The Queen looks up at me, face stricken. “I…” Her fingers tighten around the scrap of paper. “I…Belle, I…I wish…Surely I should have, but—”
Jana’s eyes fall to the note, and she freezes. I see her go pale, and understand.
“You did not write it,” I say.
“Belle, wait—”
I stumble to my feet, avoiding her eyes as I try to gather myself into some semblance of grace—some cloak of false dignity that will prepare me to meet the sea of hungry eyes outside. “You didn’t write it. I’m sorry, Your Majesty—sincerely, I apologize. I should never have imposed.”
The Queen is shaking her head. “No…”
“Belle, wait.” Jana grabs my wrist.
I pull myself free, rather more forcefully than necessary, backing away from her as if she might burn me. The skirts of the Queen’s gown are an engulfing tide. As I try to escape, I set my foot wrong, and look down in horror to see a black footprint on the white silk. “I’m sorry,” I choke, “so sorry…”
The Queen’s eyes are wide, and shining with tears—another crime for which I’m accountable. Unable to look at her longer, I flee from the alcove.
Outside, there is a crowd of people, watching, whispering. I see the Queen’s moon-pale handmaiden murmuring with her other new companions. They all look startled to see me. I brush past them—and past Morvarid, Ellery, and Jonas, a trio of malevolent stars tittering at the edge of the crowd. I look for a path to freedom—find an opening—take it.
As I leave the ballroom, I realize that I should go back and find my sister. It’s late, and she probably wants to head home—it would be natural to call the carriage now. But I cannot go back—to enter that room again would kill me. I rush through the foyer and out the front doors, down the stairs and past the line of carriages that wait to pick up their more well-behaved guests. I run awkwardly, skirts gathered in my arms, wincing at the painful pinch of my dancing shoes as I stumble through the cobbled streets toward home.
The servants are scandalized when I appear. They send a boy to the palace for my sister and Rolf, who arrive all in a fluster an hour later. I am scolded, interrogated, and sent to bed. I feel like a misbehaving child—and that is proper, for only a child would have been taken in as I have been. But as I sink into the deep feather mattress, into the fold of rosemary-scented sheets, sleep soon overtakes me.
That night I dream of roses, and of soft words spoken by a woman whose face I cannot see. I wake in tears, and fall asleep again. I sleep for many hours after that.
The sun is bright when I wake up. I squint at the white blaze of my window, at first not remembering what happened last night.
The second I move, it comes back. Shame floods through me. I turn my face into the pillow and close my eyes, but it is all there: my lady’s confused look at the sight of the letter—Jana’s guilt—my humiliating flight through the packed, whispering ballroom. Again and again, I let the memory play inside my head, poking at it like a sore tooth. I want to go back to sleep and forget this ever happened, but I know the truth will be here when I wake up.
The door opens. My sister looks in. Her face is expressionless. Seeing that I am awake, she says flatly, “Get up. Dress, and come downstairs. We need to talk.”
Trembling, I obey. Shame washes over me again as I realize that it was not just me I humiliated last night. How must she and Rolf have felt, to see their fine evening—most likely the only time they will ever be invited to the palace—capped by my ignominious flight? And what must Rolf’s new highborn friends think of our family now? There must have been potential clients in that circle. Now, if they think of Rolf, they’ll also think of his mad sister-in-law. My actions have likely done substantial harm to his business.
I dress slowly, pinning my hair up and putting on my oldest gown. When I open the door, Marianne is waiting—but her eager expression fades when she sees my face. She takes my hand, and we walk downstairs together. I feel as if I am being led to the executioner.
“In here, Belle.” My sister is in the drawing room. I send Marianne away and close the door behind me. My sister waits silently until I am settled on the old floral settee. Then she begins to speak.
“I don’t know if you have truly gone mad, but I am beginning to think we must proceed as if you had. You had every opportunity last night to make a good showing of yourself. If you had retained even the smallest sense of propriety, we might all have had a pleasant evening, and left with our reputations intact. You even had a chance to better your situation. Had you opened your eyes at any moment last night, you would have seen that Mr. Hess and some of the others were very taken with you—or you might have met someone else, if those gentlemen didn’t suit your fancy. You might have been half engaged last night, Belle! Halfway to a comfortable, estimable home—you could have had a life much better than anything Rolf or I could ever put you in the way of. Instead…” She shakes her head. “It’s too much, Belle. I can’t let you keep doing this to yourself.”
My heart lurches. In her voice there is a note of finality that makes it clear that my life is about to change.
“What do you mean?” I say.
