Dove Keeper

by Emily Deibler

  “No, her family name. In fact—Deibler, do you mean like the executioner?”

  Day-blair. Sounded French to Jehanne. “She’s the executioner’s daughter.”

  “You’ve made an interesting choice in companionship.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “I’m not judging. Go on. What have you told her?”

  “Not much, really. We just speak about girl things.” She swallowed. “She’ll be safe, won’t she, if she were to visit me and stay the night?”

  “I don’t see why she wouldn’t be, not with my protection. And Moreau’s, of course.”

  “She’ll be here today.”

  Father cocked a brow. “When?”

  “I don’t know, an hour?”

  He blinked. She’d seen him cry and panic, but never had he looked this thoroughly stunned. “That’s rather short notice, don’t you think?”

  “I’m sorry, Father, but she was crying about something. She’s having trouble at home, and I wanted her to feel less lonely.”

  “She can’t go to her parents, her mother? I imagine her mother would be better at gauging a feminine temperament.”

  “She relates to me more because we’re close in age.” Give or take five, possibly six years. How old is Marcy, again?

  Father tilted his chin in thought, his eyes losing focus for a handful of seconds. “If it makes you happy, pup, I’ll do what I can. I’m sure I’ll arrange something. It would do if the servants prepared some food.”

  Jehanne rushed and embraced him. “Thank you!” She went to him so swiftly, the half-empty goblet on the table beside the armchair swished.

  He patted her head. “Of course.”

  “You won’t regret it.” Perhaps having someone else here would help him out of his gloomier moods.

  “I’m sure I won’t.”

  “I think you might even like her company.”

  His smile was tired. “I may indeed.”

  “I just want to help Marcy as best I can.”

  Father kissed her cheek, but when he broke away, his expression saddened. “And that’s what I love about you, pup, that fiercely gentle heart.”

  “Among other things, I’m sure.” Jehanne stopped beaming. “But if Marcy’s here, will that be too much work for Clair?”

  He squeezed her shoulder. “Oh, pup, you’re still worried over that? Don’t fret. She’s a paid servant. You can make her do whatever you want.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Father insisted, his grip steady, “I’m absolutely certain.”

  Jehanne hoped for a peaceful night, and with Marcy here soon, her sleep should be better.

  It had to be.

  10

  Marcy

  The late afternoon wind tugged on her coat as Papa drove away and Jehanne ran to her. Marcy and Papa hadn’t spoken much; he had a knack for knowing not only what to say, but also when not to speak. Before Marcy left the lurching, sputtering auto, Papa kissed her and pulled her to him, and she smelled his cologne and sighed against his coat. In that brief moment of bliss, her mind drifted to a trip her family had made back when they took trips, the glass-green, hazy time when they went to Deauville and played by the sea. André and Marcy chased one another, and her parents stood knee-deep in the water.

  Both then and now, Marcy imagined she and her family (Papa, actually, just Papa) were some of the last people in the world on an island of magic and safe isolation. Maman managed the money, kept a close eye on what was needed, what they could afford, and what desires they couldn’t indulge. As such, the family never returned to the sea, but so long as the memory lingered, Marcy could find comfort in the old taste of salt-sweat and the cat-tongue burn of sand beneath her toes.

  She wished they could return there.

  The high, black metal gate before her looked like two giant spiders, and the path led to a stout structure of white stone. At least, Marcy suspected the manor had been white until the green crept between its mouth.

  She carried the beaten valise, heavier than it had any right to be, the bag Maman had used that time the family went to the sea, the one trip Marcy remembered. Besides the phlegm for her crying, Marcy swore salt settled on her lips when Jehanne raced down the manor steps and flung two arms around her. Marcy could only offer an arm in return, her gaze on the leering, lichen-stained beast before her. A long, vined trellis crawled up to the yawning, half-caged mouth of a balcony.

  Marcy laughed when they separated. “How long have you been waiting there?”

  “A little while. Is it too soon to do something like that? I’m not sure how this works after, you know.” Jehanne pointed to her own head.

  “What do you mean? Embracing?”

