In the Shadow of the Sun

by EM Castellan

  A shadow crossed his face, and his silence prompted me to drive my point home.

  “You asked me to give you time. I accepted. Now I’m asking you to stop seeing Armand.”

  Such determined statements were unusual for me, but our wedding had catapulted us both into adulthood, and we couldn’t afford to act like spoiled children anymore. We were royals. Our duty came first, not our desires. The sooner he understood it, the better.

  This time, however, his features darkened. “Making me stop seeing Armand won’t make me love you.”

  The spite in his tone stole my breath, which had been shallow to begin with. A coughing fit gripped me, so sudden and so violent I had to sit in the nearest armchair, and Philippe rushed to offer me a glass of water, his anger seemingly forgotten.

  When my trembling breaths returned to a semblance of a regular pattern, he knelt at my feet and brought the glass to my lips to make me drink the water. His full attention was on me, and his stare prompted heat to bloom in my neck and cheeks. I never liked for people to see me in such a vulnerable state, especially ones I wasn’t sure were allies.

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  I hesitated, confused. All traces of hostility were gone from his tone, but the wording of his question still puzzled me. Did he suspect what I was after yesterday’s incident? Had Louis let something slip in my absence?

  To put up a bold front, I plucked the glass from his fingers. “What do you mean?”

  “They say you’re ill,” he replied. “What does it mean? Are you in pain? Are you going to die?”

  I put down my glass and tightened my towel around my shoulders to give myself a moment to gather my thoughts. I should have expected his questions. If anyone deserved to know the truth, it was him.

  “You know doctors,” I said. “They talk about unbalanced humors and can’t agree among themselves. But the consensus seems to be that I’m not going to die soon.” I rarely admitted the particulars of my health to anyone, but Philippe’s expression, having shifted to being concerned and attentive, helped put me at ease. “But,” I went on, “I’m always going to be pale and thin. The fatigue, lack of appetite, chronic fevers, and cough … they’re not going away either.”

  I held his gaze so he’d know I was being as straightforward as I could with him. He needed to understand I wasn’t in immediate danger, but that hoping for a miracle cure was also futile. In a world where magic seeped into every part of our lives, healing broken bones and open wounds, the one thing it couldn’t do was cure illnesses and stop death. There was no spell against rotten lungs.

  Thoughtful, he tucked a strand of my wet hair behind my ear and cupped my jaw for a heartbeat. “I’m sorry.” His touch and his gentle expression reawakened my treacherous budding feelings for him at once. Soon enough, however, they were gone, and he nodded at the fruit basket. “Do enjoy these, then. And rest. And feel better.” He flashed me a careless smile before traipsing out of the room, trailing a little piece of my heart after him.

  Too late, I realized he hadn’t promised to stop seeing Armand.

  * * *

  My ladies had just finished helping me dress when a palace guard announced the arrival of the king. I received him in the salon next to my bedroom, and, like his brother earlier, he sent everyone out as soon as we both sat down, I on a stool and he in an armchair, as tradition dictated.

  “I have something for you,” he said once we were alone. Satisfaction crinkled his eyes as he pulled a small velvet-covered box out of his coat pocket and placed it in my hands. “Open it.”

  I obeyed. Inside the case, a delicate gold-and-emerald bracelet glinted in the morning light. My jaw dropped slightly.

  “What’s this?”

  “A gift, of course.” He picked up the bracelet and clasped it round my wrist. “I’m not one to shy away from showing my appreciation to someone who deserves my gratitude. You helped me yesterday. You have my deepest thanks.”

  The tip of his warm fingers lingered on my wrist, a reminder of how we’d held hands the day before in the forest. The combination of his touch and the memory sent a thrill down my stomach. In his eyes, golden flecks danced, mesmerizing.

  Sources and magiciens weren’t bound to each other. They could work together for only one spell and never see each other again. Since lending one’s magic was a taxing experience, and since magiciens were far more numerous than Sources, a lot of Sources took advantage of the situation by associating with a single magicien, usually the one who rewarded them the most for their services. However, there was nothing to keep Sources from partnering with several magiciens if they chose to, or magiciens from using more than one Source.

