In the Shadow of the Sun

by EM Castellan

  Her golden gaze held a warning glint, and despite my panicked heartbeat, I had no choice but to obey. She couldn’t cast a spell without a Source, I reasoned, and she couldn’t very well hurt me in front of the whole court. Chances were she told the truth and she only meant to talk to me.

  Our buggy rolled along the length of the canal, the ride unnaturally smooth thanks to Fouquet’s spell, but I couldn’t pay attention to the avenue of cypresses, the box-hedged lawns, or the colorful flower beds. Stiff in my seat and my hands white-knuckled around my fan and parasol handle, I kept a wary eye on Olympe, waiting for her to speak. An amused smile teased her lips as she obviously enjoyed my discomfort, letting the minutes tick by. We reached a terrace at the end of the canal, where stone lions and a row of niched statues in grottos emerged without warning.

  “Notice the squirrel between the lion’s paws,” Olympe said. “It’s Monsieur Fouquet’s symbol, did you know?”

  I kept my tone cold to answer. “It looks to me like he should be careful around the lion.”

  She opened her mouth to reply, but I cut her off.

  “What do you want?”

  I held her gaze, and her lips pinched into a disapproving pout, but she answered me at last.

  “We know what you are, now. Well done on hiding the truth for so long, by the way. Your harmless-princess charade had us fooled.”

  Anger boiled in me at the rudeness of her tone, but I swallowed my pride and listened to her little speech. I needed to know what Fouquet intended more than I wished to uphold etiquette.

  “But,” she went on, “the Crown Magicien wants to give you one last chance to make the right choice. He’s prepared to welcome you as his Source and to reward you handsomely for your services.”

  The same offer they’d made to Louise when they thought she was the king’s Source. So Fouquet still hoped to have me side with him.

  “So he proposes to have you hand me over to him so he can kill me?” I replied. “How stupid do you think I am?”

  A shadow crossed her features, and I thought for a second she would be insolent enough to answer my rhetorical question. But instead she smoothed her features once again and spoke in the patient tone one might use with a difficult child.

  “Monsieur Fouquet won’t kill you. That’s his offer. You choose to work with him, lend him your powerful magic, and you both benefit from the partnership.”

  I paused, pretending to ponder her suggestion. Our buggy was making its way back to the château, swans on the canal gliding alongside us. Even if Fouquet managed to somehow seize the throne, he would need magic to sustain his coup. Killing me would provide him with a lot of power, but by his own admission, this magic wouldn’t last as long as he needed. He would make better use of me alive.

  “Let’s say I agree to this offer,” I replied, playing along with a thoughtful expression. “What happens next? What does Monsieur Fouquet want?”

  Encouraged by my attitude, Olympe relaxed her hold on me a fraction. “The king has to go, that’s obvious. But Monsieur doesn’t. Your weakling of a husband isn’t a magicien, or a strong-willed man. Monsieur Fouquet would consider keeping him on the throne while he rules behind the scenes.”

  Here it was. The damning piece of evidence we’d been waiting for to nail the Crown Magicien to a cross of his own making. Planning to overthrow a king was treason, no matter how highly ranked the culprit was. And we now had a witness, who’d confessed to a member of the royal family. Even if Olympe denied everything later, I would be able to stand before the Parliament and swear on the Bible that what she had told me was true. My heart thumped against my ribs, but not out of fear this time.

  The castle’s silhouette grew on the horizon, and the prospect of escaping Olympe’s clutches soon emboldened me.

  “What if I say no?”

  Her face darkened. “You don’t want to do that.”

  I snatched back my arm. “Why not?”

  “Because.” She leaned forward to plant her gold gaze in mine. “If you refuse, the Crown Magicien will kill everyone you ever cared about, starting with your precious ladies-in-waiting, until you say yes.”

  I blinked, stunned by the arrogance of her threat. “He won’t get away with it.”

  “He will once the king is dead.” Her face tense with determination, she stared at me, waiting for my reaction.