  “Yes, is it too soon to give an embrace?” Jehanne lowered her voice and leaned closer. She smelled of old pages and autumn musk. “Because you looked like you needed one.”

  Marcy was sheepish, a strange thing for her. If she weren’t trying to keep composure, she’d shuffle her feet. “No, no, I really liked that.” Embracing like this wasn’t really done in her town, but if doing this the American way meant closer contact with her new friend, she was okay with it.

  Jehanne leaned forward, and Marcy couldn’t help but be drawn by her musty old book smell. “Are you feeling okay now?”

  “I will feel okay, I think.”

  Jehanne cocked her head. “If you need to talk, let me know. You did let me spew off my own problems, after all.” She nodded back at the front door. “Anyhow, Father’s in the main hall, at least that’s where I left him.” Rolling her eyes, she added, “Had to talk him out of chaperoning me on the porch. He made the servants prepare an early supper. The food’s not ready yet, but it’ll make you feel better.”

  With an aching grin, Marcy rubbed her cramping belly. “I hope so.” She wished she could spur up the same energy she had at the park. She didn’t have experience with friendships, and she didn’t want to mire Jehanne in her muddy little memory puddles.

  “I’ll carry your bag.”

  “You don’t have to.” But Jehanne leaned to grip the handle, and Marcy let go, her fingers tingling when her friend’s skin brushed hers.

  “Don’t worry over it. Mlle Clair should carry it up to your room.” Jehanne strode toward the front door, and Marcy followed up the age-split stone.

  On each side of the vast main hall, perfectly symmetrical and angular, were two sets of stairs, but below the landing, there was a short stint of wall between the banister and the hall. The area was cold.

  “You have an open balcony,” Marcy said. She’d noticed the outside mouth of the thing, sure, but hadn’t looked beyond the teeth. Jehanne’s hot body blurred her line of thought, and apparently her vision.

  The space between Jehanne’s brow dented. “Hmm, you’re right.”

  Before they could continue the conversation, the servant, the one who had dragged Jehanne away at the park, came out of one of the many openings in the hall. Clair looked as she did before, so much like Maman, but somehow more withdrawn, more severe.

  The servant tilted her neck and pointed to the valise. “I’m assuming this is yours?”

  Marcy beamed. “I sure hope so.”

  Mlle Clair grunted, picked up the valise, and climbed the stairs.”

  Gazing back at the balcony, Marcy asked, “What about when it rains? Or birds fly in?” Marcy recalled Jaune, Papa’s old canary who died two years back. Maybe Jehanne’s father didn’t mind birds in his home.

  “There’s a curtain, see? It’s mostly for the sun, but it’s thick enough to keep rain out. Father says it needs to be replaced because it mildews, though.”

  Skeptically, Marcy said, “I don’t think a curtain can keep a bird out.” The room was chilly, and she swore she felt a draft. “But it’s a swell thing to look at.” She could see whoever constructed the manor, with all the baroque paintings, the swords, and the tapestries mounting the walls, was someone who cared more about aesthetics than practicality. Or keeping warm
and dry.

  “Didn’t you say your papa would be here?”

  Jehanne hmmed and rubbed the unscarred side of her neck. “I’ve no idea where he went.”

  “Well.” Marcy spun in a little circle. “You have so much. This place is huge. It’s like something out of a different time.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Have you ever been inside anyone else’s home?”

  “No.”

  Marcy poked Jehanne’s shoulder. “We’ll fix that! I’ll make sure you can visit me one day, and you could—I’m sure André wouldn’t mind sleeping on the couch.” Good thing André wasn’t here to contest that. “And you could meet Papa and Jolie.”

  “Who’s Jolie?”

  “She’s my dog.” Jehanne stared. “You do know what a dog is, don’t you?”

  Her friend gave her a lopsided grin. “Yes, I’m not quite that distant from reality.”

  “Have you ever been around one before?”

  “I’ve seen pictures in books. That counts, doesn’t it?”

  That made Marcy sad, actually. “You don’t know what petting a dog feels like?”

