Crimson Bound
Page 16
She looked like a hundred other court ladies Rachelle had seen. And though Rachelle had always found the court fashions silly, for a moment she wished that the illusion was real, that it actually was possible for her to paint on a new face and become a different person.
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
There was no way she could ever escape herself and become the lovely, innocent girl in the mirror. But that was for the best. Because lovely, innocent girls could not ever hope to fight the Devourer.
Rachelle was going to fight him and win.
Even when she was a little girl, living in the northern forest, Rachelle had heard about Château de Lune. Everyone had. It was the glory of Gévaudan: a shimmering, elegant wonderland. And when the carriage finally drew close, Rachelle saw that it was just as lovely as the stories had promised. The Château itself was a vast, sinuous building of pale stone, glittering glass windows, and gold. For nearly two miles around, it was surrounded by impeccably ordered gardens: fountains, lawns, rosebushes, and long lines of identically trimmed trees.
But when the carriage finally drew to a halt on the wide gravel courtyard inside the main gate, when Rachelle stepped out and drew a breath of the sweet, warm air without the least trace of the city’s stink—as lovely as it was, all she could think about was finding the door.
Above the sun, below the moon.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Erec.
“Yes,” said Rachelle. “Beautiful.”
The crimson thread trailed off her finger and wound across the ground, until it was lost among the feet of the servants and courtiers waiting to greet the King. Like a crack in the otherwise perfect surface of a painting.
“Almost as delightful as last time,” said Armand, surveying the crowd of silk and wigs and feathered hats. Somebody was presenting the King with a monkey wearing a lace dress.
Last time he was there, he had claimed to meet a forestborn, and he had definitely lost his hands. Rachelle glanced at him. He seemed to be squinting a little in the bright sunlight; she couldn’t read the expression on his face. Then Erec clapped a hand on his shoulder, and though his face didn’t change, she saw Armand flinch.
“Let’s hope this visit is even better,” said Erec. “Monsieur, mademoiselle, come with me. I will show you to your rooms myself.”
Armand squared his shoulders and marched after him.
Inside the Château was another world. Vast hallways. Patterned marble stairways. Statues in the alcoves. Mirrors that gleamed in one shining piece from floor to ceiling. And everywhere, gold and silver painted and molded across walls, ceilings, and doors, in patterns of birds, flowers, horses, fruits, and naked women—but most of all, in the patterns of the sun and moon. On the mirrors, the ceilings, the statues, the floors.
Everywhere was above the sun. Everywhere was below the moon.
The whole Château was mocking her.
Armand’s room was in the royal wing, not far from the King—“An honor no bastard has yet received,” said Erec—and it came furnished with not only silk-cushioned chairs and gilt-framed mirrors but also two bland-faced, obsequious valets who bustled out and started exclaiming over the state of Armand’s clothes, though Rachelle couldn’t see anything wrong with them beyond a few creases from sitting in a carriage all day.
Erec’s hand pressed against the small of her back. “This way,” he said softly, pushing her toward the door that led farther into the suite.
“I thought I was supposed to guard him,” said Rachelle.
“You are, but his valets report to me and they can keep him out of trouble for the five minutes it will take me to show you your room.”
So Armand could be left alone in his room sometimes? Rachelle would be happy to use that excuse to sneak out and search the Château as often as possible.
“I’m staying in his suite?” she asked.
“Not exactly. Through here.”
The bedroom was dominated by the vast, gilded hulk of a canopied bed. Ignoring the entrance to the study at the opposite end of the room, Erec pushed aside one of the hangings to reveal a narrow door.
“The reason he received this suite,” he said, “is so that he could have no secrets from you.”
On the other side of the door was another bedroom, this one decorated in pale blue and silver. But Rachelle hardly noticed the luxury, because the far door stood open, and through it she could see Amélie kneeling in the dressing room amid an ocean of silk and lace.
Amélie looked up. “You’re here!” she exclaimed, and jumped up to grab Rachelle by the shoulders and kiss her cheeks.
“Yes,” said Rachelle. The warm, comforting pressure of Amélie’s hands on her shoulders nearly stole her breath away. Then she looked around the room. Several trunks sat open on the floor, and their contents had exploded across the room in great waves of shimmering, many-colored fabric.
“Where did that all come from?” she asked.
“There are one or two things beyond my power,” said Erec, “but obtaining ladies’ dresses is not one of them. You’re going to be the loveliest lady in the court tonight.”
Rachelle rolled her eyes. “Save the flattery for someone who’s in love with you.”
“Very well.” He leaned close and breathed in her ear, “You will be the lady dearest and most dreadful.”
For a moment, she almost felt the wind of the Great Forest in her hair.
“That is not a compliment,” she said quietly.
“At least it’s perfectly true.” He kissed her cheek. “Now I have duties to attend. Remember, you and your charge will be at the reception tonight.”
Then he was gone. Rachelle could still feel the press of his lips against her cheek. She forced herself to look at Amélie, who had now seen her kissed and complimented by the most famous and unrepentant of all the bloodbound.
Amélie pursed her lips. “So that’s Monsieur d’Anjou. I thought he’d be prettier.” She spoke with the same half-prim, half-laughing voice she used to describe her mother’s most troublesome customers. As if nothing had changed.
Rachelle laughed shakily and said, “You should tell him that. It might be the first time he’s ever heard it.” She surveyed the chaos of the dresses. “Do you have any idea how I’m supposed to get these on?”
