by EM Castellan
“Yes, sir,” his men replied, and one moved aside to allow him access to the heavy locks.
The thick metal door grated on its large hinges and opened onto a small cell whose only furniture were a single bed and a low wooden stool. Cold seeped into every corner of the confined space, as if summer and sunshine were concepts the citadel had never heard of. A small aperture, high up in the wall, provided the only source of gray light, lending a gloomy shade to the stones of its walls and floor.
Fouquet sat on the bed, his face turned toward the window. In truth I assumed it was the former Crown Magicien, for nothing in the diminished white-haired figure reminded me of the man who’d attempted to seize the French throne a year ago.
“Two pairs of footsteps,” he said, his voice gravely. “Who have you brought me, musketeer?”
He tilted his head toward us, his black outfit and his stance lending him the silhouette of a raven. The door slammed shut behind us, and my heartbeat thundered in my chest. Despite D’Artagnan’s reassuring presence at my side, the situation was too reminiscent of my time facing Fouquet in the dark grotto at Vaux-le-Vicomte. I swallowed my fear and pulled down my cowl.
Fouquet sprang to his feet. I startled, and D’Artagnan jumped in front of me, his hand already at his sword. But the former Crown Magicien didn’t move toward me. Instead, he stumbled away and crashed against the far wall as if he could magic his way through to get away from me. Shock and fear clashed on his gaunt face, and he let out a strangled cry.
“You!”
Never in my life had I been greeted by such a reaction. My pulse ceased its trepidation all at once, and calm washed over me. There was nothing to fear. Without magic, without wealth, without support, the magicien who had nearly killed me and my family was just an old man imprisoned for his crimes.
“Why … why have you come?” he asked, bewilderment winning over panic on his features.
I relaxed my shoulders and moved around D’Artagnan to sit on the low stool. I gestured toward the bed.
“Sit down,” I said, my voice clear and calm. “I want to talk.”
Fouquet’s gaze flicked between D’Artagnan and me, and some of its old shrewdness returned. He resumed his seat on the bed, and leaned toward me with a half grin.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said. “I’m not even allowed a priest or a doctor. So … what are you doing here, Madame?”
He made my title sound like an insult, and D’Artagnan stiffened at my back, but I ignored it. I had come here with a purpose, and I wouldn’t let myself be distracted. In my experience, Fouquet had two weaknesses: He loved to hear himself talk, and he always thought he had the upper hand. I was ready to take advantage of both.
“I’m not here on behalf of the king, if that’s what you’re hoping,” I replied.
His nostrils flared at the mention of Louis, but he gritted his teeth and didn’t pick up on it. “So you’re here on your own behalf,” he said. “You want something.”
His calculating gaze swept my face and cloak, as if looking for clues. His scrutiny unnerved me, but I kept a straight face. I would not be intimated by him ever again.
“I have questions about magic,” I said. “Questions no one seems able to answer. You once boasted to be the most knowledgeable scholar of magic in the kingdom. I hoped you might have the answers I seek.”
His face darkened. “You have some nerve,” he spat. “After what you did to me, coming here to ask about magic?”
D’Artagnan unsheathed his sword and stepped forward. “You move from that bed and you’ll regret it.”
Fouquet shot him a loathing glare, but he stayed where he was as commanded, and made a show of relaxing his stance by holding up the palms of his hands.
“No need for threats,” he said, a mirthless grin on his lips. “We’re only talking.”
“I am aware of the irony of the situation,” I replied. “Believe me when I say I had no other choice. But I have questions, and I’d like to know if you have answers to them.”
Fouquet shrugged. “Very well. What do I get in return?”
“Nothing.”
He scoffed, and I folded my hands in my lap to gather my resolve. My mother always praised my diplomatic skills. Now was the time to put them to the test.
“There is nothing I can promise you without lying,” I said, “and nothing I can give you without committing treason.”
“Then why should I listen to you, let alone answer your questions?” Fouquet growled.
“You don’t have to, but I trust you’ll want to.”
He snorted. “Then your trust is wrongly placed. Now leave me alone.” He looked up at the window again and made a point of ignoring me.
“Alone,” I said, my tone gentler. “That’s what you are, isn’t it? Nine months in near isolation, when you used to spend your days talking, debating, arguing, seducing, coaxing, convincing. I’m offering you conversation, on your favorite topic.”
His golden gaze returned to me, longing lingering behind them. I had touched a nerve.
“Sweet, unassuming Madame,” he said, a mix of sarcasm and defeatism in his tone. “Are you still the most overlooked person at court? Or have you taken your rightful place at the heart of it all?”
“I’ll be the one asking questions today,” I replied.
He inclined his head in pretend deference. “Of course.”
