by EM Castellan
From far away, I spotted a fallen tree lying across the path. The large trunk barred the way, but I cleared it effortlessly, my mare jumping with ease upon my command. I shot a glance back, expecting Louis to follow my lead, but the obstacle, which I must have kept hidden from his line of sight, took him by surprise.
My heart leaped into my throat when his horse skidded to a halt and bucked with a panicked whinny. Time slowed as the king lost his grip on the reins. Thrown off his mount, he fell to the side, for a surreal moment suspended midair between green leaves and brown soil, with the sun glinting off him like light on a tossed coin. Then came the horrific crash of his body hitting the ground. A grunt escaped him as the air rushed out of his lungs and cracks resonated—whether from branches underfoot or his bones, I didn’t know. His horse bolted, leaving him prone in the middle of the muddy trail.
“Louis!”
I scrambled off my horse in a flurry of skirts and ran to his side.
“Help!” I shouted. “Help!”
But around us, the forest had gone eerily silent, as if taking stock of the dramatic turn of events and holding its breath in fear. My own pulse out of control, I knelt by the king and pushed his hair out of his face with trembling fingers.
“Louis?” I asked, my voice shaking as well. “Sire? Can you hear me?”
Mud matted his clothes and the side of his face, and blood dripped from a cut above his ear. He let out a groan, and my heart skipped a beat.
“Help!” I repeated. “Can anyone hear me? The king is down! Help!”
But silence still enveloped the trees and stillness gripped the whole forest, cutting us off from the rest of the world and swallowing my words. Louis’s horse, already calmed down, padded his way back to the trail and snorted at the fallen tree. I stared at the path we’d followed, as if I could will Louis’s musketeers to materialize at its end. But the estate was deemed a safe place for the royal family, and they must have assumed we would rejoin them once our race was over. I cursed myself for suggesting the stupid contest in the first place. If I hadn’t goaded him, Louis would have never found himself in this situation.
I forced my attention back to him. If no help was to come, I had to find a way to bring him back to the main trail or even the hunting lodge. With gestures as gentle as I could make them, I slid my hand under his head and brushed some mud off his face and neck. His eyelids fluttered open and he grimaced.
“Henriette?” he said as his glassy eyes focused on me.
“I’m here,” I replied with a voice far steadier than my nerves. “You’re hurt. Can you tell me where?”
With a wince, he pushed on his arms to roll onto his back. A curse escaped him as he moved, and he let his head fall back on the damp soil with a heavy sigh.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
He reached for the cut on his skull, and I stopped his hand just in time so he wouldn’t touch the injury.
“You have a head wound,” I said. “Are you hurt anywhere else?”
He waved in the general direction of his left leg. “I think my ankle is broken. I doubt I can walk.” His voice was strained, and the muscles of his jaw worked under his dirty skin. He was in pain, and I had no clue how to ease him.
“I’ve called for help, but no one seems to hear,” I explained. “I’m going to have to leave you here and fetch someone.”
The prospect of leaving him alone and hurt in the woods didn’t appeal to me in the slightest, but I saw no other way around it. Blood still seeped from his wound, staining his lace collar and pooling underneath his hair. I realized I still held his hand when he squeezed my fingers.
“Don’t leave me alone,” he said. “Just … bring my horse to me.”
This was a terrible idea. He was in no shape to get back onto his horse without help, and he was too heavy for me to offer it. And even if he somehow managed to mount his horse again, I couldn’t be sure he’d remain conscious long enough to reach our hunting party.
“I think it’s better if I go and get help,” I replied.
He gritted his teeth, and anger flashed across his features, mixing with the pain. “Do as I say. I…”
He couldn’t even finish his sentence, and he expected to be able to ride? My own temper rose.
“I won’t be gone long. You’re perfectly safe here. It’s the only way. You’re not fit to go anywhere, and I can’t conjure up help by staying here.”
