In the Shadow of the Sun

by EM Castellan

  “Shall I stay and watch your rehearsal?”

  His eyes softened, and he cupped my chin to kiss me on the forehead. “No need, my love. You’ve given up enough of your time for today. Do go on and rest before more duties call you away.”

  The veiled dig at his brother wasn’t lost on me, but most of the court, oblivious, failed to react. Although I would have enjoyed staying for the remainder of the rehearsal, I was grateful for the opportunity to leave early. In addition to the ballet at the end of the month, the king had planned to hold a masked ball tonight. As ever, life at court with Louis was anything but restful.

  * * *

  The evening ball was supposed to spill onto the lawn outside of the château, but late in the afternoon, dark clouds rolled in and the heavens opened. Heavy rain pounded the estate while lightning flashed across the blackened skies, the windows vibrating with each rumble of thunder.

  “Such a pity.” Louise sighed, her arms crossed in front of my bedroom window. The white fabric of her dress, draped around her in an antic fashion, caught the candlelight, as did the white-feathered mask dangling between her fingers. The theme for the masked ball was Greek mythology, and she’d chosen to go as Hestia, virgin goddess of the hearth.

  “Stop staring at the rain and help me with these shoes, would you?” Athénaïs replied. The dress she wore—meant to turn her into the goddess of the underworld, Persephone—rippled with magic, shifting from midnight blue to raven black every time I blinked. Her large mask blended with her dark hair, which had been pinned up in a gravity-defying mass of curls.

  Her sandals squeaking on the parquet floor, Louise joined her at my feet to help with my shoes. Sat in an armchair with enough fabric on me to open a small shop, I was too bundled up in my corset and skirts to bend down and tie my own shoelaces. The stifling heat in my chambers did nothing to make me comfortable, and my cough had returned, intermittent but insistent. I waved my ivory-and-lace fan with little enthusiasm, hoping the air would be cooler in the ballroom.

  “Do you wish to take a look?”

  A maid held out a gilded mirror, and appreciative sighs escaped the small gathering of ladies and servants as Athénaïs helped me up and my silk-and-taffeta dress settled around my ankles. The light blue fabric, mixed with white lace, was a reminder of Aphrodite’s birth from the sea, and from the approving smiles around me I assumed the effect matched what my dressmaker had planned. My long hair, suitably blond to impersonate the goddess, curled down to my waist, with only a handful of pins to pull it back and allow my mother-of-pearl mask to fit my face. A gift from my husband, the delicate mask had arrived earlier in a velvet-covered box, to the delighted gasps of my ladies.

  “Perfect,” I said, more willing to leave the airless room than to stare at my reflection in a mirror. “Shall we go?”

  We walked into my antechamber in a confusion of rustling skirts and stopped in our tracks before Philippe and Armand. Louise let out an audible gasp. With a delighted grin, my husband opened his arms wide at my entrance.

  “You look a vision.”

  I gaped, too surprised by his own costume to come up with any compliment. “I’m Aphrodite.”

  His smile widened. “I know.” His mask was in his hand, and his eyes sparkled with mischief.

  Next to him, Armand had his usual rakish smirk and self-satisfied expression. Feathered wings sprouted from his mask, shoes, and cuffs, and his magically enhanced gray costume shimmered like a mirror.

  “Why is he Hermes?” I asked, confusion still slowing down my thoughts. “Weren’t you supposed to be Hermes?”

  Philippe dropped his arms. “I changed my mind. But this is better.”

  “But you’re wearing a dress!” I blurted out.

  I was stating the obvious, yet I felt someone had to point it out before we all made our entrance into the ballroom. Philippe put his fists on his waist in a proud pose.

  “And don’t I look magnificent?”

  He twirled, and despite my shock, I smiled. The ivory-and-gold dress did fit his slender figure perfectly, and he wore it with such natural ease, it was hard not to find him beautiful.

  “You do,” I said, my surprise melting, replaced by a strange fondness for him. There was something terribly attractive in his absolute candor and unflinching determination to do whatever he pleased.

