by EM Castellan
I stood up, my empty cup of tea rattling in its saucer, and pointed at his bedroom door. “My duties? Shall we talk about yours, as my husband?”
That hit a nerve. He threw his head back, released a frustrated groan, and walked over to the window, as if turning his back on me would somehow make me vanish. But I wasn’t ready to leave until we reached an understanding. So I put down my empty cup on a pedestal table by my chair and waited.
The clear skies outside held the promise of another hot day, and slanted sunshine bathed the room in golden hues. Philippe stared out at the manicured gardens below his window, his handsome profile framed against the light. The memory of our first and only kiss fleeted across my mind, making me wish the distance between us was only metaphorical. Having grown up without a father, and with a mother constantly reminiscing about happier days, I had often wondered what married life would be like.
Don’t expect love, my mother had warned. But do expect safety, children, and welfare.
Yet so far, Philippe hadn’t provided me with any of this. And if things deteriorated between him and his brother, I’d be left with nothing, like my mother. I couldn’t afford it. Whatever he said, I had to nurture my relationship with Louis. I might need to harvest its fruit in the future.
“I’ll sleep in your bedchamber again,” he said, drawing me back to the present. “But can you please limit the amount of time you spend alone with my brother?”
His expression a mix of plea and concern, he gazed at me from the window, an impassable gap between us. With the success of the ballet behind us, Louis would likely want to move on to the next stage of his plan to gain control of his fate and his country. But with Louise now in on our secret, we wouldn’t have to arrange meetings in the forest to see each other. Thus the promise I made Philippe was sincere.
“I will.”
The smile he gave me was more melancholy than cheerful, but we’d made it through this argument without shouting at each other. It wasn’t the happy marriage I wished for, but it was a start.
* * *
“I heard the king has a mistress.”
I looked up from the flowers I was arranging in a vase, my mouth gaping at Athénaïs’s sudden change of topic. Mimi in her lap, she’d been reading aloud the Gazette while I worked on turning into a pretty bunch the blossoms I had picked during our afternoon walk in the gardens.
“Really?”
My reply came out more strangled than I cared for, and I was glad the semidarkness in my salon hid my sudden disquiet. The half-closed indoor shutters kept the late-afternoon heat out, as well as most of the sunshine and the hustle and bustle of the court. This short break, between my outdoor afternoon stroll and the evening activities, was welcome, as my body tended to protest if I didn’t rest halfway through the day.
“He disappears for suspicious lengths of time,” Athénaïs replied. “And people have started to notice.”
“Well,” I said in a light tone, “I can tell you it’s not me.”
She tittered, as if the thought was indeed unimaginable. “So the question remains: who?”
I shrugged, but her question stung more than it ought to. Two weeks had gone by since the Ballet of the Seasons, and it was true Louis hadn’t sought me out outside court activities. Grateful for the break in our magical training, I had assumed he was planning his next move, which he would share with me at the right time.
Now the Queen Mother’s words came back to me: I shall ask my son to mind his brother and set his attentions elsewhere. Maybe the king, setting magic and ambitions aside for a while, had followed his mother’s advice and found a new distraction.
“Maybe Olympe?” I suggested.
She was the only woman at court who I saw as a credible candidate for the part. It was known she’d harbored hopes of marrying Louis before her wedding to the Comte de Soissons, and some said she was still in love with the king. As the superintendent of the Queen Mother’s household, she was one of the highest-ranking ladies at court—save for the princesses of the blood like me—a position that made her worthy of Louis’s attentions. With her plump figure and perfect complexion, she was hailed as one of the court’s beauties. And she was a magicienne, a trait Louis likely related to.
Yet Athénaïs shook her head. “I would know if she were. Olympe loves intrigues, but she isn’t interested in being at the heart of one.”
It was the first time Athénaïs acknowledged her friend in my presence, and I took this as a small victory. Maybe, with time, she could help bridge the gap between Olympe and me.
