Crimson Bound
Page 18
Add to that six tables of cakes, ices, and punch bowls, a group of seven musicians playing the violin, three hundred candles, and who knew how many courtiers, and the result was a room that made Rachelle feel like she was being punched in the face just by looking at it.
It didn’t help that Armand had entered the room with the King, which meant that Rachelle came in a step behind them, right at the center of the panoply. The room stilled and silenced at the King’s entrance; the mass of people swayed down in bows and curtsies and then rose back up again, like a wave ebbing and flowing. The low roar of conversation resumed. Instantly they were swarmed by an exquisite crowd of people—dripping silk and lace, powder and jewels—who must speak with the King or Armand. According to some set of precise, secret rules, each of them bowed low, or kissed a hand, or received a kiss on the cheek.
Then they would look at Rachelle—sometimes a swift, covert glance, sometimes an openly nervous stare. But they didn’t try to talk to her, perhaps because she was in her normal patrol clothes. She wasn’t here to pretend she belonged to the glittering throng.
She was here to find Joyeuse. But after some careful glances, Rachelle was pretty sure that there was no sun or moon anywhere in the decorations. Which meant that the next few hours would be an idiotic waste of her time, and she didn’t even know how much time she had left.
Then a woman spoke up from behind Rachelle: “Good evening, Armand. Who’s your cheerful friend?”
Rachelle turned and saw a nearly colorless young woman. Her skin was powdered very pale, her curls were dull flax, and her dress was pure white silk. Strings of pearls rimmed the low neckline, gathered the puffy sleeves just below her elbows, and ran in a line down the center of her bodice. The only spot of color was a single large ruby hanging at her neck. Her face was narrow, flat, and not remotely pretty.
Armand’s smile was crooked and far more real than anything Rachelle had seen on his face before. “Mademoiselle Brinon, may I present la Fontaine, my second cousin and already a famous poet, fabulist, and salon hostess. She has a real name but we don’t bother to use it. My dear Fontaine, this is Rachelle Brinon, most excellent of the King’s bloodbound and my bodyguard.”
“I’m charmed.” La Fontaine inclined her head. “But you’re too cold, calling me just your second cousin when I’m practically your mother.” Her fingers brushed the ruby at her throat. “Since His Majesty has been so kind.”
She smiled as Armand turned red. Rachelle was baffled for a moment, and then remembered that a single red ruby was the gift noblemen would give their mistresses. This young woman must be the latest of King Auguste-Philippe’s long line of favorites.
“I played with you when we were both four years old,” said Armand with precise calm. “I am not going to call you ‘mother.’”
“Pity. You’ll just have to come to my salon and address me as ‘goddess’ instead. The famous Tollesande is back in my employ, so we’ll have her cakes.” La Fontaine fixed Armand with a severe look. “I warn you, I’ll make you eat five of them. You’ve grown much too thin.”
That, strangely, made his shoulders tense. “Don’t mind me.”
“You could come with me and eat something now,” said la Fontaine.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You didn’t have any lunch either,” said Rachelle, suddenly remembering the carriage ride to the palace.
“Maybe I’m fasting for the good of my soul.”
“I thought you were already perfect.”
“Nobody is perfect,” said la Fontaine. “Monsieur Vareilles, for instance, has not yet asked me to dance. So I’ll have to beg. My dearest little son, will you join me for a dance?”
“If you promise never to address me that way again,” said Armand, “I’ll do anything you want.”
La Fontaine sighed as she took his metal hand. “Unfortunately, I cannot tell a lie.”
She drew him toward the center of the room, where pairs of dancers wove among each other in stately rows.
“I’m surprised the saint can actually dance,” said Erec from behind her.
Rachelle flinched. Normally Erec wasn’t able to slip up on her like that.
“And where have you been?” she asked, turning.
“Making myself welcome.” He raised his glass to her. “But where were you this afternoon?”
Rachelle’s heart thumped, but she said calmly, “Learning the lay of the Château.”
“I think you’ll find that being a saint’s bodyguard calls for different tactics than solitary hunting,” said Erec, and though his voice was joking, the look he gave her wasn’t.
“I thought you said his valets could watch him,” said Rachelle.
Erec shrugged and relaxed. “Oh, they can. And between you and me, I don’t think he’s going to give us much trouble.” He smiled to himself. “But if the King hears about you leaving his son’s side, he may get angry.”
Rachelle nodded, hoping that her fury didn’t show on her face. So she would have to search at night. She could do that. If she had to, she wouldn’t sleep until she found Joyeuse.
“I, on the other hand, will only get angry if you don’t dress yourself better for the next event.” Erec looked her up and down. “Whatever possessed you to enter the room in that costume?”
“I wanted all my knives,” said Rachelle.
“My dear, I promise you the repartee is not that cutting.”
“You brought me here to be a bodyguard,” said Rachelle. “And I refuse to fight anyone while wearing a court dress.”
“But you won’t have to. I’ll be here to save you.”
“Yes, if you’re not too busy flirting.”
“I’m flirting right now.” In a heartbeat he had a knife in his hand; one quick motion, and he’d flung it across the room to spear the apple sitting atop a pyramid of fruit. “And still quite capable, as you can see.”
Rachelle grinned at him and reached for one of her wrist knives. A moment later it was quivering in the apple next to his.
“I am too,” she said.
The apple gave a final wobble and the fruit pyramid collapsed. Apples, pears, and oranges bounced across the floor; a lady squeaked as two apples rolled under her hem, and another said something that set all the nearby people tittering. Several harried-looking servants converged on the table and started picking up the fruit.
