Crimson Bound
Page 29
She had never dreamed that the court might find her exotic.
“I—I don’t think it’s very nice to ask,” said the girl in the yellow dress.
“Come, come, Soleil,” said the young man. “It’s not as if she’s a blushing innocent. She’s already said she wasn’t sorry.”
“And I wouldn’t be sorry after killing you either,” said Rachelle. “So maybe you shouldn’t bother me.”
Beside her, Armand let out a soft snort of laughter.
At that moment, one of the servants arrived with a tray of little cakes—the ones, Rachelle supposed, that la Fontaine had mentioned when they first met—and everyone was distracted.
“Oh,” said Soleil, turning toward Armand, “aren’t you going to eat any of the lovely cakes?”
“No,” said Armand, who seemed to have forgotten completely about being a charming liar. Maybe he didn’t think Soleil was any use to him, though she was certainly pretty enough.
“Oh, I forgot!” said Soleil. “Your poor hands. I’ll feed them to you.”
Armand’s jaw tightened slightly. “No, thank you.”
Soleil, who had already seized a little cake frosted in pink icing, paused. “But why not?”
“Because I’m not hungry.” Armand’s voice stayed quiet and even, but Rachelle could see his shoulders tensing slightly, and she suddenly remembered all the times she had kept her voice quiet and even while attempting to answer Erec.
“Because,” said Erec, suddenly behind them—Rachelle flinched, feeling like she had summoned him—“he’s ashamed that he can’t feed himself.”
He spoke in the light, needling tone that he used to tease Rachelle, so it took her a moment to realize that he’d been speaking of Armand, and to realize what he’d said of him.
It took her another moment to realize she was angry.
“But you shouldn’t be ashamed,” said Soleil. “I think it’s so beautiful, how much you were willing to sacrifice—I can’t imagine it, of course, but when I try to imagine it, then I feel like I can be strong too, and—” She bit her lip, blushing. “Please, please let me help you.”
Armand’s mouth flattened.
“Yes, let the girl do you a kindness,” said Erec. “Aren’t saints supposed to be meek and humble of heart?”
Seemingly encouraged, Soleil shoved the cake forward. “Won’t you—”
Rachelle caught her wrist. “Did I mention I’m his bodyguard?” she said. “And I’m not a saint, so I can do what I like.”
Armand sighed and reached up with his metal hand to push their hands apart.
“Mademoiselle, you’re very kind,” he said to Soleil. “But I did not lose my hands for the purpose of making you feel special.”
Soleil had gone red, but before she could say anything, la Fontaine clapped her hands once. Everyone in the room fell silent.
“Enough chatter,” said la Fontaine. “It is time for stories. And in honor of our guest, I propose that we each tell a tale from the north.”
Soleil rose. “If you will excuse me, gracious goddess,” she said quietly, “I am not well enough for stories.” Then she fled.
“Now you’ve made her cry,” said Erec. “Not so very saintly.”
“Now you’re talking when our hostess called for silence,” said Armand.
“Do you have a tale to share, my dear Fleur-du-Mal?” asked la Fontaine, her voice ringing across the room like a bell.
“No, my dear Fontaine,” said Erec.
La Fontaine nodded regally. “Then we shall proceed. You.” She nodded at the young man who had called Rachelle a “naughty girl.” He scrambled to his feet—he was trying to grin again, but now it just looked sickly—and started a rambling tale of three shepherdesses and a bumblebee who was a prince in disguise.
Rachelle didn’t pay much attention. She was too busy watching Armand and thinking. He should have been sitting in la Fontaine’s place at the center of the room, everyone wincing and smiling according to what he said. If he had really lied about meeting the forestborn, if he had simply decided to turn his injury into fame, then he would want fame. A liar might have too much pride to be hand-fed, but surely he would at least want a pretty girl to declare that he was marvelous and brave.
Unless he wasn’t a liar. But what else could he be? Once marked by the forestborn, there was no way to escape. You killed somebody or the mark killed you. There was no other way.
She hoped so much that there was no other way.
The young man stammered to a close. His tale had been nothing like the fireside stories that people told in Rachelle’s village, but she didn’t think that was why la Fontaine looked at him when he was finished and said, “Very charming.” He flinched and retired into a corner.
Then l’Étoile-Polaire stood like a weary flower. “I believe I can honor our guest,” she said. “Once upon a time, a prince and a princess lived in a silver tower with domes of gold and parapets of diamond. Every morning they ate berries and cream, and their days were all delightful. . . .”
The story wound slowly on, with many digressions about the delights of the palace and the prince’s horse and the princess’s dresses. Eventually, the two children contrived to get themselves lost in the woods.
And that was when the Great Forest awoke in la Fontaine’s salon.
Or perhaps, the Forest dreamed about them. It certainly wasn’t a full manifestation; Rachelle hardly felt it at all, only saw it, fleetingly and from the corners of her eyes. It started with the murals: they acquired depth and shadows, the trees growing thicker, vines winding up the legs of the shepherds. Dim animal shapes lurked among the hills, and the shepherds’ singing mouths seemed to be screaming.
Until she looked straight at them, and then the murals were flat, and bright, and pretty again.
She might have thought she was imagining it. But as l’Étoile-Polaire told—with a great many flourishes—how the prince and princess stumbled upon a cottage where a mad old woman put the prince in the cage but adopted the princess and set her tasks, Rachelle started to see movement. The potted plants swayed in a phantom breeze. Flowers blossomed on the tile floor. Translucent deer peeked through ghostly foliage, startled, and fled.
It was the strongest manifestation of the Forest that she had seen here yet, and her first thought was that the door must be here. She had only given the room a cursory examination when she went in. Now she scrutinized it slowly and carefully. There were no suns or moons anywhere.
