by EM Castellan
A tentative smile pulled at the corners of her lips.
“So who else will be there?” I asked to dispel the last of her distress.
“Monsieur Fouquet, of course,” she replied, “and the Queen Mother—”
As she rattled off the rest of the guest list, I forced myself to focus on the people I would see later. Yet the slightest feeling of disappointment tugged at a corner of my mind—the faint, persistent knowledge that the person I most wanted there would be absent.
I slipped my hand in my pocket to pat Louis’s letter and hoped I wasn’t falling for a king.
CHAPTER VI
The air in the indoor theater of the Palais-Royal was stifling. Sweat trickled down the painted faces of the actors on the wooden stage, and jewel-studded fans swished in harmony in the audience, while chairs creaked and rich fabric rustled every time courtiers fidgeted. Laughter rose under the high frescoed ceiling at a witty retort from one the characters, Philippe’s laugh the loudest of all.
Although the plot of the play was simple enough—two suitors, one overbearing, one more tolerant, both trying to court a young woman—and Molière’s troupe spared no effort to entertain us with regular magic tricks, I struggled to enjoy the show. With the heat, and the heady smell of perfume mixed with the melting wax and burning wick of the candles, my cough had returned. I spent more time with my lips against my handkerchief than listening to the actors’ jokes.
The intermission brought me some relief, as the theater doors were flung open and some members of the audience temporarily dispersed into the hall. Louise handed me a glass of water—it soothed my throat, even if it did nothing for the cause of my problem, my lungs. Philippe got up and stretched with a flourish.
“Is there any wine?” he asked an attendant, who hurried away with a bow.
Our seats—armchairs, really—were at the center back of the auditorium, with the best view of the stage. The Queen Mother sat on Philippe’s left, with Olympe beside her. The late cardinal Mazarin used to accompany my mother-in-law to these functions, and it briefly occurred to me that losing his friendship couldn’t have been easy on her. Another coughing fit hit me then, dragging my thoughts away from my companions.
“Allow me.” Fouquet, the Crown Magicien, who sat on my right, handed me his own large handkerchief. His eyes shone golden in the candlelight and the concern in his gaze mollified me. Before I could react, he swapped my square of cotton for his own finely woven one and gave me a wink.
“I tampered with it a bit. It should help.”
Indeed his handkerchief shimmered in the theater’s half-light, magic rippling off the soft fabric. I shot him a questioning look.
“Breathe it in,” he said, a gentle smile wrinkling the corners of his eyes. “It won’t cure you, but it should soothe you for the rest of the play.”
His kind gesture left me speechless. I pressed the handkerchief to my nose and mouth and inhaled. Growing up in the convent, one of my favorite pastimes as a child had been to spend the first days of spring lying in the gardens as nature emerged from its slumber, with the wind teasing the grass and the flowers blooming under my fingertips. The smells that filled my nose reminded me of those times, when the air was crisp and pollen-free, full of promises and soft scents.
I took in a deep breath, allowing the magic to coat my nose, throat, and lungs, and to soothe the discomfort there. Like morning dew deposited on a dry lawn, it settled inside me as the spell took hold, and for a moment, the potential for addiction crossed my mind.
Some courtiers had been known to lose their fortune and reputation to have a spell performed over and over again. For a moment, in this airless theater, I could understand their drive. Knowing Fouquet’s spell wouldn’t last crushed me for a heartbeat, before I remembered to seize the moment and be grateful for it. I opened my eyes—I hadn’t realized I had closed them—and turned to the Crown Magicien.
“Your reputation is well deserved, sir. You have my deepest thanks.” He tilted his head in a dismissive gesture, and I added with a smile, “I’m sure the rest of the audience will be grateful, too.”
He chuckled as I punctuated my witticism with a glance around for said audience. Many courtiers had left their stools to stretch their legs and mingle, gathering in clusters by the doors or the stage. The Queen Mother and Olympe had disappeared, likely gone to get some air outside. My gaze landed on Philippe near a wall, and my heart skipped a beat. He was whispering in someone’s ear, his hand on their waist and his lips close to their neck. His companion giggled, head thrown back and lit by the glare of candlelight. It was Madame de Valentinois.
