Crimson Bound
Page 48
“Shouldn’t you be in there as well?” Rachelle asked sourly. She’d come out into the hallway to be alone, not to chat with every member of the court.
La Fontaine shrugged exquisitely, setting her ruby earrings swinging. “I’ve lived my life for one imaginary kingdom. I’ve no patience left for another.”
Rachelle had not imagined that the court concealed many true believers, but she also hadn’t expected anyone to be so blatant. Then again, if you were the King’s mistress, she supposed you weren’t going to impress anyone with your piety anyway.
“Who’s Mélusine?” she asked.
“You don’t know the story?” said la Fontaine. “And you the beloved of Fleur-du-Mal.”
“He’s not my beloved,” said Rachelle. “And he doesn’t tell me bedtime stories.”
“You might like it, for it’s a grim tale.” La Fontaine snapped her fan shut. “Once upon a time, a certain lord lost his way as he was hunting through the woods. He stumbled upon a clearing that he had never seen before, and there on the grass sat a woman of dazzling beauty, naked as the day she was born, combing out her long yellow hair. Of course you can imagine how deeply he fell in love with her. He bore the strange lady, who said her name was Mélusine, back to his castle and married her with all due pomp and ceremony. For years they lived happily and she bore him three sons and four daughters. Only one curiosity marred their life together: the lady always found a reason not to go with him to chapel. She was too tired, or she had a headache, or she needed to be shriven. Finally the lord demanded that his wife come with him. After many protestations, she consented, but as the mass progressed, she grew more and more restless, until at last she leaped out of the pew and fled for the door. On the threshold, her husband caught hold of her, but with a great shriek, she grew tusks and wings and claws. The lord let go of her in horror, and she flew away, never to be seen by mortal eyes again. That lord’s name was Marcelin Angevin, first duke of Anjou, and ever since a shadow has lain upon his line.”
“And thus,” said Erec, emerging from one of the side doors, “we are called the devil’s children. A title even bastards can inherit.”
“And yet you are not the only one who could be called the devil’s child,” said la Fontaine. She carefully did not look at Rachelle, and the line of her turned-away jaw was a more pointed accusation than any glare.
Since Rachelle would someday change into a creature hardly better than a demon, she could not object to the comparison.
“If you’re referring to the pair of us in our capacity as bloodbound,” said Erec, who had no sense of when to stay silent, “the devil’s lovers might be better. I assure you, there was nothing parental in the forestborn who brought us to this state.”
Rachelle winced, remembering her own forestborn’s kiss.
La Fontaine saluted him with her fan. “You will never lack wit, my dear Fleur-du-Mal, not even on Judgment Day. Best hope the Dayspring finds you as amusing as I do.”
“I thought you didn’t believe,” said Rachelle.
“I believe in making threats when it’s convenient,” said la Fontaine. “Doesn’t everyone?” She gave them a slight curtsy, just barely treading the line between sarcasm and respect. “Give my respects to my cousin, Mélusine. I look forward to seeing him again. You, too—if convenient.”
“Oh dear,” said Erec, watching her skirt swish as she walked away. “She isn’t jealous, is she?”
Rachelle remembered the way la Fontaine had found her and Armand at the reception, her distress when she thought Armand wasn’t eating enough. “I think she’s protective.”
“So long as she keeps attacking with literary references, I think we can withstand her.” Erec looked at Rachelle. “Did she guess correctly? Did the holy chapel make you sprout horns?”
“No,” said Rachelle, “I just didn’t care for the preaching. What’s your excuse?”
“Myself, I don’t care to worship anyone who got hacked to pieces. It doesn’t inspire confidence. The Dayspring is the image of the invisible God, isn’t he? Maybe that’s what really dwells in the Unapproachable Light: just a pile of bloody limbs.”
She was so far past damned that it didn’t matter what blasphemies she heard, but Rachelle still winced. “I’m sure the Bishop would like that,” she said. “A dead God who could never contradict him—that would be his dream come true.”
“And you? Have you seen any sign that the world is governed by something besides hunger and devouring?”
She remembered Aunt Léonie’s futile, gasping prayers as she died.
“No. But I’d rather worship bloody bones than the murderer who makes them.”
“And yet instead of worshipping, you stand here gossiping with a fellow murderer.”
She grinned at him. “When have I ever followed my principles?”
“Never. And far too often.” He took her hand. “I wish you’d reconsider some of them.”
Then she laughed out loud. “If you’re asking me to be your mistress again . . . blasphemy is a terrible way to start.”
“I’m only wondering if you truly regret your choices as much as you claim,” he said.
She remembered his soft voice as he told her about his brother the night before, and her throat tightened.
“Do you?” she asked, and she truly wondered.
“I think it doesn’t matter what either one of us regrets,” said Erec. “We are going to live forever, in darkness and in dancing. Because I know you, my lady, and you don’t have it in you to be a lamb for the slaughter any more than I do. The same wolfish greed beats in your heart: to have what you will, and kill for it. Or why would you be alive? And you are alive, and have your will, so what should you regret?”
It was like when Justine dislocated her arm: something familiar, swinging painfully out of place. Because Rachelle had told herself those same words, or near enough, a thousand times. She had wanted to live. She had gotten her wish. She could not claim to regret. Only minutes ago, she had snarled at Justine: If you were really sorry, you would get out a knife and cut your throat.
But now that she heard Erec say those words to her . . . they sounded wrong.
She thought, I regret.