  Jehanne shook her head and joked, “Is that something that needs fixing?”

  For Marcy, this wasn’t a laughing matter. “Yes! You can’t just never pet a dog.” Jolie was older than Marcy, so Marcy’d had a pet her entire life, and she didn’t like seeing Jolie limp when her hip struck an odd angle or groan as she stood up. She didn’t like the odd bumps hanging from her oldest friend’s belly. She tried to distance herself from Jolie’s waning years, but Marcy at least wanted Jehanne to meet the dog before the end.

  “How does it feel, then?”

  “Jolie has this wavy fur that’s sleek like people hair. It’s practically silk. Okay, that settles it, you have to meet her soon. Everyone should pet a dog before they die.”

  A man’s voice said, “What’s this about a dog?” Marcy whipped about. The man’s face was long and blue-shadowed like Maman’s, but that was where the resemblance ended; he was both wolfish and like a fatigued cherub—rosy-cheeked, blue-eyed, curly-gold, where Maman was porcelain-wan, dark-eyed, and black-haired.

  A cherub with teeth to him when he smiled. What an odd thought. Would Marcy rather he not have teeth?

  He smoothed his hair and spoke to Jehanne first. “Sweet pup, you really should’ve given me more notice.”

  Jehanne shrugged one shoulder. “Yes, well.”

  “Oh, I understand. If this makes you happy, think no more of it.” His hand settled on the crown of Jehanne’s head like a sparrow swallowing a little moth. A gentle smile and open hands, welcoming his daughter. Jealousy festered, because even though she had Papa, Maman and she still had a wound, and it’d spoil everything if she didn’t clean and wrap it up.

  “And you’re Marcy, I suspect?” Well, they’d be in dire straits if she wasn’t.

  Jehanne’s father wouldn’t stop beaming, and what once unsettled Marcy called to her because she needed that sweetness, that absence of tense arms and eyes lingering for minutes on the tablecloth.

  Marcy offered, “It’s good to meet you, monsieur.” She shook his hand, and it was hot, but she welcomed his friendliness all the same.

  She expected to be shown around, though maybe the issue was that she wasn’t asking questions, but she didn’t think it was polite to ask, “What made you think having an open balcony was a good idea?” or “Does your furnace work? Where did you go to make your hand so warm?” She wondered if the manor had a new heater or one of those steam ones in the books that looked like these muscled half-octopus, half-dragon monsters.

  Jehanne’s father said, “There’s a bit of a delay in the meal.” He caressed his daughter’s face and lingered in a way Papa wouldn’t with Marcy, a second or three too long. Jehanne accepted the gesture with a tilt of her head and a smile as fleeting as running water, as if it was what a daughter would do, but not what she wanted. “Jehanne, darling, why don’t you go on ahead?”

  Marcy took a step to follow her friend, but halted when Jehanne’s father didn’t budge. He stared at a fixed point in the distance. Following his gaze, Marcy found nothing of interest.

  He blinked. “Ah, look at this. The family coat of arms.” The tapestry was shield-shaped, patches of gold-petaled fleurs-de-lis stippling an azure ground, a yellow shield dismembered with a black cross. In Marcy’s eyes, the design was a tad garish.

  “What . . .” What would her own family coat of arms look like? The Widow and a decapitated dove, since her medieval ancestors took care of doves before they tended to the gallows and changed their religion out of necessity.

  She decided not to think of the subject again.

  The monsieur answered, “It originates from an ancestor who fought for our country many years ago.”

  Unable to hold back her curiosity, Marcy asked, “Which war?”

  The monsieur shrank a little, all his limbs retreating close to his heart. “The one that lasted over one hundred years.”

  Below the crest, there was an elaborate weapon on display. Hesitant but too curious to quell herself, Marcy lifted a finger. “What sort of sword is this?”

  “A braquemard,” Jehanne’s father answered promptly. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

  “No.” It was pointy, as Marcy supposed most swords were.