I added a rose to my flower arrangement, my mind flicking through the potential candidates. Madame de Valentinois, maybe? Although she was married, she seemed awfully eager to elevate her rank at court. Or Mademoiselle de La Trémoille—
A thud outside my door snapped me out of my train of thought. Mimi barked, and Athénaïs stood up with my dog in her arms, a frown pulling her perfect eyebrows together.
“What was that?”
A muffled cry outside was her answer, and cold sweat gathered along my back. Another heavy thud resonated, the door shook, and the unmistakable screech of metal scraping against metal echoed.
“Guards?” Athénaïs called out. “Is everything all right?”
She clutched my arm before I realized she’d moved to my side. Mimi’s barking grew louder, and I dropped my rose, my breathing hitching when no one answered her. Four palace guards were supposed to stand in my antechamber, with two more outside in the corridor. We both stared at the door for a heartbeat, as if it would open on a familiar face. Athénaïs’s grip on me was so tight it hurt, but her protective gesture comforted me enough to make me braver than I felt.
“Guards!” I said. “Answer at once.”
Utter silence met my request, my dog’s barks and the thumping of my pulse the only sounds to reach my ears. Then the door rattled on its hinges. Athénaïs and I froze, as black smoke filtered under the gilded wooden panel. The first thought that crossed my mind was that a fire had started in my antechamber, but the smoke stretched forward, swirling and growing into a cloud-shaped form that hovered unnaturally above the parquet floor. A menacing ball of pulsing shadows, shot through with ominous sparks and flashes of red light, it didn’t smell of burning but gave off the distinct prickly scent of magic.
Athénaïs let out a foul curse. Tucked under her arm, Mimi whined. I pulled my lady back to get us away from the strange apparition, but our motion prompted it into action. It launched a tendril of darkness at us, like a long finger reaching out, and slapped Athénaïs’s raised arm. She cried out as a red gash formed on her skin. My instinct took over.
“Come on!”
I hauled her back toward my bedchamber in a frantic commotion of swishing fabric and clacking heels. My plan was to slam the bedroom doors shut behind us to gain time, but the cloud of shadows followed suit, churning and flickering, with wide volutes like smoke shooting ahead to touch us, as if ready to swallow us whole.
We careered across my bedchamber, and I dragged Athénaïs toward the hidden passageway to the service rooms. The main way out might be blocked, but we could escape through the servants’ corridor. I spared a panicked glance behind me before wrenching open the concealed door, long enough to witness the twirling nightmare hurtle through my room and knock candlesticks and books off my desk. It crackled with magic, raising the hair on my forearms and teasing my own power.
I tumbled into the unadorned room for night service, Athénaïs still hot on my heels, when she let out a scream: The dark cloud had hit her again, another trail of blood appearing on her neck.
“Faster!” I urged her.
With no regard for our clothes or surroundings, I tore through the succession of deserted service rooms, losing my silk slippers in the process. Behind me, Athénaïs’s terrified panting and Mimi’s yapping filled my ears, with the crackle of the black smoke’s quivering magic following. At the back of the clothes cabinet, we tumbled more than we walked down the se
rvants’ wooden staircase. Athénaïs screeched again, the long fingers of the spell lapping at her heels. At the bottom of the steps, we exploded into a narrow corridor and collided with a linen maid. Her basket flew off her hands in a chaos of tossed-up towels and she let out a cry. I pushed her ahead of me without ceremony.
“Run. Run!”
To her credit, she didn’t miss a beat and obeyed. We raced along the whitewashed walls of the low-ceilinged corridor, and I struggled to organize my rattled thoughts. Whether it was after my magic or my royal blood, it was obvious the spell was meant for me, Athénaïs having been hurt only because she was in the way.
“At the end of the corridor,” I said, “you two are going to turn left, and I’ll go right.”
“What? No!” Athénaïs replied.
“You’ll do as I command!”
I wasn’t about to let these two get harmed because of me. We barreled out of the hidden hallway into one of the château’s main corridors. Thanks to the time of the day—that odd lull before dinnertime when everyone returned to their chambers to get changed—it was empty.
