met her at
court. Fantin had had merely to give her his measured, haunting
look from the lute over which he labored with such melancholy, and
to sing of beauteous maids and the perfection of the love bestowed
upon them by their champions …and the woman had been lured in like
a mule following a carrot.
    Of course, being wed with a gruff, silent,
stupid man such as Mal Verne should drive any woman to one with the
charm and striking countenance that Fantin possessed, he reflected
as his lips shifted in a self-satisfied smile. God had blessed him
well, indeed, in making him attractive to both women and men…at the
least, those of whom he wished to have find him attractive,
and to follow his way and support his work.
    Retna opened her eyes, hazy with sleep, and
allowed the blanket to shift nearly to her waist, baring herself to
him. Fantin looked at her, the stirrings of lust returning to his
nether regions, and considered whether he should make love with her
once more before sending her to her fate in the laboratory.
    ’Twas a messy fate, but necessary.
    This was, in fact, his weakness. The
physical coupling with a woman—any woman—who did not bear the same
purity that God had bestowed upon Fantin was the vice that he must
battle, the cross he must bear, the temptation that he must set
right. He knew he compromised his gift, his Purpose, by enjoying
the flesh of whores and women who gave their bodies to any man who
asked—true whores, or even the ladies of court, such as Nicola Mal
Verne. She had not been the pure woman he’d believed, and that had
caused Fantin much grief.
    Yet, David had had his Bathsheba, and God
still gifted him with his kingdom. Aye, David’d had his punishment,
but Fantin did not fear that. So long as the Lord continued to show
him the way to the formula for the Philosopher’s Stone, Fantin
could manage any penance that might be foisted upon him.
    If Anne had not perished…. Ah, Anne, his
wife, the one woman who possessed untouched innocence and was
chosen as he was. The one woman worthy of his physical love.
    Fantin had searched for one to replace her
these ten summers past, and had never found one worthy of him.
Nicola had been his greatest error, enslaving him with her whoring
ways whilst causing him to believe she was innocent and pure.
    Until he found the woman God meant for him,
his transgressions would only be forgiven if he removed the
temptation—the sluts, the whores—from his sight, from his life…from
this world.
    Only then—when he found perfection in a
woman and needed to look no further—would he be forgiven his
transgressions.
    * * *
    Madelyne heard the horrifying crash as the
roof groaned and folded into the house where Mal Verne had
disappeared. She shrieked and ran toward the collapsed building as
smoke poured forth. Jube, who had shadowed her since she left her
chamber, was right on her heels, shouting for Clem and Arden to
assist. He pushed her to one side, giving her a curt command to
stay there, as he approached the rickety structure.
    She stood there obediently, gnawing on her
fist, watching the three men dash toward the building. A small
crowd of women and children, led by the woman who had alerted Mal
Verne to the missing people, clustered behind Madelyne.
    Jube,