  I frowned. “Why do you side with him? Fouquet. You’re head of the Queen Mother’s household. You’re a magicienne in your own right. You have a position at court, respect, and a good reputation. Why follow him in his folly?”

  She bristled at my choice of words, her expression turning vicious. “Shouldn’t I want more than a good situation at court and a good marriage? I’m the same age as the king, did you know that? Why should the rest of my life be about children and duties and sacrifices? Fouquet is right, you know. Magiciens should rule, not be ruled. And women with magic—whether magiciennes or Sources—should be offered more than the right to entertain this court and attend stupid parties.”

  “So your solution is to kill everyone who stands in your path?” I countered. I could see her point, but her means to achieving it was wrong, however she presented it. “And aren’t you just serving another master? Isn’t Fouquet controlling you as much as the king and the court do?”

  “We’re partners.” She emphasized the word. “We work together. We trust each other. But I don’t expect you to understand.”

  I relaxed my shoulders as our buggy slowed by the castle’s staircase. She was right. I didn’t understand how a clever, strong-willed woman like her could be foolish enough not to see she was Fouquet’s pawn in his game of power. The Crown Magicien didn’t want to share his power with the king, I doubted he’d be any more inclined to share it with her—whatever type of relationship they had.

  Our carriage came to a halt, and a servant held out his arm to help me down.

  “What’s your answer, then?” Olympe asked.

  I straightened my back, gathered my skirts, and accepted the servant’s help. “My answer is no. You tell your master that I do not care for threats. He’s underestimated me once. I suggest he doesn’t make the same mistake a second time.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Despite my earlier bravado, it was with the greatest amount of relief that I spotted Athénaïs and Louise among the crowd in the oval Grand Salon.

  “We thought we’d lost you,” Athénaïs teased with a smile.

  But my patience was as frayed as my nerves, and my reply was cold. “You did lose me. We’re supposed to stay together.”

  My ladies exchanged a look as supper was announced, cutting short any discussion. I handed my parasol to Louise and snapped my fan open, before following the procession into the ground floor rooms. An odd silence settled over the assembled courtiers making their way through the salons, and I forgot my own worries for an instant when I took in my surroundings: I had just entered what could only be the palace of a fairy-tale king.

  Colorful allegorical paintings adorned walls and ceilings, gold-embroidered curtains draped the windows, ancient busts sat on marble pedestals, and marquetry furniture filled every corner under the bright glare of gilded chandeliers. I caught sight of tapestries, ivory statues, and inlaid cabinets while a servant guided me to my seat at the long table. Violin music rose from the back of the room, where Lully’s tall and dark-haired silhouette conducted what looked like an orchestra larger than the royal one. And everywhere, Fouquet’s coat of arms—a squirrel climbing a tree—taunted the onlooker with his motto “Quo non ascendet?”

  To where will he not ascend?

  “Damn,” Philippe whispered as he took his seat next to me, “the devil knows how to host a party.”

  The layout of the table matched his statement: an orderly profusion of food and dishes, as if a cornucopia had emptied its contents before us. Atop the Venetian-laced tablecloth, delicacies were served on silver plates, while wine and condiments came in gold containers. Above our heads,
the warm air crackled with magic and golden flecks floated under the high ceiling, ensuring the candles burned bright and the music swelled in our ears. A sweet scent permeated the room and covered the smell of overheated perfumed bodies and cooked food.

  Olympe’s warning still ringing in my mind, my heart lodged in my mouth and I glanced about to take note of familiar faces. As per protocol, I sat between the king and my husband, with the Queen Mother on Louis’s right and Fouquet next to her. Madame de Valentinois had claimed the seat on Philippe’s left, and Armand sat on the opposite side of the table a few seats over. He caught my gaze and threw a furious look toward the duchess, but given her rank, she had every right to sit by the royal family. I gave him a helpless shrug and turned my attention farther down the table, to find Athénaïs with Prince Aniaba and Louise sulking next to the Comte de Saint-Aignan.

  “What’s the matter?” Philippe asked.