It didn’t help that Armand had entered the room with the King, which meant that Rachelle came in a step behind them, right at the center of the panoply. The room stilled and silenced at the King’s entrance; the mass of people swayed down in bows and curtsies and then rose back up again, like a wave ebbing and flowing. The low roar of conversation resumed. Instantly they were swarmed by an exquisite crowd of people—dripping silk and lace, powder and jewels—who must speak with the King or Armand. According to some set of precise, secret rules, each of them bowed low, or kissed a hand, or received a kiss on the cheek.
Then they would look at Rachelle—sometimes a swift, covert glance, sometimes an openly nervous stare. But they didn’t try to talk to her, perhaps because she was in her normal patrol clothes. She wasn’t here to pretend she belonged to the glittering throng.
She was here to find Joyeuse. But after some careful glances, Rachelle was pretty sure that there was no sun or moon anywhere in the decorations. Which meant that the next few hours would be an idiotic waste of her time, and she didn’t even know how much time she had left.
Then a woman spoke up from behind Rachelle: “Good evening, Armand. Who’s your cheerful friend?”
Rachelle turned and saw a nearly colorless young woman. Her skin was powdered very pale, her curls were dull flax, and her dress was pure white silk. Strings of pearls rimmed the low neckline, gathered the puffy sleeves just below her elbows, and ran in a line down the center of her bodice. The only spot of color was a single large ruby hanging at her neck. Her face was narrow, flat, and not remotely pretty.
Armand’s smile was crooked and far more real than anything Rachelle had seen on his face before. “Mademoiselle Brinon, may I present la Fontaine, my second cousin and already a famous poet, fabulist, and salon hostess. She has a real name but we don’t bother to use it. My dear Fontaine, this is Rachelle Brinon, most excellent of the King’s bloodbound and my bodyguard.”
“I’m charmed.” La Fontaine inclined her head. “But you’re too cold, calling me just your second cousin when I’m practically your mother.” Her fingers brushed the ruby at her throat. “Since His Majesty has been so kind.”
She smiled as Armand turned red. Rachelle was baffled for a moment, and then remembered that a single red ruby was the gift noblemen would give their mistresses. This young woman must be the latest of King Auguste-Philippe’s long line of favorites.
“I played with you when we were both four years old,” said Armand with precise calm. “I am not going to call you ‘mother.’”
“Pity. You’ll just have to come to my salon and address me as ‘goddess’ instead. The famous Tollesande is back in my employ, so we’ll have her cakes.” La Fontaine fixed Armand with a severe look. “I warn you, I’ll make you eat five of them. You’ve grown much too thin.”
That, strangely, made his shoulders tense. “Don’t mind me.”
“You could come with me and eat something now,” said la Fontaine.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You didn’t have any lunch either,” said Rachelle, suddenly remembering the carriage ride to the palace.
“Maybe I’m fasting for the good of my soul.”
“I thought you were already perfect.”
“Nobody is perfect,” said la Fontaine. “Monsieur Vareilles, for instance, has not yet asked me to dance. So I’ll have to beg. My dearest little son, will you join me for a dance?”
“If you promise never to address me that way again,” said Armand, “I’ll do anything you want.”
La Fontaine sighed as she took his metal hand. “Unfortunately, I cannot tell a lie.”
She drew him toward the center of the room, where pairs of dancers wove among each other in stately rows.
“I’m surprised the saint can actually dance,” said Erec from behind her.
Rachelle flinched. Normally Erec wasn’t able to slip up on her like that.
“And where have you been?” she asked, turning.
“Making myself welcome.” He raised his glass to her. “But where were you this afternoon?”
Rachelle’s heart thumped, but she said calmly, “Learning the lay of the Château.”
“I think you’ll find that being a saint’s bodyguard calls for different tactics than solitary hunting,” said Erec, and though his voice was joking, the look he gave her wasn’t.
“I thought you said his valets could watch him,” said Rachelle.
Erec shrugged and relaxed. “Oh, they can. And between you and me, I don’t think he’s going to give us much trouble.” He smiled to himself. “But if the King hears about you leaving his son’s side, he may get angry.”
Rachelle nodded, hoping that her fury didn’t show on her face. So she would have to search at night. She could do that. If she had to, she wouldn’t sleep until she found Joyeuse.
“I, on the other hand, will only get angry if you don’t dress yourself better for the next event.” Erec looked her up and down. “Whatever possessed you to enter the room in that costume?”
“I wanted all my knives,” said Rachelle.
“My dear, I promise you the repartee is not that cutting.”
“You brought me here to be a bodyguard,” said Rachelle. “And I refuse to fight anyone while wearing a court dress.”
“But you won’t have to. I’ll be here to save you.”
“Yes, if you’re not too busy flirting.”
“I’m flirting right now.” In a heartbeat he had a knife in his hand; one quick motion, and he’d flung it across the room to spear the apple sitting atop a pyramid of fruit. “And still quite capable, as you can see.”
Rachelle grinned at him and reached for one of her wrist knives. A moment later it was quivering in the apple next to his.
“I am too,” she said.
The apple gave a final wobble and the fruit pyramid collapsed. Apples, pears, and oranges bounced across the floor; a lady squeaked as two apples rolled under her hem, and another said something that set all the nearby people tittering. Several harried-looking servants converged on the table and started picking up the fruit.