  Yet it was also well-known that the most wondrous spells could only be cast by a true pairing: a magicien and a Source who worked so well together that it allowed them to perform the most powerful enchantments. As I gazed into Louis’s eyes, I wondered if he was aware of the link I felt to him and if my magic and his gift could be such a perfect match.

  Then he looked away, and the brief connection was severed.

  “I know I lied about what happened yesterday,” he said, “but I thought you’d prefer to keep the whole … incident a secret, since you’d kept your own condition from everyone until then.”

  Was this reproach I detected in his polite tone? He was the king, after all, used to having the upper hand in all circumstances. Discovering that I’d been hiding the truth about myself couldn’t have pleased him: even less so the thought that I would have carried on hiding it if not for yesterday’s accident.

  “I’m grateful for your discretion,” I said carefully, “and for your generous gift.”

  I fiddled with the emeralds, part of me delighted by his thoughtful gesture and attentions. Yet warning bells rang in my mind as well. From childhood, my mother had cautioned me against magiciens’ greed and their use of Sources. How they always ended up controlling the Sources’ fates, taking away their freedom and future. And Louis was king. He already had the power to rule his subjects. His Source was even less likely to control their life.

  And yet. Performing that spell yesterday hadn’t felt like being used or taken advantage of. For the first time in a very long while, I had felt powerful and strong and in control. Like the world was mine for the taking and Louis a mere vessel for this purpose.

  “I’m leaving Paris,” Louis said, pulling me out of my train of thought. “We’re going to announce it tomorrow: Marie-Thérèse is with child.”

  My happiness for the royal couple quickly overcame my surprise. “Congratulations!”

  He acknowledged my compliment with a nod. “Given the recent events here and my wife’s lack of fondness for the Louvre, I’ve decided we shall spend the summer at Fontainebleau—the sooner we move there, the better. The court will follow us in a few weeks.” He stood up, forcing me to follow suit, and paced the thick carpet. “When I see you again, we shall discuss about what we could … do together.” He hesitated on the words, as if he’d meant to use another expression and decided against it.

  He folded his hands behind his straight back, in a very kingly gesture. “Since childhood, I have been led to believe my magical abilities were limited. As you must know, I have a Source in my service, but I rarely find myself relying on his skill.”

  Service. Skill. Again, his choice of words awakened an uneasy feeling in my chest. I let him speak nonetheless.

  “Since the cardinal’s death, however,” he added, “I have come to realize many things I was told for a long time aren’t necessarily true—or in my best interest. I was four years old when my father died, and people rarely see a child king as more than a pawn to be used in their own games. Yet I am no longer a child.”

  His honesty at once stunned and delighted me. Here was the king of France, a man who never let his guard down, opening up to me. I was awarded a glance behind the mask, and the trust he was placing in me warmed my very core. He met my gaze, the frankness of his expression startling even at
that moment.

  “What happened with you yesterday was like nothing I’d ever experienced,” he said. “But I must confess my lack of knowledge and practice when it comes to magic. Fouquet has a mansion near the château at Fontainebleau, where he keeps a library. I’ll ask him to lend me a few books on the history of magic, so I can research any peculiar relationships between magiciens and Sources. I shall write to you about my findings so that we can discuss them this summer.”

  I nodded at the slightly overwhelming amount of information. “If you think it beneficial.”

  “I do.” He bowed his head, and I curtsied automatically in reply. “I would, however, advise against sharing any of this—including our correspondence—with anyone. Better this matter remain private for the time being.”

  Again, I dipped my chin in assent, but my heartbeat quickened. He was asking me to keep silent, and possibly lie, about all this. To my mother, my husband, my ladies. And if magic did bring us together again in the future, the lies and deceit wouldn’t stop there.