  “Thank you, my love. See, I’m Hermaphroditus. Isn’t it perfect?” He linked arms with me and did the same with Armand. “With Aphrodite and Hermes.”

  With us on each side, he led the way out of my apartments, my ladies in our wake.

  “The king always dresses as Apollo,” Armand explained. “God of the sun, et cetera.”

  Philippe rolled his eyes. “Very dull.” He made a face and mimicked a whiny tone. “Shall I wear gold or gold? A mask in the shape of the sun, or a candle on my head?”

  I bit my lip to avoid laughing at the king, although I suspected Philippe was right.

  “So we thought,” Armand went on, “let’s steal the show.”

  I had heard rumors about Philippe sometimes dressing as a woman, but having never witnessed it for myself, I had dismissed them as gossip. As they talked, we rounded a corner and made our way down a corridor thankfully large enough to fit the three of us.

  “See, that’s how you make an entrance,” Philippe said. He tipped his head at me. “With the most beautiful lady at the ball—”

  “What about the queen?” I asked.

  “Marie-Thérèse is five months pregnant,” he replied, without missing a beat. “She’s not coming. And even if she is, let’s face it: The woman has no sense of fashion. You’d still look better with rags on.”

  We reached the end of the corridor and veered left so quickly I had to focus on my steps instead of my answer.

  “So,” Philippe resumed his explanation. “The most beautiful lady on one arm.”

  “The most handsome man on the other,” Armand added.

  “And the perfect mix of both between them,” Philippe concluded.

  Their utter confidence and happiness were contagious, for I burst out laughing at their duet. My fit of giggles coincided with our arrival at the ballroom doors, which stood wide open. Music drifted out and the crowd was already thick, the entire French court seemingly crammed into the high-ceilinged room. Heads turned and eyes widened as the herald announced our entrance, but the stir we caused didn’t stop the dancing or the feasting. Indeed there was so much to see and do in the huge room that even our raucous and unorthodox trio couldn’t hold anyone’s attention for very long.

  On the parquet dance floor, masked courtiers in glamoured outfits heavy with brocade and embroidery moved to the music swelling from the musicians’ platform. The people gathered by the overloaded buffet chatted and waved gem-studded fans in front of silver plates piled high with delicacies, exotic fruit and cakes that rivaled the scenes of mythological banquets in the frescoes. The warm air crackled with magic, keeping the dozens of candles burning brighter than normal and filling the space under the painted box-beamed ceiling with twirling flower petals, feathers, and golden leaves. An unnatural blue fire burned without giving off any heat in the enormous marble fireplace, lending a sweet smell and an odd light to its surroundings.

  Soon the baroque atmosphere of the ball swept me away, and I forgot the heat and the crowd to lose myself in the thrill of the dance and the excitement of anonymous partners. Every so often Armand checked in on me, but most of the time I let myself be led by dancers I didn’t try to recognize in lavish costumes and beautiful masks. Hercules, Ares, and Dionysus paid me their compliments, while Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon all requested a dance.

  Each time the music paused, I took a seat to give my lungs some respite and stretched my neck to spot Apollo among the multitude. But every time I caught sight of him, he was on the other side of the room, deep in conversation with women who all boasted splendid masks and low necklines. Disappointment tugged at my heart as the king kept his distance throughout the
evening, his steps never bringing him within my vicinity.

  “You’re pouting.”

  I looked up at Armand, who surveyed me with a knowing gaze. The hour was late and the storms had abated at last, allowing the servants to throw open the high windows and let in some fresh air, crisp with the smell of rain and wet grass. Many guests had taken this as their cue to leave, and although the orchestra was still playing, the dance floor wasn’t as crowded as before. The king was still here though, talking to Louise on the other side of the room. Armand and I sat on gilded chairs by the fireplace, resting our feet after our fifth dance together. I had reached that point in the evening when I was breathless even as I didn’t move, and my distraction must have been obvious to his keen eye.

  I pasted a mechanical smile on my face. “I’m not.”