I paused, half for dramatic effect and half to gather my wits. I had had two weeks to prepare this discussion, and to decide on the phrasing of my questions. Despite his weakened position, Fouquet still struck me as cunning and alert. I didn’t want to divulge any information he could use later.
“To your knowledge,” I asked, “is there a spell to ward off death?”
He startled, and what appeared to be a genuine smile spread across his thin lips. “Now, that’s a very interesting question.”
“Will you answer it?”
He tapped his knee in an absentminded gesture, his focus on the gray stone floor for a moment. I kept my attention on him, ready to call him out on his theatrics, but he inhaled a deep breath and met my gaze with the first frank expression to settle on his face since I had entered his cell.
“Others have wondered about this long before you have,” he said. “Throughout history, magiciens have focused their efforts on a few recurring obsessions: power, wealth, youth and beauty, and of course, defeating death. I’m afraid that, regarding the latter, their efforts have been in vain. Much like we can’t cure illnesses, we can’t stop death.”
Despite my resolve to hide my emotions, my chest deflated. There was no fighting the prophecy this way, then. Still, I pressed on.
“My understanding is that for every spell,” I said, “there is a counterspell. A spell to kill someone exists. Surely this means a spell to protect oneself against it is available too?”
Fouquet nodded. “Some magiciens tried to make themselves impervious to harm,” he said, warming to his subject as I had hoped he would. “But somehow fate always found a way to cut them down in the end. There’s always a loophole, or some unforeseen circumstance that renders the ward spell useless.”
“There’s no fighting fate, I understand, so what about a spell to make someone less vulnerable? Less … weak?”
He tilted his head to the side. “You would have to be more specific.”
I bit my lip, unwilling to give him any details about my life that he could use to his advantage. As if reading my mind, he went on without waiting for my answer.
“The crux of the matter is that no, no one can protect themselves in any long-lasting manner. I tried, and failed, as you’re aware.”
Bitterness crossed his features, and I asked another question before he could dwell on his past mistakes and the reasons behind his fall.
“Can a Source’s magic wane?” I asked. “Disappear, even?”
Interest sparked again in his eyes. “Why?”
“I’m the one asking the questions, remember?” I gav
e him a stern look, and he relented with a sigh.
“I’m only asking,” he said, “because I’ve never heard of such a thing. A Source’s magic is there at birth, and it grows as the child grows. For some, as you well know, the power becomes very strong. Some magiciens access that power more easily than others. But the magic itself doesn’t change.”
I surveyed him, trying to gauge if he was telling the truth. He read the misgivings in my gaze.
“Think of your magic as a block of marble by the side of the road,” he added. “For most people, it’s just a block of marble, something they have no use for and barely notice as they walk by. Only a sculptor can come along and shape something out of it. A very gifted sculptor will create a wonderful statue of a Greek goddess. A less gifted one will just turn the marble into a smooth slab of stone used in a staircase. But in the end, whether the marble is sculpted or not, whether the result is beautiful or not, the marble is still there. Its inner qualities haven’t changed.”
“So a Source’s magic shouldn’t be affected by any outside factors?” I said. “Or any spell?”
“Nothing”—he emphasized the word—“can have an impact on your magic. However … There are outside elements that can affect your ability to use that magic to cast spells. One of them is poor health. Another is tiredness.”
“You mean the Source’s body has an effect on the magic it contains?”
“Yes,” he said, animation turning the gold in his eyes more vivid. “Your body is the vessel for the magic. Anything, anything at all, any change, that affects your body, will influence your capacity to use your magic. For example—”
He stopped, his eyes widening as a sudden realization settled over his features. My heart rate picked up.
“What?”
Hesitation crossed his face, devoid of any malice this time. He glanced at D’Artagnan, still as a statue at my side. He wanted to speak, but the musketeer’s presence stopped him. What could he possibly have to say that required privacy, when he’d had no qualms having the rest of the conversation before witnesses? I replayed his last words in my head. He’d been talking about the link between the Source’s body and their magic. About how changes in one affected the other.
Changes …
I blinked.
“Your Highness,” Fouquet said, his tone so soft as to be almost unrecognizable. “Is there any chance that you might be with child?”
The wooden stool clattered to the floor, the sound jolting me to the fact that I now stood in the middle of the cell. Fouquet startled back on the bed, and D’Artagnan reached for me.
Is there any chance that you might be with child?
Jumbled thoughts whirled through my mind, yet everything was clear for the first time in weeks. Everyone, including myself, had attributed the worsening of my symptoms to my illness, ignoring the fact they pointed at another truth. It was obvious now that the words had been said—it would have been obvious to everyone, including the doctors and magiciens brought to my bedside, if I had been any other woman. But I was Madame, always faint and tired and grimacing at the smell of food, with a husband known for his indifference toward me. The thought hadn’t even crossed anyone’s mind. Yet it made perfect sense.
I was pregnant.