  He tasted the wine and smacked his lips together without turning to me. For a second his capacity to play the indifferent husband frightened me, and I didn’t find the words to answer him. Then he shot me a quick, concerned glance, and the shadow of genuine care flickered across his features. Under the pretense of unfolding his napkin in his lap, he held my hand under the table.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Fouquet’s maître d’hôtel Monsieur Vatel appeared, and a hush fell over the guests for his compliment to the king and the Crown Magicien.

  I withdrew my hand. “I’ll tell you in a minute.”

  “A four-course collation, Your Majesty,” the slender man said with a bow and a flourish. “With something to delight everyone, I hope.”

  A polite round of applause greeted the announcement, and supper started. I had little appetite as it was, but the dizzying carousel of dishes that the servants presented stole the last of my desire for food. Roasted veal, venison, cold roast beef and pheasants followed hot sausages, pâtés, meat, and fish pies with vertiginous abundance. Next to me Louis ate without ceremony, but I eyed the poultry and lamb in sauce with uncertainty, until Philippe gestured for a servant.

  “Can you give her some vegetables?”

  A plate of peas, asparagus, and mushrooms appeared before me. I stared at it, my breath caught in my throat and the mere thought of swallowing anything turning my stomach. Philippe snapped his fingers for someone to fill my glass with wine, and he handed it to me.

  “Drink,” he whispered. “You’re pale as a sheet and you need to eat.”

  His breath tickled my ear, comforting more than annoying. I forced a breath down my tight lungs and drank the wine. Philippe retrieved my glass and put it down.

  “Now tell me what’s wrong.”

  A quick look around allowed me to assert the guests were busy eating, their loud chatter rising with the volume of the music. Only Armand ignored his neighbors and cast us worried glances between mouthfuls. I raised my napkin to my lips, as if to hide a cough, and Philippe leaned toward me.

  “Fouquet sent Olympe, in the gardens,” I said in a low tone. To his credit, Philippe didn’t twitch or tense. “He had an offer for me. He said he’d spare everyone if I accepted to become his Source.”

  His face unreadable, Philippe plucked an asparagus from my plate and ate it. “What did you reply?”

  “I said no. And I fear—”

  He planted his gaze in mine. “No one is going to die. We’re all here, and there’s not a thing he can do now.”

  His confidence unwound my nerves a little. Behind us, tasters checked each serving platter before it landed on the table. Musketeers guarded the doors and didn’t partake in the festivities.

  “You did the right thing,” Philippe concluded. “Now, please try to eat something.”

  I obeyed and swallowed a few mushrooms, and the meal continued. Desserts and fruit came at last, with glossy pies and towering cakes, along with elaborate piles of marzipan and candied fruit. Everything on silver salvers, sprinkled with golden dust. A strawberry pie, more appetizing than the rest, grabbed my attention, and I caught the Queen Mother’s approving nod as I ate a slice. Just like her youngest son, she rarely missed a thing under her veneer of calculating indifference. I finished the pastry slice, yet a nagging feeling clamped over my chest—a sense of foreboding I couldn’t shake despite the bright lights, colorful feast, and cheerful conversations.

  * * *

  The evening entertainment consisted of a play by Molière in the gardens. After the salon’s stifling atmosphere, the fresh night air was welcome. Under the clear dark sky, a temporary stage stood against the illuminated backdrops of the castle’s baroque facade, and thousands of magic lights burned on the lawn, as if a reflection of the mantle of stars above.

  On the raised platform, rocks turned into shells and birthed nymphs, satyrs, and fauns. While a mischievous wind brought statues to life and awoke the spirits in the trees, water sprouted from nowhere and Lully’s music mesmerized the audience. Magic was in every scene, metamorphosing the actors into godlike creatures, making them glide about the stage during the dance numbers and carrying their voices to the last row of spectators in the comedy moments.

  Spellbound, the courtiers gasped, laughed, and clapped, yet my churning thoughts prevented me from enjoying this story about a man whose attempts at courtship were repeatedly thwarted by intrusive bores. The allusion to the king’s own heart troubles in Fontainebleau was subtle and gentle enough to please the crowd, and for a moment Louis’s eyes crinkled with genuine amusement next to me, but Olympe’s threats kept twirling through my mind.