As the words passed my lips, an idea struck me. Despite his weakened condition, magic still shimmered golden in his irises. And he could conjure up the help he needed, if given the right support. My instinct flared up. Whether we liked it or not, Sources were drawn to magiciens, our very nature demanding we associate with them and do what we’d been created for.
When a person with magic was born, it shone golden in their eyes. If the glow faded after a few hours, it meant they were a Source. If it remained, they were a magicien. My mother had kept the secret of my condition well guarded for a very long time. I knew what I was, but she rooted the fear of what would become of me should my power be discovered so deep inside me that I never mentioned it to anyone. There were no magiciennes at the convent anyway.
Then a novice had joined the nuns’ ranks, and she had golden eyes that drew me like a flame does a moth. Sister Marie-Pierre had a sweet smile and a kind disposition. Only a few years older than me, she grew close to me, and one day, I shared my secret with her. To my delight, she encouraged me to practice my gift with her, without ever asking me to use it for her. Together, we brought withered flowers back to life, we chased away the rain, we erected wards around the vegetable patch to keep away the rabbits, and we healed baby birds fallen from their nests.
She showed me magic could be used for selfless deeds and generous offerings—and no one had to know where these came from. But even though we hid the truth of our friendship from everyone, my mother soon realized what lay behind our whispered conversations. Her rage was as shocking as it was unusual. She convinced the Mother Superior to send Marie-Pierre away and forbade me to ever reveal my true nature again to anyone.
But now, as I knelt in a muddy path by the king of France’s injured body, my promise to my mother fled my mind. I could help heal him. His suffering could end there and then, and none but him would ever be the wiser. His labored breathing and grimacing expression only confirmed to my mind what my heart already knew.
I didn’t have to find help. I could help him myself. The healing spell, although taxing, was one of the most straightforward to perform. Marie-Pierre had taught it to me in one of our first lessons together, when we’d come upon a wounded cat in the convent gardens.
My resolve coalesced in my chest, and I gripped the king’s hand harder to catch his gaze. “Louis, I need you to listen to me.”
His eyes widened slightly at my tone, but he didn’t protest.
“I can help you if you’ll let me.” I had to take a deep breath before letting out the next words, but his weakening state gave me the strength I lacked. “I’m a Source. We can do the healing spell together if you want.”
This time his eyes widened in earnest, and he gaped.
I held his fingers tighter, the blood and mud sticky in our conjoined palms. “I’m not lying. I’m ready when you are.”
He blinked a couple of times as my words sank in, then he swallowed and gave a brief nod. “All right.” He forced a shaky breath down his throat, wheezing as he did. Had he broken one of his ribs as well? Casting the thought aside, I opened my mouth to say the spell upon his signal, but hesitation crossed his expression. “Have you done this before?”
I nodded. “Yes. Many times.”
Now was not the time to tell him it had only been with small animals. My reply seemed to be enough to reassure him, as he cleared his throat and latched on to my gaze. I spoke the word of the spell.
“Guéris.”
I had used it before. But none of these previous occurrences had even remotely prepared me for the rush of ma
gic that ran along my veins then. Whether it was because Louis’s injuries were greater than any I had healed before, or because his gift was stronger than Marie-Pierre’s, the surge of power that coursed through me knocked the breath out of me and rattled my entire body.
Any given day, the magic inside me lay dormant, like the still waters of a pond, to the point that I forgot it was even there. A few years ago, Marie-Pierre had sent ripples across the expanse of that pond by accessing some of its power.
Now, however, Louis had just crashed into those waters like a burning meteor. His tug on my magic produced a thousand golden specks inside me and pulled at their power all at once. I grasped them with my mind and followed them down Louis’s limbs, where they knitted skin and repaired bones and replenished blood before diving into the ground beneath him. My mind’s eye trailed after them through the damp soil until I sensed the stones buried in it, the roots leading up to the trees, the leaves on their branches, the wind rustling through them, the dust in the air and the particles of water in the clouds above. The bright spots chased the deer in the meadows, teased the squirrels in the trees, spun after the birds into the skies, and glided after the adders across the ground.