My sister sighs. “I mean that I don’t think it’s best for you to live in town anymore. You’re clearly not getting over this—if anything, you’re handling your…attachment…much worse than you were before. I think we need to find somewhere else for you to stay.”
I can see that she is braced for an argument. A part of me wants to give it to her. I don’t want to leave the children—don’t want to leave my home, even though my room here can never really be mine.
But on the other hand, I think again of what happened last night. Everyone who saw me run from that alcove must know by now that my unseemly attachment to the Queen has led me once more into humiliation. It is likely that the incident has even earned a mention in the scandal sheets. Remembering what I went through after my first disgrace—whispers everywhere I went, importunate questions from strangers—I realize that I can’t go through it all again. “Yes.” I finally meet my sister’s eyes. “I think you’re right.”
She looks surprised, but takes my acquiescence in stride. “All right. Good. So…where shall we send you?”
The discussion that follows is more civil than I dared to expect. Eventually we decide that my sister will write to our aunt and uncle, who live in the mountains near L___, and see if they have a place for me. We both spent several summers there as children, and agree that there could be no better place than that fresh, blue-skied valley to escape from the baroque treachery of town society.
“There’s no hurry,” says my sister, though her relief is obvious. “We’re not trying to throw you out into the streets, Belle. It’s just that…”
“I understand.” I rise, smoothing my skirt. We’ve been sitting at the table for quite a while, and I remember that I haven’t yet eaten any breakfast. A cup of tea seems like just the right thing, and perhaps I can get someone to make me a bit of toast. Though my memories of last night are still clear, I am able to ignore them better now that I know my period of public humiliation will likely be short. Perhaps I’ll pin the children down later and give them a French lesson or something. Forcing Marianne to study is sure to be a distraction for all of us.
As I approach the door, I realize that there is quite a lot of noise outside the house—a distant din, as if something very diverting was coming down the street. My sister and I exchange glances. Frowning, she goes to the window.
Then she freezes.
I come up behind her, and see that the Queen’s seneschal, red-plumed and military on his great white horse, is just making the turn onto our street—and behind him, the Queen’s carriage follows.
There is nothing discreet about this procession. The horses walk slow and stately, seneschal and coachman both taking their time. I wonder inanely if this could be another parade, but behind the great carriage there is only a growing crowd of onlookers. All of them are coming straight th
is way.
I hear the front door open. Through the window, I see my niece and nephew hurtle across the lawn. My sister tenses, but it is much too late: the children are already halfway down the street.
Incredibly, the seneschal stops. He addresses the children—appears to ask them something. They answer—bobbing like electrified wires—and point back toward our house.
The seneschal bows gracefully to the children and resumes his progress, with Marianne and Gregory now bouncing in his wake.
Biting her lip, my sister leaves the room. I am left alone to watch the carriage slowly approach—to see its four gray horses draw to a neat stop directly in front of our house. The seneschal dismounts from his own horse and strides up our walk, plumes shivering and buttons flashing in the sun. I lose sight of him as he climbs the front steps.
The doorbell rings. The house seems to shake with it. Again, the front door opens. There is a brief murmur of conversation.
My sister opens the parlor door again. She stares at me for a long moment, face unreadable. Then she sighs. “You’re wanted outside.”
I must be dreaming. I brush past her—out past the staring maids and the inscrutable seneschal. I float down the stairs, my fragile house slippers light as clouds.
Two women have alighted from the carriage. On the left is the Queen’s moon-pale handmaiden, who smiles at me as I approach. On the right stands Jana, uncharacteristically subdued. She gazes at me, eyes pleading, but doesn’t speak.
The carriage door stands open. I climb the steps—I am inside—
And she is there, wide-eyed, hopeful. She takes my hand and draws me down to sit by her amid the perfumed cushions. Behind me, her attendant tactfully shuts the door.
We are alone, the curtains drawn. The dim, quiet air pulses like a heartbeat. The Queen is still holding my hand. “Belle,” she whispers. “Darling…why did you leave me again?”
I can’t speak for shaking. It’s too much—surely it can’t be happening—surely, I’ve died and crossed over into some impossible place.
The Queen waits. When I don’t speak, she sighs. “I’ve made you uncomfortable. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. It’s only that…well, I need to speak to you. May we drive around the park?”
Dazed, I nod. The Queen opens her window and gives a brief instruction to the driver. A second later, the carriage starts to move. I wonder, with a spark of humor, if Jana and the attendant will have to walk home.
“Now.” The Queen takes my hands again. This time, she does not let go. “Tell me, beloved, why you ran away.”