  He stopped a passing servant with a silver tray and took a glass of wine to hand it to me. “You are. Is it because a certain husband of yours hasn’t danced with you at all?”

  I shook my head and took a sip of wine. I hadn’t expected Philippe to do so. Although he was a good dancer, he never seemed interested in dancing with me when the occasion arose. Now he stood by the buffet, drinking wine out of a silver goblet and speaking to the Comte de Saint-Aignan’s new Source.

  “What’s his name?” I asked, nodding at the young man.

  We’d yet to be introduced and, as ever in the presence of another Source, curiosity nagged at me.

  “Jean Aniaba.” Armand retrieved my half-full glass and sipped at the wine. “He’s eighteen. Rumor has it, he’s a prince from the Gold Coast in West Africa. He came to France three years ago thanks to some representative of the Guinea Company. Once in Paris, he demanded to meet the king.”

  A frown pulled my eyebrows down under my mask. This sounded a bit far-fetched, even by the French court’s standards.

  “They say the king granted him an annuity of twelve thousand pounds.”

  I tilted my head to the side as I studied the young man. A Source far away from his home country and navigating the court of the Sun King? We had more in common with each passing moment.

  But Armand mistook the direction of my gaze and stared at Philippe instead.

  “He’s upset.” His usual carelessness left his tone, dragging my thoughts away from the African prince. “He and his brother argued earlier. The king was furious because of our little stunt, and he made sure Philippe knew it.”

  I took off my mask. Taken by the thrill of the ball, I had lost sight of my husband and missed the incident. I looked for the king in the ballroom, and my heart made an uneasy jolt when I spotted him on his way out, nodding at the people who bowed or curtsied as he passed. He was leaving, and he hadn’t spoken to me all night. Even taking into account the size of the crowd and the demands on his time, the likelihood of our paths never crossing during the ball was close to naught. Which could only mean one thing: He had avoided me. This, combined with his argument with his brother, quickened my pulse.

  At the rehearsal this afternoon, I had let Philippe kiss me and send me away. And tonight, I had arrived at the ball, my arm linked with his, laughing with him. In the forest, Louis had warned me of his brother’s tendency to envy him. And after he’d shared with me his most secret dreams and plans, I had acted as if I sided with Philippe. I could only imagine what Louis must feel, knowing he’d bared his soul to me and assuming I was rejecting him.

  My breathing suddenly difficult, I waved my fan harder, the Queen Mother’s words echoing in my mind.

  Until Louis and Marie-Thérèse have a son … you support my son … You also provide the means to keep Philippe’s influence to a minimum.

  Until Louis and Marie-Thérèse have a son. The sentence rattled around in my head. Once the royal baby was born, Philippe wouldn’t be the heir to the throne anymore. Tolerating him and his behavior wouldn’t be such a necessity for his family and the French court. And if he got on Louis’s wrong side, there’d be no one to speak on his behalf. The safety and future he was offering me now could vanish in an instant, because of an argument between brothers or a joke gone too far.

  I closed my fan and fiddled with its jeweled handle, my mind racing. I couldn’t count on Philippe to ensure my position forever. And if there were any conclusions to draw from Marguerite’s situation, it was that angering one’s husband’s powerful family only led to disaster. If I were to guarantee my future, I had to make myself indispensable to the king, before his son was born.

  And the only way I could see of doing so was, despite the risks, to become Louis’s Source.

  CHAPTER IX

  I woke alone in my bed the next morning.

  It was only a mild surprise—a fight with his brother was a good excuse for Philippe to desert me, or even to go back to Armand—but it stung nonetheless. In the past couple of weeks, I had hoped we were making progress in our relationship, yet my husband seemed as fickle and indifferent as ever.

  Last night’s storm had chased away the heat and sunshine, and a light rain thrummed against the windowpanes in the gray morning light. It canceled my daily swim in the canal, but it didn’t keep trepidation from seizing my heart. Following my epiphany at the masked ball, the last thing I had done before going to bed was to slip a note to the ever-nearby Moreau. It was now time to see if my bold move bore its fruit.