Weightless and immaterial, I was everywhere at once, holding on to Louis’s hand, and time ceased to matter. Past, present, and future collided as the land whispered to us. We welcomed its secrets and invited in its memories and saw its future.
A gilded palace amid lush gardens.
A hall of mirrors and hundreds of sculpted fountains.
Music and fireworks and laughter.
And everywhere, magic: an endless swirl of golden dots linking the land and the buildings and the men, throughout the seasons, the years, the centuries.
“Versailles,” the magic whispered. “Versailles.”
The name rode the winds, repeated over and over again, louder with each instance, until it was a shout in my head and my eyes snapped open.
I pulled my hand back just as Louis released it. We both sat on the muddy ground, panting and flushed, staring at each other in bewilderment.
“What was that?” Louis asked.
But before I could think of an answer, the consequences of his using my power caught up with me. Dizziness struck me, and lights danced before my eyes. With Marie-Pierre, the uneasy sensation had passed quickly. This time, however, darkness swallowed the blinking lights, and everything went black.
CHAPTER V
The hot bathwater rippled gently every time I moved my arms. Sunshine poured through my bedchamber windows, reflecting in the copper jugs the two maids used to fill the tub in which I sat. With a contented sigh, I rested my head back and let the servants’ whispers drift above me.
My fainting spell had been brief the previous day, but by the time I had recovered my senses, the royal guards had found their king at last, and there had been no hiding my light-headedness. Magic had not only healed Louis, but it had also cleaned the blood and most of the mud off his clothes. As a result, he was able to pretend his accident had never happened, and everyone’s attention had focused on me.
I was whisked away to the hunting lodge, where it was assumed my poor health was the cause of my situation. Louis didn’t dispel the notion, so I chose to remain quiet as well. The Queen Mother and Marie-Thérèse fussed over me like mother hens, and in my husband’s prolonged absence, Louis decided to send me home to Paris in my carriage with my ladies. I hadn’t seen anyone from the royal family since, and part of me didn’t mind the chance to recover in private. I suspected processing what had happened during the healing spell would take time as well.
“More water, Your Highness?” one of the maids asked.
I shook my head and opened my mouth to reply, when Louise’s indignant voice rose outside the room.
“I beg your pardon, but Madame isn’t receiving at the moment.”
Footsteps rang behind the closed door, the loud clicking of wooden heels on parquet floor.
“You can’t go in!” Louise’s voice went up an octave. “Her Highness is in the bath!”
Taken aback by the commotion, I sat up in the copper tub as the door was flung open and gave passage to a large fruit basket seemingly mounted on two legs.
“Stop with your fretting and clear that desk,” the fruit basket commanded.
It sounded suspiciously like my husband. Louise wrung her hands and rushed to the middle of the room, distress all over her pretty face.
“I’m sorry, I did say you were—”
I waved her concern away with a flick of my hand while the fruit basket landed on my writing desk with a clunk and Philippe emerged from behind it.
“My, that was heavier than I thought.”
He grabbed Louise by her shoulders and led her back to the door. “Thank you so much for all your help, my dear. We’ll call if we need you.”
Before she could articulate her protests, he sent her out with a gentle push and gestured for the maids to follow her. Both girls obeyed, their steps hurried and their gazes lowered, and he closed the door after them.
“Ah.” He released a satisfied sigh. “Much better.”
I raised an eyebrow, my arms folded against my chest. “I’m in the bath.”
“So I’ve been told. Repeatedly.” He collapsed in a silk-covered armchair. “Can’t a husband see his wife in the bath? I don’t know. I’ll have to ask someone.”
He leaned off the chair to grab a glass from my breakfast tray and poured the remainder of my hot chocolate into it. Sweat beaded on his temples, and the morning sunlight outlined the stark contrast between his raven-black hair and his yellow outfit. His sleeves and collars had more ribbons and lace than the dress I planned to wear that day.