“You don’t,” said Amélie. “You stand still and let me put them on you.”
“It’s beautiful,” she said.
There was no way she could ever escape herself and become the lovely, innocent girl in the mirror. But that was for the best. Because lovely, innocent girls could not ever hope to fight the Devourer.
Rachelle was going to fight him and win.
Even when she was a little girl, living in the northern forest, Rachelle had heard about Château de Lune. Everyone had. It was the glory of Gévaudan: a shimmering, elegant wonderland. And when the carriage finally drew close, Rachelle saw that it was just as lovely as the stories had promised. The Château itself was a vast, sinuous building of pale stone, glittering glass windows, and gold. For nearly two miles around, it was surrounded by impeccably ordered gardens: fountains, lawns, rosebushes, and long lines of identically trimmed trees.
But when the carriage finally drew to a halt on the wide gravel courtyard inside the main gate, when Rachelle stepped out and drew a breath of the sweet, warm air without the least trace of the city’s stink—as lovely as it was, all she could think about was finding the door.
Above the sun, below the moon.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Erec.
“Yes,” said Rachelle. “Beautiful.”
The crimson thread trailed off her finger and wound across the ground, until it was lost among the feet of the servants and courtiers waiting to greet the King. Like a crack in the otherwise perfect surface of a painting.
“Almost as delightful as last time,” said Armand, surveying the crowd of silk and wigs and feathered hats. Somebody was presenting the King with a monkey wearing a lace dress.
Last time he was there, he had claimed to meet a forestborn, and he had definitely lost his hands. Rachelle glanced at him. He seemed to be squinting a little in the bright sunlight; she couldn’t read the expression on his face. Then Erec clapped a hand on his shoulder, and though his face didn’t change, she saw Armand flinch.
“Let’s hope this visit is even better,” said Erec. “Monsieur, mademoiselle, come with me. I will show you to your rooms myself.”
Armand squared his shoulders and marched after him.
Inside the Château was another world. Vast hallways. Patterned marble stairways. Statues in the alcoves. Mirrors that gleamed in one shining piece from floor to ceiling. And everywhere, gold and silver painted and molded across walls, ceilings, and doors, in patterns of birds, flowers, horses, fruits, and naked women—but most of all, in the patterns of the sun and moon. On the mirrors, the ceilings, the statues, the floors.
Everywhere was above the sun. Everywhere was below the moon.
The whole Château was mocking her.
Armand’s room was in the royal wing, not far from the King—“An honor no bastard has yet received,” said Erec—and it came furnished with not only silk-cushioned chairs and gilt-framed mirrors but also two bland-faced, obsequious valets who bustled out and started exclaiming over the state of Armand’s clothes, though Rachelle couldn’t see anything wrong with them beyond a few creases from sitting in a carriage all day.
Erec’s hand pressed against the small of her back. “This way,” he said softly, pushing her toward the door that led farther into the suite.
“I thought I was supposed to guard him,” said Rachelle.
“You are, but his valets report to me and they can keep him out of trouble for the five minutes it will take me to show you your room.”
So Armand could be left alone in his room sometimes? Rachelle would be happy to use that excuse to sneak out and search the Château as often as possible.
“I’m staying in his suite?” she asked.
“Not exactly. Through here.”
The bedroom was dominated by the vast, gilded hulk of a canopied bed. Ignoring the entrance to the study at the opposite end of the room, Erec pushed aside one of the hangings to reveal a narrow door.
“The reason he received this suite,” he said, “is so that he could have no secrets from you.”
On the other side of the door was another bedroom, this one decorated in pale blue and silver. But Rachelle hardly noticed the luxury, because the far door stood open, and through it she could see Amélie kneeling in the dressing room amid an ocean of silk and lace.
Amélie looked up. “You’re here!” she exclaimed, and jumped up to grab Rachelle by the shoulders and kiss her cheeks.
“Yes,” said Rachelle. The warm, comforting pressure of Amélie’s hands on her shoulders nearly stole her breath away. Then she looked around the room. Several trunks sat open on the floor, and their contents had exploded across the room in great waves of shimmering, many-colored fabric.
“Where did that all come from?” she asked.
“There are one or two things beyond my power,” said Erec, “but obtaining ladies’ dresses is not one of them. You’re going to be the loveliest lady in the court tonight.”
Rachelle rolled her eyes. “Save the flattery for someone who’s in love with you.”
“Very well.” He leaned close and breathed in her ear, “You will be the lady dearest and most dreadful.”
For a moment, she almost felt the wind of the Great Forest in her hair.
“That is not a compliment,” she said quietly.
“At least it’s perfectly true.” He kissed her cheek. “Now I have duties to attend. Remember, you and your charge will be at the reception tonight.”
Then he was gone. Rachelle could still feel the press of his lips against her cheek. She forced herself to look at Amélie, who had now seen her kissed and complimented by the most famous and unrepentant of all the bloodbound.
Amélie pursed her lips. “So that’s Monsieur d’Anjou. I thought he’d be prettier.” She spoke with the same half-prim, half-laughing voice she used to describe her mother’s most troublesome customers. As if nothing had changed.
Rachelle laughed shakily and said, “You should tell him that. It might be the first time he’s ever heard it.” She surveyed the chaos of the dresses. “Do you have any idea how I’m supposed to get these on?”
“You don’t,” said Amélie. “You stand still and let me put them on you.”