  Yet the curious, daring part of me longed to know if the books he’d consult would indeed shed light on yesterday’s incident. If the power nestled inside me could be an open door to something better, greater than I’d been taught to believe. If the spark I had felt lit inside me could be rekindled and ignited into a bright fire, one that would cast off the shadows of my life.

  The prophecy of the fortune-teller still rang clear in my mind: the maidens coming to the palace to meet terrible fates. Maybe using the magic in my core would allow me to prevent such dire outcomes.

  He walked to the door, and turned around at the last moment. His stare pinned me to the spot, but his expression softened and the tension in my shoulders eased. “Do take care of yourself, Henriette,” he said. “I’ll look forward to seeing you again in a few weeks.”

  The kind attention mixed with the compliment brought warmth to my face, and I smiled. “So shall I.”

  I curtsied again, and he was gone.

  * * *

  As it had been agreed before our wedding, Philippe and I moved to the Tuileries Palace a few days after Louis’s departure for Fontainebleau.

  Although Armand was still at court, and my husband still failed to visit my bedchamber at night, the fact Philippe and I now shared a home away from the royal palace made our marriage genuine to the public eye. Three months after our wedding, our apartments had even become the place to be in the king’s absence: The great gallery linking the Louvre to the Tuileries along the river Seine allowed easy access to our residence for the French courtiers. Philippe had few obvious qualities, but providing excellent entertainment was one of them. He had an eye for spotting talented artists and luring every interesting character to gravitate toward him. As a result, I found myself quite literally holding court in my new home.

  “‘Words cannot describe the ordeal of my journey.’”

  Louise’s voice shook me out of my reverie. She was reading a letter sent by Marguerite as we strolled along the geometric hedges of manicured evergreens in the gardens of the palace.

  “‘The fleet that brought me to Tuscany comprised nine galleys,’” Louise read on. “‘None of which were even remotely comfortable. By some divine miracle, we did reach Livorno without losing our lives at sea, and I arrived in Florence on the twentieth of June. I suppose the pageantry was adequate enough, as well as the wedding festivities.’”

  Athénaïs snorted. “She calls the most lavish wedding Florence has ever seen ‘adequate.’ I heard there was a retinue of over three hundred carriages. And her father-in-law gave her a pearl the size of an egg as a wedding gift.”

  Louise’s eyes widened, and her mouth hung open.

  “Does she mention her husband?” Athénaïs added.

  Louise returned her attention to the letter as we rounded a corner and moved down another straight gravel path. I let my gaze wander along the clipped topiaries: The smallest ones were simple balls or cones, but most were shaped like fantastical animals thanks to the royal garden magiciens—rearing unicorns, fire-breathing dragons, and giant butterflies that stood out against the late June blue skies. The chirping of birds hidden amid their thick foliage drifted on the warm air.

  “‘I won’t waste paper and ink describing my husband,’” Louise kept on reading Marguerite’s letter. “Imagine the worst, and you have Cosimo III de’ Medici.”

  Athénaïs rolled her eyes. “The Grand Duke of Tuscany, the worst match one could make? I don’t believe it. He can’t possibly be that bad. He’s immensely rich and barely three years older than her!”

  “She loves Charles de Lorraine,” Louise replied in her sweet tone.

  “Don’t we all know it,” Athénaïs said.

  In the past couple of months, Marguerite had made her infatuation with the king’s distant cousin such a public affair it had almost ruined her prospect of marrying her far more suitable fiancé.

  “‘Do keep me in your prayers,’” Louise concluded her reading. “‘And plead my case to His Majesty whenever you can, for I fear I shall not survive a year among these wretched people. Yours, etc.’”

  “You have to hand it to her though,” Athénaïs said. “She has a flair for dramatics.”

  We had finished our walk around the geometric beds and reached the pergola, heavy with fragrant roses.

  “Aren’t these lovely?” Louise folded the letter and bounced to the climbing roses. “Shall I pick a few to display in your chambers?”