“I hate her.” Armand flopped onto Philippe’s vacated chair, a leg thrown over the armrest and dangling off the side. The wineglass he carried was empty.
Fouquet chose this moment to excuse himself and shuffle to the hall.
“This isn’t your seat,” I told Armand, the Magicien’s handkerchief still pressed to my nose. With my husband flirting with another woman in full public view, the last thing I needed was his former lover trying to bond with me.
“I know.” Armand let out a dramatic sigh and waved at the left side of the auditorium. “My seat is all the way over there. With the nobodies. I am disgraced.” He hid his face behind his palm.
Unimpressed by his theatrics, I made a point of not looking at him. I hoped it would be enough to drive him away, but I had no such luck.
“I don’t blame you, you know.” He leaned toward me, his tone conspiratorial. “The love Philippe and I share was doomed from the start. He, the handsome prince. Me, the devastatingly attractive rake. It was just a tragedy waiting to happen. I had to let him go.”
He released a dramatic sigh, and this time I rolled my eyes at him. I definitely didn’t need to hear the details of his former relationship with my husband. And I struggled to understand what his behavior meant. If I were him, I would have been happy to ignore the woman responsible for my supposed heartbreak. I wouldn’t have sought her out to charm her with witticisms. What game was he playing?
Unperturbed by my silence, Armand turned his attention to the girl ruining our evening. “She’s not even pretty,” he muttered. He turned back to me. “You and I are far more gorgeous. What does he see in her? He’s just doing it to make a point.”
He was probably right, though I would have never admitted it out loud. After three months at his side, I was beginning to understand that, whenever Philippe found himself backed into a corner, he reacted in the opposite way to what was expected of him. Both Armand and I had attempted to outmaneuver him, the only result now standing before us: Philippe in the arms of someone else entirely.
“You should kiss me.”
I nearly choked in my handkerchief in surprise. “What?”
Armand flashed his sweetest smile at me. “You should kiss me. That would teach him.”
He leaned so close the freckles on his cheekbones were visible, and for a heartbeat my treacherous mind pondered what his full lips would feel like against mine, how soft his brown curls would be under my fingers, and whether he would close his deep green eyes during the kiss. In a flash, I also wondered if Armand wasn’t onto something. Would making my husband jealous spark his interest for me? Then I got hold of my senses and scoffed.
“You’re overestimating my annoyance with my husband.”
His perfect mouth fell into a pout. “How unfortunate.” He settled back in his chair, tapping his fingers on the wooden armrest while glaring at Philippe and his conquest.
By then my cough had subsided, and my energy was returning. A few courtiers had noticed Philippe’s obvious flirting, and heads turned in both his direction and mine as gossip spread like spilled wine across a white tablecloth. I made a point of remaining unfazed. In the last three months at court, I had learned that utter indifference was the best way to keep tongues from wagging. If I acted like my husband’s behavior wasn’t worth taking note of, then people soon assumed it was indeed nothing to bother about.
A bell rang, announcing the end of the intermission and driving people back to their seats. Fouquet materialized on my right, and Armand unfolded from his seat with obvious reluctance. I expected him to leave without another word, but he bent down to whisper into my ear.
“The only reason I let him go was because I thought his marriage to you deserved a chance.” His perfume, muskier than my husband’s, tingled my nostrils as our gazes met. His rakish grin was gone, seriousness drawing a line between his eyebrows. “You and I should be the only ones Philippe ever concerns himself with. You know I’m right.”
Without waiting for my answer, he pranced away, his previous solemnity shed in an instant. Madame de Valentinois abandoned along the way back to his seat, Philippe plunked himself down next to me with a careless smile. His return to his armchair prompted the blowing of the candles in the auditorium and the drawing of the curtain onstage.