“Find the guards!” I told Athénaïs. “Find a magicien!” I pried her white-knuckled fingers off my arm and pushed her.
She whimpered, Mimi clutched to her chest, but the magical cloud erupted from the servants’ corridor, its shape distorted to reach forward. It drove her to action. She grabbed the maid’s arm and ran off, her shouts ricocheting against the marble floor and high ceiling.
“Help! Help! Somebody help!”
I veered right, my silk stockings slipping on the flagstones, my legs pumping and my lungs on fire. I couldn’t keep this pace for long. As predicted, the dark magical shape pounced after me, dancing and undulating in my wake. In case of an attack, protocol dictated my musketeers take me to the guardroom, which was heavily armed and manned. Except there was no one in sight. Like a cursed palace in one of Monsieur Perrault’s fairy tales, the château stood deserted, servants, courtiers, and guards all gone. Whatever was happening, it wasn’t only affecting me.
Each breath more difficult than the last, my pulse out of control, I forced my aching limbs to keep moving, until the guardroom doors appeared at the far end of the hallway. No one stood outside, and when I slammed into the doors, they didn’t give way. My heart tumbled down my chest.
“Open up!” I shouted. My voice came out breathless and raspy.
I knocked on the painted panels until they rattled, but they didn’t move. My throat closing out of fear and lack of air, I faced the magical haze of darkness gaining ground on me until it filled most of my line of vision. Stuck between the door and the spell, my body ready to give in, the magic in me useless to the point of irony, I was trapped.
“Disparais!”
The shouted word, combined with a flash of light so bright I had to close my eyes, made me raise my arms out of instinct. The spell cracked in the magically saturated air like thunder during a storm, then silence fell. I chanced a glance between my arms. The dark cloud retreated onto itself, as if swallowed by an invisible mouth, until all the smokelike tendrils withdrew and the air stilled at last.
“Madame!”
Fouquet’s silhouette appeared in the middle of the corridor, his eyes taken over by a golden hue and his hands up, ready to cast another spell.
“Your Highness, are you all right?” A familiar black-clad figure rushed to my side, and I nearly collapsed into Moreau’s arms.
“What … what was that?” I coughed, my lungs protesting against the air I tried to force in. “What’s going on?”
“An attack against the royal family,” Fouquet said. The golden tone in his eyes receded to his irises as he leaned in to catch my gaze. “Your Highness, are you hurt?”
I shook my head, my wet cough preventing me from answering.
“Let’s take her to the others,” the Crown Magicien told Moreau.
I was too shaken to feel annoyed by their lack of regard for my presence between them. Instead, I let them guide me back upstairs, each with an arm linked with mine. To my surprise, they took me to my husband’s apartments.
“The attack was too sudden and multiheaded to gather everyone downstairs,” Moreau explained. “We led His Majesty to the nearest secure location, which happened to be Monsieur’s rooms.”
Half an army stood in the corridor outside Philippe’s chambers, musketeers and palace guards with severe faces like masks of worry. Their gazes softened at my arrival, but their stance didn’t relax. In the antechamber, more men stood sentry, and shouts filtered through the closed doors.
“You can’t stop me!” Philippe’s voice, unmistakable, then a muffled reply, followed by more shouting. “She’s my wife! I’m not leaving her out there!”
Upon a sign from Fouquet, two musketeers opened the doors to the salon, where the royal family gathered.
“Oh, thank God.” Philippe had me suffocated in an embrace before I had taken two steps inside the room. I coughed against his chest, and Moreau had to prize me from his grasp.
“Her Highness needs to sit down.”
But Philippe seemed incapable of letting me go. He cupped my face in his hands, his anxious gaze roaming all over me.
“Did it hurt you?”
Too out of breath to reply, I shook my head. He kissed my forehead and wrapped his arm around my shoulders to lead me to an empty chair. A glass of water materialized before me, held by Fouquet.
“Here, Madame. Have a sip.”