“I—I don’t think it’s very nice to ask,” said the girl in the yellow dress.
“Come, come, Soleil,” said the young man. “It’s not as if she’s a blushing innocent. She’s already said she wasn’t sorry.”
“And I wouldn’t be sorry after killing you either,” said Rachelle. “So maybe you shouldn’t bother me.”
Beside her, Armand let out a soft snort of laughter.
At that moment, one of the servants arrived with a tray of little cakes—the ones, Rachelle supposed, that la Fontaine had mentioned when they first met—and everyone was distracted.
“Oh,” said Soleil, turning toward Armand, “aren’t you going to eat any of the lovely cakes?”
“No,” said Armand, who seemed to have forgotten completely about being a charming liar. Maybe he didn’t think Soleil was any use to him, though she was certainly pretty enough.
“Oh, I forgot!” said Soleil. “Your poor hands. I’ll feed them to you.”
Armand’s jaw tightened slightly. “No, thank you.”
Soleil, who had already seized a little cake frosted in pink icing, paused. “But why not?”
“Because I’m not hungry.” Armand’s voice stayed quiet and even, but Rachelle could see his shoulders tensing slightly, and she suddenly remembered all the times she had kept her voice quiet and even while attempting to answer Erec.
“Because,” said Erec, suddenly behind them—Rachelle flinched, feeling like she had summoned him—“he’s ashamed that he can’t feed himself.”
He spoke in the light, needling tone that he used to tease Rachelle, so it took her a moment to realize that he’d been speaking of Armand, and to realize what he’d said of him.
It took her another moment to realize she was angry.
“But you shouldn’t be ashamed,” said Soleil. “I think it’s so beautiful, how much you were willing to sacrifice—I can’t imagine it, of course, but when I try to imagine it, then I feel like I can be strong too, and—” She bit her lip, blushing. “Please, please let me help you.”
Armand’s mouth flattened.
“Yes, let the girl do you a kindness,” said Erec. “Aren’t saints supposed to be meek and humble of heart?”
Seemingly encouraged, Soleil shoved the cake forward. “Won’t you—”
Rachelle caught her wrist. “Did I mention I’m his bodyguard?” she said. “And I’m not a saint, so I can do what I like.”
Armand sighed and reached up with his metal hand to push their hands apart.
“Mademoiselle, you’re very kind,” he said to Soleil. “But I did not lose my hands for the purpose of making you feel special.”
Soleil had gone red, but before she could say anything, la Fontaine clapped her hands once. Everyone in the room fell silent.
“Enough chatter,” said la Fontaine. “It is time for stories. And in honor of our guest, I propose that we each tell a tale from the north.”
Soleil rose. “If you will excuse me, gracious goddess,” she said quietly, “I am not well enough for stories.” Then she fled.
“Now you’ve made her cry,” said Erec. “Not so very saintly.”
“Now you’re talking when our hostess called for silence,” said Armand.
“Do you have a tale to share, my dear Fleur-du-Mal?” asked la Fontaine, her voice ringing across the room like a bell.
“No, my dear Fontaine,” said Erec.
La Fontaine nodded regally. “Then we shall proceed. You.” She nodded at the young man who had called Rachelle a “naughty girl.” He scrambled to his feet—he was trying to grin again, but now it just looked sickly—and started a rambling tale of three shepherdesses and a bumblebee who was a prince in disguise.
Rachelle didn’t pay much attention. She was too busy watching Armand and thinking. He should have been sitting in la Fontaine’s place at the center of the room, everyone wincing and smiling according to what he said. If he had really lied about meeting the forestborn, if he had simply decided to turn his injury into fame, then he would want fame. A liar might have too much pride to be hand-fed, but surely he would at least want a pretty girl to declare that he was marvelous and brave.
Unless he wasn’t a liar. But what else could he be? Once marked by the forestborn, there was no way to escape. You killed somebody or the mark killed you. There was no other way.
She hoped so much that there was no other way.
The young man stammered to a close. His tale had been nothing like the fireside stories that people told in Rachelle’s village, but she didn’t think that was why la Fontaine looked at him when he was finished and said, “Very charming.” He flinched and retired into a corner.
Then l’Étoile-Polaire stood like a weary flower. “I believe I can honor our guest,” she said. “Once upon a time, a prince and a princess lived in a silver tower with domes of gold and parapets of diamond. Every morning they ate berries and cream, and their days were all delightful. . . .”
The story wound slowly on, with many digressions about the delights of the palace and the prince’s horse and the princess’s dresses. Eventually, the two children contrived to get themselves lost in the woods.
And that was when the Great Forest awoke in la Fontaine’s salon.
Or perhaps, the Forest dreamed about them. It certainly wasn’t a full manifestation; Rachelle hardly felt it at all, only saw it, fleetingly and from the corners of her eyes. It started with the murals: they acquired depth and shadows, the trees growing thicker, vines winding up the legs of the shepherds. Dim animal shapes lurked among the hills, and the shepherds’ singing mouths seemed to be screaming.
Until she looked straight at them, and then the murals were flat, and bright, and pretty again.
She might have thought she was imagining it. But as l’Étoile-Polaire told—with a great many flourishes—how the prince and princess stumbled upon a cottage where a mad old woman put the prince in the cage but adopted the princess and set her tasks, Rachelle started to see movement. The potted plants swayed in a phantom breeze. Flowers blossomed on the tile floor. Translucent deer peeked through ghostly foliage, startled, and fled.
It was the strongest manifestation of the Forest that she had seen here yet, and her first thought was that the door must be here. She had only given the room a cursory examination when she went in. Now she scrutinized it slowly and carefully. There were no suns or moons anywhere.