Since he seemed intent on staying, I reached for the large bath towel hung between the tub and the fireplace and maneuvered to wrap myself in it and step out of the bath without revealing too much flesh in the process. When I glanced at Philippe, however, he was draining the last of my hot chocolate and didn’t spare a look for me. I could imagine Marguerite complaining I had missed a perfect opportunity to catch his attention, but I had already come to think that nothing I could do would convince Philippe to take an interest in me.
He set down the cup with a grimace. “Tepid. Shame.”
Standing with my towel around my shoulders like a blanket, I managed to catch his gaze at last. “May I ask what you’re doing here?”
He slapped his thighs and a satisfied smile stretched his lips. “You may, my love. And the answer is: your health and delight.”
It was hard for me to decide if his cheerful and careless tone reflected his usual mood or hid his contempt for me behind jokes. I couldn’t help but frown. “Are you drunk?”
He stood up. “Never before noon, my love, it’s rather vulgar otherwise.” He pointed at the extravagant basket deposited on my desk. “Aren’t you going to take a look at your gift?”
I bit my lips, afraid to read too much into all this. “A gift?”
“Of course,” he replied, unperturbed. “You fainted. They say you’re poorly. Armand said fruit is good for women’s health.”
My heart sank a little. The fruit basket, large and colorful and decorated as it was, hadn’t been his idea. Pasting a grateful smile on my face to hide my disappointment, I moved to inspect the contents of the hamper. Exotic fruit filled it to the brim: oranges, lemons, pineapples, pomegranates, and dates, all tied with ribbons and sprinkled with golden dust.
“It’s wonderful,” I managed to say. “This is very thoughtful, thank you.”
He joined me by the desk, his nearness sending a tingling feeling down my spine. I wasn’t used to having only one layer of fabric on me when he stood this close. Yet I buried the sensation deep inside me. In the week since our wedding, I had worked on convincing myself his rejection didn’t bother me, and I really wished my body and my heart would catch up with what my mind already knew: He didn’t love me and probably never would.
“I didn’t kno
w if you had a favorite,” he said, snatching an orange and rolling it between his palms, “so I told the kitchens a bit of everything.”
“I’m sure I’ll enjoy them all.” The polite answer rolled off my tongue easily, yet as my gaze lingered on the colorful ribbons holding the appetizing offerings together, my mind kept picturing Philippe and his lover’s complicity as they discussed the contents of the basket.
Sensing my darkening mood, Philippe weighed the orange in one hand and paused. “What is it?”
I released a sigh and met his gaze. “You said I wouldn’t be shamed.” He froze, caught by surprise, so I went on before I lost my nerve. “Yet it’s the first time in a week that you’ve entered my apartments, and you’re still seeing Armand.”
The last few nights, I had prepared for the possibility of a visit from my husband, putting on my finest nightgowns and asking Athénaïs to arrange my hair in an artful plait. A couple of times, she’d even rouged my lips, which had made me giggle at my reflection. But as the days had gone by, I had come to realize Philippe wouldn’t grace me with his presence unless I asked him to.
“Armand is my best friend.” Philippe dropped the orange back in the basket and gave me a condescending smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
A sarcastic laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. “Of course he is.”
He raised his eyebrows, as if startled by my uncharacteristic outburst and challenging me to carry on. My temper rose at his flippancy, and I pointed my finger at him.
“You married me. You made me a promise. I will accept a lot of things, but not a scandal.”
I hit his broad chest with my index finger to punctuate my last word, my annoyance tightening my throat. He stood motionless, but his eyes widened at my veiled threat. Our respective brothers would turn a blind eye to many indiscretions, but should the rumor of our marriage being a sham spread, it would cause more than idle gossip at the French court. It could be the start of an international incident. Philippe knew it, which was why I had assumed he had broken up with Armand before our wedding. Evidently, he hadn’t.