  “You’re fidgeting,” Louis whispered in my direction during one of the ballet sequences. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow and I made a poor attempt at an apologetic smile.

  “I’m worried.”

  He returned his attention to the stage. “It’s almost over. We’ll be going home in a couple of hours and tomorrow I’ll have the man arrested, proof of guilt or not.”

  “Actually,” I said. “I have the proof of guilt.”

  Surprise flashed across his face and he quickly smoothed his features again. “How?”

  “During the tour of the gardens. Olympe de Soissons confessed he intends to kill you.”

  His knuckles turned white on the handle of his gem-studded cane, but he remained composed. “We have him then. I’ll send the musketeers to arrest him in the morning and then he can have a conversation with Moreau in the dungeons.” He made the word conversation sound utterly unpleasant, which I assumed it would be.

  I bit my lip as the dancers glided off the stage and the violin music died down. Only a couple of hours before we headed home. We had the proof of Fouquet’s treason. He would be arrested tomorrow and Moreau would ensure he remained locked up and harmless until his trial. Then why did uneasiness still press on my lungs?

  Applause and cheering rose around me and I clapped mechanically as the actors bowed onstage. Snippets of earlier conversations tumbled through my head.

  If you refuse, the Crown Magicien will kill everyone you ever cared about … until you say yes.

  No one is going to die. We’re all here, and there’s not a thing he can do now.

  Realization shot through me with a pang and drained the blood from my face. We weren’t all here.

  “Moreau.” I gasped.

  Philippe, still clapping along with the audience, shot me a questioning look. “What?”

  My heartbeat frantic, I craned my neck, in search of the familiar dark-clad silhouette. In the past five months, he’d always been here, hovering in the background, materializing at my side whenever I even thought his name. Yet tonight, when the whole royal family was under threat, trapped in their enemy’s lair, he was nowhere to be seen.

  My mind raced, struggling to remember the last time I’d spoken with him. It was when he’d helped me out of my carriage upon our arrival at the castle, I realized. Hours ago. I had looked for him in the crowd when Olympe had ambushed me in the gardens, but in my panic I had overlooked the incongruity of
his absence then. Yet now it was as glaring as the bright lights onstage.

  I gripped Philippe’s arm. “Where is Moreau?”

  Around us, chairs creaked as courtiers stood up, exchanging comments about the play. Before anyone moved any further, however, fireworks exploded above our heads. Colorful sparks filled the starry sky, surrounded the fountains, stretched along the canal, twirled about the lawns, and erupted around the château’s imposing structure. Bright blue light and golden flames engulfed the whole of Vaux-le-Vicomte with magic, yet I took in none of it.

  The loud banging of the rockets covered the courtiers’ voices, and I hissed at Philippe. “Moreau. Where is he?”

  Understanding slackened his features, and he looked around. The king and the Queen Mother had moved away to watch the fireworks display, and Fouquet was chatting with the Comte de Saint-Aignan, at ease like a cat that knows he’s trapped the mouse and can relax.

  “Moreau was with you when we arrived,” Philippe said. “I haven’t seen him since.”

  My pulse doubled its speed. “We have to find him.”

  As if sensing the shift in our behavior, Armand appeared, his brows pulled together in suspicion. “What’s happening?”

  “Moreau’s missing,” I replied.

  “Moreau, the man in black who’d die rather than smile?” he replied. “Is he important?”

  “Not now, Armand,” Philippe snapped.

  I had never seen him this serious in public, and it sobered Armand’s good mood immediately.

  “All right. What do we do?”

  “We find him.” I took a step away, but Philippe grabbed my arm.

  “We can’t just all up and vanish. People will notice.”

  My mind still on Moreau, I made my decision in an instant. I fished a handkerchief out of Philippe’s coat pocket and pretended to cough into it.

  “If anyone asks,” I told Philippe, “I was feeling faint and I went inside. You stay here and make sure no one else disappears.”

  But he didn’t let me go. “You can’t go alone!”