  Having, as usual, no appetite for breakfast, I let one of the maids help me dress, then made my way outside alone, the cowl of my cloak hiding my face. Given the weather, Athénaïs would assume I was sleeping in. It gave me the window of opportunity I needed to slip away unnoticed.

  I held an umbrella open above my head as I rushed down the slick steps of the horseshoe-shaped grand staircase and avoided puddles crossing the cobblestoned courtyard. By the time I reached the red brick building housing the stables, my cheeks were flushed and my pulse raced. A pang of guilt ran through me as I became aware my shoes were ruined; yet I wasted no time dwelling on problems it was too late to fix.

  Instead, I folded and shook my umbrella, then I hurried along the wooden stalls, the soft fabric of my clothes rustling in my wake. At this early hour, all was peaceful in the dimly lit building, the soft patter of the rain against the roof and the snorting of the horses in their boxes the only sounds to reach me. The smells of manure and hay tickled my nose as I passed the stable boys sleepily getting organized for the day. Most servants scurried away with their eyes averted at my approach, and the reason why became clear when I arrived at the back of the long building where the carriages were parked. Moreau stood there, a patch of darkness in the shadows, as if he’d just materialized out of the flagstones and would soon melt back into them.

  He bowed at my arrival, and without a word, guided me to one of the carriages stationed along the wall. I handed him my dripping umbrella before he helped me inside the motionless vehicle. When I thanked him, he gave a nod and what sounded very much like a grunt, and closed the carriage door behind me. I sank onto the cushioned bench, my heartbeat thudding, and chanced a glance up at the man on the opposite seat.

  Louis raised an eyebrow at me, incredulity and amusement battling in his eyes. His hands rested on the handle of his jewel-studded cane, and he had his back straight, all his attention focused on me.

  “Good morning.” My greeting came out strangled, and heat spread all over my face and neck. What had I been thinking? Sending notes and asking the king of France for a meeting at dawn in the royal stables? This was beyond unorthodox: It was outrageous. My mother would have fainted at the thought.

  And yet, he was here. He’d come, without musketeers, in the rain, at my request, to meet me.

  “Good morning, Henriette.” A faint smile hovered on his lips, a mix of irony and tenderness I couldn’t quite fathom.

  I forced a breath down my lungs and folded my gloved hands in my lap to gather my wits. He’d come. I couldn’t waste his time now, nor miss this chance at fixing things with him. So I launched into the speech I had rehearsed while getting dr
essed.

  “I want to help. With your plan. With magic. With Versailles. I’ve thought about it and … I want to help.”

  This wasn’t the speech I had practiced in my head. But Louis’s golden gaze was on me, and we sat alone in a stuffy carriage, and he listened to me as if every word I said mattered. So I lost track of my train of thought and closed my mouth, waiting for his reply. For a terrifying moment, he didn’t speak. Blood pounded in my temples, as my mind failed to conjure up what could happen next. Then a frank smile split his face and he clasped my hands in his.

  “I’m pleased to hear that.”

  A weight lifted off my chest, at the same time as a dark cloud settled over my mind like a blanket of doubt. It was done. I had accepted his offer. I would lend him my magic. I only prayed the cost wouldn’t be too steep and I hadn’t made the biggest mistake of my life.

  Yet the happiness in his eyes filled me with delight. There was nothing in my life I could control or change: not my husband’s lack of interest in me, not my duties at court, not the nobles’ gossip, and certainly not my health. Except this. I could ensure Louis got to achieve his dreams. I could make him look at me like I was the most important person in his life and believe it was true. With him, I could be more than a princess, and a woman.

  I could be me.

  “There’s something I wish to do.” Louis still held my hands, the warmth of his skin somehow spreading through our gloves. However, the change in his tone forced me to tear my gaze away from our intertwined fingers and to pay attention to my surroundings. Without my being aware of it, the carriage we sat in had moved, now sitting in the rain outside the stables. Horses’ hooves stamped the cobblestones, and the blurred figures of servants shifted outside the window.