I am trembling like a frightened rabbit. I cannot seem to slow my heartbeat, or stop myself from shaking. At last, I gather my voice, and manage to say, “I had formed…certain assumptions, Your Majesty, based on a…letter I’d received—the one I showed to you last night.”
“And what were the assumptions?” she says gently. “What did you believe, based on that letter, that you had not believed before?”
I cannot say it. I shake my head, avoiding her eyes.
She leans forward. “Was it that I love you?” Her voice is barely audible over the clattering of the horses’ hooves. “That I want you to be with me always? That I was heartbroken when you went away that morning?”
I can’t speak. I am sobbing. I bury my tear-slick face against her shoulder. Though I must be marring the soft blue silk of her gown, she pulls me closer, wraps her arms more tightly around me.
“Why did you go away?” Emotion roughens her soft voice. “For a whole year I thought…that you regretted that night—that you wished to forget what had happened. They told me that you begged to be released—that you only wanted to go home. You never even said goodbye—” Her voice breaks, and I see that her eyes, too, are wet with tears.
I am trying to make sense of what she’s just said. Surely there has been some miscommunication. “They told me that my services were no longer needed, Your Majesty. I was told…not to trouble you any further.” I look at her wide-eyed, imploring her to understand. “My lady, I would never in my life have left your side—not if I could have stayed there even a second longer.”
A blush rises in her cheeks. “And so…the letter…”
“The moment I knew that there was hope…how could I stay away?” I lower my eyes, flushing with remembered shame. “But…you did not—”
“No.” She lays her hand on my cheek, and gently lifts my face so I am looking at her again. “I did not write, because I did not know that writing would be welcome, darling. If I had known—if I had even suspected—that a letter was all it would take to bring you back to me…I would have written a thousand letters. A hundred thousand. ‘And blessed be all my works that bring me fame—and my thoughts, only of her, that no one else has part of.’”
A little shakily, I reply, “‘I once saw her walking all dressed in green—so lovely she would have wakened in a stone the love that I feel even for her shadow.’” My lady looks puzzled. I smile, and say, “Dante, not Petrarch. The words of a thousand poets, my dearest lady, could not express how deeply I love you.” My voice is steady now: of this truth, I am entirely certain.
The Queen holds my hands tightly. Her eyes close for a moment, as if she is uttering a silent prayer. When she opens them, she meets my gaze. “Belle. Darling. Will you come back to the palace and stay with me, and never go away again?”
I draw a sharp breath. As much as I have dreamed of hearing these words, now that I hear them, I can hardly believe they’re real. “But the court.” I hate the objection, but know I must make it. “They will talk—they’ll say—”
She shakes her head. “They will always talk. If I lived always alone, they would call me an aging spinster. And if you are with me, they’ll say I am mad, besotted by my beautiful favorite.” Her smile deepens, showing dimples. “And I am.”
“Lady—” My throat tightens. I can’t bear to think of damaging her reputation. To love her in secret, yes—send letters—meet occasionally, secretly, at night—this is more than I can hope for. But to live openly in the sunlight of her regard—inspiring gossip against her good name—
“Belle.” My lady’s voice is warm and kind. It cuts through the haze of fear I’ve built around myself, brings me back into the present. I realize I am shaking. I take a deep breath, hold it for a moment, and let it go.
“I do not fear the sunlight,” says the Queen. “I have given my people all my life so far. I will live for them still, whether or not you are with me. But…my life will be much happier, Belle, if you are with me…and I believe—I hope—that I may make you happy, too.”
I can’t deny it. “It would be more than my brightest dream,” I say, “to stay by your side always.”
She lets out a slow breath. “Then…” She takes a slip of folded paper from the bodice of her gown, and presses it into my hand. When I open it, I find a note. It reads simply,
I love you. I will love you always. In any color, in any season, in any mood, and at any age, it is you my heart belongs to. Stay with me, Belle, and I will cherish you all the days of my life.
“I will,” I say, and kiss her. And although she takes me in her arms, and we are soon lost in an embrace, I hold the paper carefully, and do not let it crumple—for at the bottom, bold and clear, she has signed her own dear name.
THE END
ABOUT KATHERINE TRAYLOR
Katherine Traylor is from the USA, but has lived abroad for many years. She wrote Summerweek after spending three days wandering around Prague in summer. Her work has previously appeared in Mythic Magazine and the anthology Gods & Services.
For more information, visit twitter.com/amongthegoblins.
ABOUT JMS BOOKS LLC
JMS Books LLC is a small queer press with competitive royalty rates publishing LGBT romance, erotic romance, and young adult fiction. Visit jms-books.com for our latest releases and submission guidelines!
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