“Speechless?” asked Erec. “Don’t be ashamed. I bring all ladies to that state sooner or later.”
La Fontaine shrugged exquisitely, setting her ruby earrings swinging. “I’ve lived my life for one imaginary kingdom. I’ve no patience left for another.”
Rachelle had not imagined that the court concealed many true believers, but she also hadn’t expected anyone to be so blatant. Then again, if you were the King’s mistress, she supposed you weren’t going to impress anyone with your piety anyway.
“Who’s Mélusine?” she asked.
“You don’t know the story?” said la Fontaine. “And you the beloved of Fleur-du-Mal.”
“He’s not my beloved,” said Rachelle. “And he doesn’t tell me bedtime stories.”
“You might like it, for it’s a grim tale.” La Fontaine snapped her fan shut. “Once upon a time, a certain lord lost his way as he was hunting through the woods. He stumbled upon a clearing that he had never seen before, and there on the grass sat a woman of dazzling beauty, naked as the day she was born, combing out her long yellow hair. Of course you can imagine how deeply he fell in love with her. He bore the strange lady, who said her name was Mélusine, back to his castle and married her with all due pomp and ceremony. For years they lived happily and she bore him three sons and four daughters. Only one curiosity marred their life together: the lady always found a reason not to go with him to chapel. She was too tired, or she had a headache, or she needed to be shriven. Finally the lord demanded that his wife come with him. After many protestations, she consented, but as the mass progressed, she grew more and more restless, until at last she leaped out of the pew and fled for the door. On the threshold, her husband caught hold of her, but with a great shriek, she grew tusks and wings and claws. The lord let go of her in horror, and she flew away, never to be seen by mortal eyes again. That lord’s name was Marcelin Angevin, first duke of Anjou, and ever since a shadow has lain upon his line.”
“And thus,” said Erec, emerging from one of the side doors, “we are called the devil’s children. A title even bastards can inherit.”
“And yet you are not the only one who could be called the devil’s child,” said la Fontaine. She carefully did not look at Rachelle, and the line of her turned-away jaw was a more pointed accusation than any glare.
Since Rachelle would someday change into a creature hardly better than a demon, she could not object to the comparison.
“If you’re referring to the pair of us in our capacity as bloodbound,” said Erec, who had no sense of when to stay silent, “the devil’s lovers might be better. I assure you, there was nothing parental in the forestborn who brought us to this state.”
Rachelle winced, remembering her own forestborn’s kiss.
La Fontaine saluted him with her fan. “You will never lack wit, my dear Fleur-du-Mal, not even on Judgment Day. Best hope the Dayspring finds you as amusing as I do.”
“I thought you didn’t believe,” said Rachelle.
“I believe in making threats when it’s convenient,” said la Fontaine. “Doesn’t everyone?” She gave them a slight curtsy, just barely treading the line between sarcasm and respect. “Give my respects to my cousin, Mélusine. I look forward to seeing him again. You, too—if convenient.”
“Oh dear,” said Erec, watching her skirt swish as she walked away. “She isn’t jealous, is she?”
Rachelle remembered the way la Fontaine had found her and Armand at the reception, her distress when she thought Armand wasn’t eating enough. “I think she’s protective.”
“So long as she keeps attacking with literary references, I think we can withstand her.” Erec looked at Rachelle. “Did she guess correctly? Did the holy chapel make you sprout horns?”
“No,” said Rachelle, “I just didn’t care for the preaching. What’s your excuse?”
“Myself, I don’t care to worship anyone who got hacked to pieces. It doesn’t inspire confidence. The Dayspring is the image of the invisible God, isn’t he? Maybe that’s what really dwells in the Unapproachable Light: just a pile of bloody limbs.”
She was so far past damned that it didn’t matter what blasphemies she heard, but Rachelle still winced. “I’m sure the Bishop would like that,” she said. “A dead God who could never contradict him—that would be his dream come true.”
“And you? Have you seen any sign that the world is governed by something besides hunger and devouring?”
She remembered Aunt Léonie’s futile, gasping prayers as she died.
“No. But I’d rather worship bloody bones than the murderer who makes them.”
“And yet instead of worshipping, you stand here gossiping with a fellow murderer.”
She grinned at him. “When have I ever followed my principles?”
“Never. And far too often.” He took her hand. “I wish you’d reconsider some of them.”
Then she laughed out loud. “If you’re asking me to be your mistress again . . . blasphemy is a terrible way to start.”
“I’m only wondering if you truly regret your choices as much as you claim,” he said.
She remembered his soft voice as he told her about his brother the night before, and her throat tightened.
“Do you?” she asked, and she truly wondered.
“I think it doesn’t matter what either one of us regrets,” said Erec. “We are going to live forever, in darkness and in dancing. Because I know you, my lady, and you don’t have it in you to be a lamb for the slaughter any more than I do. The same wolfish greed beats in your heart: to have what you will, and kill for it. Or why would you be alive? And you are alive, and have your will, so what should you regret?”
It was like when Justine dislocated her arm: something familiar, swinging painfully out of place. Because Rachelle had told herself those same words, or near enough, a thousand times. She had wanted to live. She had gotten her wish. She could not claim to regret. Only minutes ago, she had snarled at Justine: If you were really sorry, you would get out a knife and cut your throat.
But now that she heard Erec say those words to her . . . they sounded wrong.
She thought, I regret.
“Speechless?” asked Erec. “Don’t be ashamed. I bring all ladies to that state sooner or later.”