The actors reappeared, but although my cough was blessedly gone, I still couldn’t focus my attention on their frolics. My mind churned, replaying Armand’s last comment and Madame de Valentinois’s giggle. In his own misguided way, my husband’s former lover had a point: My marriage had been a sham for too many weeks now. Too wrapped up in my correspondence with the king and our concerns about magic, I had let the situation linger, ignoring the courtiers’ whispers and Philippe’s behavior.
Yet, sitting in this stuffy theater with my indifferent husband at my side, it struck me that I was playing a dangerous game. As Armand had just reminded me, I had demanded that Philippe let go of his lover so gossip would cease and we could grow closer. Neither had happened. But we couldn’t afford our marriage to fall to pieces. Too much was at stake for both our families and countries. Whether we liked it or not, we had to make this work—in the long term.
Onstage, the young lovers duped the old tutor, prompting hoots of laughter in the crowd. Philippe clapped appreciatively, his attention fixated straight ahead, as if he didn’t notice my gaze on him. On my right, Fouquet leaned in to speak over the shouts of the actors and spectators.
“I do hope young love will prevail!” He referred to the play, of course, the candlelight twinkling in his golden eyes.
“Does it ever?” I asked, my tone playful.
“It should.” He gestured at the stage. “Sometimes it just needs a little push.”
I didn’t comment, instead handing him back his handkerchief with a smile. Unfortunately, his comment about young love didn’t conjure pictures of Philippe in my mind. As if my situation wasn’t precarious enough, it was Louis’s smile that kept flashing before my eyes.
* * *
“It must be such an odd life,” Louise said.
She sat on my bedcovers as I lay back against my pillows, sipping hot chocolate from a blue-and-white porcelain cup, with Mimi in my lap. A handful of candles lent a soft orange glow to my bedchamber, conducive to a calming moment after the noise and excitement of the evening.
“What is?” I asked.
“Being an actor.” She moved to my dressing table that was, as usual at the end of the day, in much disarray. “Memorizing lines, acting onstage, playing pretend, living with a troupe … How can one choose to live such a sinful life?” She tidied my hairbrushes, boxes of cosmetics, ribbons, and hairpins.
Unwilling to discuss sinful behaviors with her, I toyed with my plait and noted, “I’ve heard a troupe is like a family to them.” As an orphan, Louise could certainly relate to the need to find a substitute family.
But she shrugged. “They ignore God and die unrepentant. What type of person chooses to go straight to hell?”
I finished my drink, scrambling for an appropriate answer. Despite being raised in a convent, I was far less God-fearing than she was, my faith more of a comfort and moral compass than a deep-seated conviction.
“It’s like Sources and magiciens,” she went on. My head snapped up, but she was arranging the flowers in the vase, her back to me. “I know people think their gifts come from God, but I find it hard to believe.”
The door slammed open, startling us both, yet I had never been more glad to see Philippe enter uninvited.
“Good evening,” he said, gifting us his most dazzling smile.
Louise’s mouth opened on a perfect O. My heart suddenly in my throat, I handed her my empty cup and dismissed her with a nod. Taking my hint, she tucked my dog under her arm, curtsied, and left without another word.
Once the door clicked shut behind her, I straightened against my pillows. After the play, and with Armand’s words still echoing in my ears, I had made a point of reminding Philippe the door to my bedchamber was never locked. He had dismissed my comment with a laugh, and I had resolved to broach the subject again the next day, never expecting him to appear on my doorstep an hour later.
“Good evening,” I managed as he set his candlestick on my writing desk.
Memories of our kiss, so long ago, whirled through my mind. Three months ago, I had fantasized about what would come after, the next time Philippe visited my chambers. Yet now that he was here, anxiety, more than trepidation, quickened my pulse. His handsome profile only reminded me of his brother, and his kind gaze awakened guilt rather than longing inside my chest.
“How are you feeling?” he asked.
“Well.”