I obeyed, barely registering the strange shimmer of the drink. It had on me the same effect as the handkerchief the magicien had given me at the theater all those weeks ago. At first it was like drinking mint-flavored cold water, then the spell took hold, coating my throat and lungs and soothing me. As my breathing settled, Philippe wiped my cheeks and forehead with his handkerchief, as one would a feverish child.
“She’s pale,” he said. For a second I failed to understand who he was addressing, until he turned to a man in a black robe and lace collar on the other side of the room. “Can you come and check on her?”
But the doctor was busy whispering to another lady, and didn’t pay attention to him. Now that my discomfort lessened, however, I could inventory my surroundings. The Queen Mother sat in an armchair, Marie-Thérèse lying on a sofa next to her with her hands resting on her round belly in a protective gesture. Both their faces were pinched with anxiety, but they bore no outward signs of injury.
Fouquet moved around the room, muttering spells and putting up wards that gleamed in the sunset like a near-invisible shield. Moreau stood by the door, a dark sentinel in the day’s fading light, and the king knelt by the sitting lady the doctor was attending. For a second my traumatized brain failed to recognize who it was—surely the entire royal family was already there?—until the doctor shifted his position and gave me a clear view of Louise de La Vallière. I blinked at my lady, whose hand sported a bloody scratch, and shot Philippe a confused look.
“What’s Louise doing here?” I whispered.
He brought a chair next to mine and sat with my free hand in his. “She was with my brother when they were attacked in the gardens.”
I heard the king has a mistress.
Athénaïs had been right, as always. We’d just overlooked one candidate: pretty, innocent, and pious Louise, who had always found the king the most handsome man at court and who’d spent two weeks helping him practice a spell in what I thought to be a display of loyalty to me. I had been blind. Her loyalty had been for Louis, of course, and he had taken notice of it.
“His musketeers led them back inside,” Philippe went on in a low voice, “but they couldn’t reach the guardroom or Louis’s apartments, so they stopped here. Marie-Thérèse was also set about by the spell, but her guards got Fouquet to intervene before it was too late. Mother and I were spared, thank goodness.”
“Where were you?” I asked.
“In Armand’s rooms on the other side of the castle.” His gesture mechanical, he rubbed
my cold fingers in his warm hands, the motion oddly calming. “Musketeers came to fetch me and brought me here. Then no one knew where you were, and when I tried to leave, Louis wouldn’t let me. Thankfully Fouquet offered to go.”
Fouquet was done with his spells, and he chatted in low tones with Moreau by the door. A pang of gratitude shot through me at the sight of the two men who’d just saved my life. I would have to think of a way to thank them both later.
My gaze drifted from them to the king. Louis now stood between his mother and Louise, one hand on each chair’s back. When I caught his gaze, the faintest smile of acknowledgment crossed his lips. Then he turned and spoke in quiet tones to Louise, whose dried tears still marked her pale face. I stared, too stunned to react. Wasn’t he even going to ask me how I was? Wasn’t he even concerned a little about how I felt after such an attack?
Then it hit me: He wasn’t. He could see I was well, and that was enough. Magiciens don’t care about their Sources. They just use them. My mother had been right. Louis’s interest in me had always only been about my magic. He’d never paid attention to me before finding out what I was, and since then his only concern had been how to use me to his best advantage. I had been a blind, naive fool to think otherwise.
I looked down at Philippe’s hand still squeezing mine. Catching my gaze, he tightened his lips into a thin smile, half apology, half reassurance. I returned it. My husband had many shortcomings, but he’d never made me feel used. And maybe he was right. Maybe I ought to stop trusting his brother, and start trusting him.
CHAPTER XII
The small gilded boats glided along the waters of the canal like gemstones slipping off a string. Pulled by the invisible force of Fouquet’s spell, they moved in a row, quietly carrying their cargo of courtiers in the afternoon sunshine. Sat astern and holding my parasol, I dipped my hand in the fresh water, my rings glinting in the current.
“They all look like conspirators to me.”