  I gave my assent with a nod and sat on a wooden bench underneath the arch. At my feet, a blooming lavender shrub attracted bees with its strong scent. While Louise gathered roses, Athénaïs sat by my side and pulled a piece of paper out of her dress pocket.

  “The Gazette,” she said when I shot her a quizzical look. She unfolded the weekly newspaper that contained all the news from the court, the kingdom, and its neighbors one might ask for. As she began reading aloud an article about a magicien who had found a way to converse with animals, my thoughts drifted off to the letter secreted in my own pocket.

  Every week for the past three months, Louis had sent me a note recounting his latest findings on magic and cases of magiciens and Sources who had accomplished much together. He wasn’t the only person writing to me—my mother, returned to the peace and quiet of the convent, did send word often, as well as my brother the king of England.

  But, as kind as they were, those letters never gave me the thrill I felt when receiving a missive from Louis. Gallant and thoughtful, his letters also mentioned his daily routine at Fontainebleau and his plans for the summer, and, more important, he asked after my health and happiness. In the midst of all his duties and troubles, the king of France took the time to write to me, to wonder about me, to think of me, when my own husband struggled to remember my existence and courtiers shot me pitying looks at every turn. The thought filled me with delight and excitement.

  “You’re daydreaming again.” Athénaïs nudged me with her elbow.

  The Gazette lay in her lap, abandoned. Louise interrupted her collecting of roses to survey me.

  “Are you feeling all right?”

  “Yes.” I smiled to chase away my guilty thoughts. “I was just thinking about tonight. Who will be there?”

  Of late, my days resembled each other: After an afternoon in the gardens, I returned to my chambers to change my outfit and attend supper with my husband and half the court, after which the evening entertainment took place. Tonight we were due to attend a new play by Molière at the Palais-Royal, and I had been looking forward to it all week.

  “Everyone!” Louise joined us on the bench and counted off her fingers. “Madame de La Fayette, Madame de Valentinois, Madame de Châtillon, Mademoiselle de La Trémoille—”

  “Who cares about the women?” Athénaïs interrupted. “Tell us about the gentlemen.”

  Louise’s pretty face fell. “But these are all Madame’s friends—”

  She was right. In the last three months, I had striv
ed to entice all the ladies she’d just mentioned into visiting me as often as possible. We weren’t close, but they were beginning to become acquaintances whose company I enjoyed and who all shared a common trait: They weren’t part of Olympe’s inner circle. Even if the superintendent of the Queen Mother’s household still held formidable sway over the French court, I was becoming familiar with the rules of the game and I was slowly surrounding myself with ladies I hoped, in time, to be able to rely on.

  “Yes, well,” Athénaïs replied, “we’re at court to find a husband, not make friends. Let’s talk about the handsome men at court.”

  “Surely the king is the most handsome man at court?” I teased in order to give Louise time to recover from Athénaïs’s barb.

  Louise fiddled with the bunch of roses she’d gathered, but her face lit up at my remark. “Oh, he is, isn’t he?”

  Athénaïs snorted. “Someone has a crush. You are aware he’s married, right? And the king of France?” Her cruel laughter echoed through the gardens.

  Louise’s cheeks turned red, and she lowered her gaze to her roses.

  I gave Athénaïs a stern look. “Just tell us about the guests,” I told Louise.

  “Well, Monsieur and the Comte de Guiche will be there, and Charles de Lorraine—”

  “Oh, do shut up.” Athénaïs snatched the roses from Louise’s hands. “These need water. With your permission, I’ll see you inside.” And without actually waiting for my leave, she took off into the gardens toward the palace.

  “I’m sorry,” Louise said. Tears brimmed in her eyes and her voice trembled. “But she asked about gentlemen and all I could think of was … Forgive me, I didn’t think.”

  I placed a hand on hers and met her gaze. “Don’t worry. Unlike Athénaïs, I’m perfectly able to hear my husband’s name and Guiche’s in the same sentence without losing my temper.” I gave her a conniving grin and squeezed her fingers.