It was a lie. The evening had taken its toll on me, and prior to his arrival I had been looking forward to a restful night and a lie-in. But I’d rather be caught dead than admit to anything but perfect health now that he was here.
He tilted his head, concern still all over his features. “You’re pale.” He sat in the chair at my desk and took off his shoes. “Go to sleep. I’ll stay here awhile.”
I opened my mouth to ask what he thought he was doing, coming to my bedroom at night to sit in a chair, when understanding struck me. Tonight was a first step. I had asked him to come to me. He had granted my request. But for now, that was as far as he would go. The realization snuffed out my indignation, and exhaustion gripped me once more. I was too weary to argue with him, and at least for tonight, the French court would think our marriage was real.
“Don’t touch anything,” I said.
As my husband, he had every right to go through all my drawers, but I enjoyed having the last word with him. I sank back into my pillows. The effect of Fouquet’s spell was long faded and breathing required an effort, my lungs never expanding to their full capacity. I closed my eyes and focused on that issue, taking slow breaths through my nose while sleep descended on me.
Shuffling sounds and thuds came from my desk, as Philippe moved my books and papers aside. My sleepy brain vaguely wondered what he was doing, until a louder thump and a creak of the chair indicated his feet now rested on my desk. My thoughts ebbed and flowed, a persistent one wishing he’d come and hold me instead of staying away, then vanishing as slumber claimed me.
* * *
“Henriette, wake up.”
My eyes blinked open, sleep threatening to tug me back. “What?”
“I said: Wake up.”
Several things registered at once. Candles lit my half-darkened room, which meant it was still night. Philippe stood by my bed, a piece of paper in his hand. And his tone was angry. I stiffened and sat up.
“What? What’s going on?”
He shoved the paper under my nose. “I found this.”
The neat handwriting and broken royal seal were enough to send my heart racing. It was one of Louis’s letters. Philippe’s fingers shook around it, and his jaw tightened. I cringed back—I had never seen him lose his temper before. His brother was known for his tantrums, not him.
“You’re a Source?” he said, nearly choking on the word. “You’re a Source and Louis knows and you didn’t think to tell me?” His voice rose on the last question. He crumpled the letter and threw it against the wall.
Anger boiled in me at the unfairness of his reaction. He’d ignored me for the past three months, never bothering to really get to know me. He�
�d flaunted his affairs in front of the whole court and taken for granted my patience and understanding. Yet the second he found out about my one secret he shouted at me like a jealous husband?
I threw back my covers. “When was I expected to tell you? Over dinner, in front of the whole court? At a party, with the Duchesse de Valentinois on your arm? Or on that one instance you visited my bedchamber?”
My mother would have been appalled at my unladylike behavior, but I couldn’t care less. I wouldn’t be shamed or made to believe I had done anything wrong. Keeping my secret was one of the first things she’d taught me—one I was only meant to reveal to the people I most trusted. In the three months since our wedding, Philippe had not earned that right.
“So you went to my brother instead?” he shouted back. “A magicien? Offered yourself to him as if you two could just keep this from me forever?”
The last thread of my patience snapped. “Don’t shout at me. I’m not some maid you can just tell off. If you think that I’ve wronged you—and I haven’t—you owe me the right to explain myself.”
That stopped him short. He crossed his arms and raised both eyebrows at me. “Fine. Do explain, my love.”
I pulled my covers back over my legs, taking my time to hide how much he’d rattled me. Once my hands had ceased their shaking, I folded them in my lap.
“I meant to tell you long ago. But you were so … distant from the start, I didn’t know how to broach the subject. Then the king found out, quite by accident, really. We didn’t have time to discuss it before he left for Fontainebleau.”
My calm explanation had the soothing effect I hoped. Philippe’s shoulders relaxed, and when he sat on the bed by my side, I didn’t feel the need to cringe back.
“As you pointed out, he’s a magicien,” I went on. “So I wasn’t sure of his intentions. I planned on asking about them once we met again, and I would have talked to you then.”