  His eyes lost their luster as he stared at the weapon. “I suspected not.” Marcy tried not to ruffle like an indignant cat. By God, she knew many things! She thought it best to let the matter die and not risk the monsieur withdrawing into himself because of unpleasant memories. “Good for beheadings.”

  Marcy sputtered, “I—what?”

  “The sword.” He winked. “At least, I suspect that’s what it’s good for.” He added, “Your family name is German, isn’t it?”

  Marcy didn’t expect the change in topic. She felt as if something bit off part of the conversation. “How did you know?”

  “I’m fond of languages, and I could tell you have German in you without knowing your name.”

  “Oh. Jehanne never told you my name?”

  He ignored her question. “I’ve read that you can do more than guess one’s ancestry by their face; you can see their soul too. That’s a science, and I can see the German in your bones. To your credit, you do look bright, despite your heritage.”

  Marcy’s jaw twitched. “Pardon?” She calmed her voice. No need to make a bad impression. “My maman and her family are from here, and Papa grew up here.”

  Jehanne’s father pressed his finger into his collar as if he itched there. “Good, that dilutes any other influences.” Marcy focused on a blotty shoreside painting and the ache from biting her bottom lip. Papa was good, he really was. Even so, given the war, she didn’t know how apt it was to defend his German heritage.

  When Jehanne’s father strode forth with a sweeping gesture of his left hand, Marcy straightened her dress and followed. He probably didn’t mean to be offensive. Because of her relationship with Maman, she wondered if adults spoke this secret, cryptic language Marcy wouldn’t understand until she grew up. Even André suddenly became blurry and weird after a time. But Papa made sense; maybe he was the exception.

  She was being ridiculous. Best not to overthink when she wanted this visit to calm her.

  The dining room smelled of lemons and roses, and it could’ve been beautiful before time strangled it with both hands. Lime and mildew framed where the floor met the walls, making the goldish corner tiles look like a child’s rotten teeth after too many cream sweets. The silver fleurs-de-lis on the rain-stained, peeling wallpaper crept toward the browning ceiling. Even so, the space was as clean as it could be.

  They sat down at a shiny table that looked too big for a two-person family. Marcy counted twelve chairs with legs curved at the bottom like question marks. She settled across from Jehanne, with Jehanne’s father at the head. The plates and glasses before them were woefully empty.

  A clock ticked like
an inebriated woodpecker. Before another word was said, Marcy jumped when the manor groaned.

  “Oh, never mind that,” Jehanne’s father said with a wave of his hand. “The manor likes to tell its stories. If these halls had secrets and a single mouth, they’d be as traitorous as an Englishman.”

  Jehanne straightened. “The English are with us, aren’t they?”

  Given her host’s taut posture, Marcy wondered if she’d regret speaking, but spoke anyway. “Great Britain is our friend.” She garnered that, at least, from the newspapers. “At least, as far as I know. I don’t leave the house much. My parents don’t like it.” She decided not to specify Maman. If she kept her comments broad enough, she would’ve dive too deep into the past.

  Jehanne’s father smoothed out his beard, though the wrinkled ire over the English hadn’t smoothed out. “Why do your parents keep you so close? Are you their only child?”

  Marcy’s skin prickled, and she scratched her elbow. “Yes.”

  “Ah, I can’t blame them then. Have you read the paper? These are terrible times for children, and you’re their only one. It makes all the sense in the world, in fact, for them to hide you away.”

  Marcy shifted in her seat, tugging her skirt. “The people hate my family because my papa, he—you know.” She flattened her palms in the crease of her thighs.

  “The headsman, yes. More humane than a rope, as odd as it sounds. Cuts clean through the spine. You and your family are too conscientious. The people who demean you are worth the cost of horses. Then, I suppose not, since a horse can be ridden longer.” Marcy didn’t understand his point. One wouldn’t ride another per—

  Oh.

  Heat flooded her cheeks, and she fiddled with her embroidered napkin.

  Silverware clinked against porcelain. “Father.”

  “Pup, who builds the theaters, the cathedrals? Who disposes of society’s evil? These brutes, they hate the aristocracy, the law, but they’re willing to roam the streets, to reap the benefits.”