CHAPTER XIV
After the confinement of the Bastille, the ride back to Saint-Cloud was a confusion of loud noises, bright lights, vibrant colors, and conflicting thoughts.
The matter of the prophecy, still unresolved, weighed heavy on my mind, but my first order of business was now to send a message to Philippe, and to see a magicien to confirm the pregnancy.
“Do I have Your Highness’s leave to speak with the king, then?”
D’Artagnan’s question pulled me out of my anxious considerations. My carriage was rumbling through a village, the Parisian buildings left behind a while ago already, and the musketeer had remained silent until now. A wave of appreciation for his thoughtful behavior in the face of my tumultuous state of mind washed through me.
“Yes,” I replied to ease the concerned frown between his brows. “Feel free to tell him of my visit to Fouquet. However I would be grateful if the … other matter could stay between us until I have had time to speak with my husband.”
He inclined his head. “Of course. You have my word.”
“Thank you, for everything.”
I gripped his gloved hand in a rush of gratitude. The man had gone out of his way to help me, and even if my conversation with the former Crown Magicien hadn’t yielded the expected results, I still owed the musketeer a great deal. The shadow of a timid smile tugged at his lips.
“Your request wasn’t made lightly, I know,” he said. “It was my pleasure to accede to it.”
Once at Saint-Cloud he didn’t come into the house, choosing to ride out immediately to Versailles on his horse instead. I took off my black cloak and gloves, too hot for the weather, as I made my way inside the cool and fragrant building. The late-afternoon sunshine lent every room a golden glow and welcoming warmth, and Mimi greeted my return with a wagging tail. I picked her up under my free arm and walked toward my apartments.
“Madame!”
A maid caught up with me on the grand staircase, breathless and strands of hair escaping from her white cap. I longed to hide in my chambers to think and write letters, but I gave her a smile nonetheless.
“I’m glad you’ve returned,” the girl said. “You have another visitor. She’s waiting for you in the blue salon.”
Confusion pushed my brows together. An unannounced guest? Questions pressed against my lips, but the maid spoke again before I could ask any of them.
“We did say Your Highness wasn’t home, but the lady insisted. She’s in such a state we didn’t have the heart to turn her away, and she’s been waiting for an hour.”
Dread added to my perplexity. A lady? In such a state as to not be turned away?
“What on earth are you talking about?” I dropped my cloak and gloves in the maid’s arms, and retraced my steps toward the salon. “Who is this lady?”
The maid trotted behind me, her explanations more unclear by the minute. My skirts swishing after me, I hurried into the blue room. Louise sat on the silk-covered sofa, in tears. I put Mimi down to rush to her.
“What’s happened?”
She fell into my arms with heart-wrenching sobs. For a moment her crying filled the salon, and I dismissed the maid with a discreet nod. The girl called Mimi and closed the double door, leaving us alone. I handed Louise my handkerchief, as hers was already soaked, and forced her to sit down again and to drink a sip of the tea brought in by my servants. Her weeping eased down, punctuated by small hiccups.
“Will you tell me what’s happening?” I asked, my hand tracing gentle circles between her shoulders.
“I left him,” she said at last, her eyes swollen and her nose red. “We argued, and I left him.”
It took me a heartbeat to understand her meaning, and I gaped. “You left Louis? But … you can’t!”
No one left the king of France. No one could; no one did.
“I don’t care.” Louise sniffled, a hint of defiance in her eyes. “I couldn’t stay there a minute longer.”
My earlier dread returned. Louis would be furious when he found out. Louise was my lady. I couldn’t let her make such a rash decision that would impact her whole future life. I had to fix this before the situation got out of hand.
“Just tell me what happened,” I said.
She blew her nose, and took in a deep breath to gather her courage. “You remember how Athénaïs told me about you and Armand?”
Annoyance rose in my throat. How long was this small lie going to pursue me? I needed to have a serious chat with Athénaïs.
“I promised to keep it a secret,” Louise went on, oblivious to my rising temper. “And I meant to, you know I did. But Louis … I can’t lie to him. He knew I was hiding something, and he wouldn’t let it go. So I told him.”
I froz
e. She’d told my brother-in-law I was having an affair? This was a disaster. My breath caught in my throat, and I coughed.
“He was so angry,” Louise carried on, lost in her tale. “He said I had betrayed his trust by hiding this from him, and he said the most horrid things. We argued, and I was so upset that I left!”
I stood up, too restless now to sit down. I poured a cup of tea to ease my cough, while Louise blew her nose once more. Now, on top of everything else, I needed to stamp out this fire before it spread. I couldn’t let Louis believe this rumor was true, not when I was pregnant, not when it could jeopardize everything I had built since my arrival at court.
“I love him so much,” Louise added, still intent on her monologue and unaware of my reaction to it. “But I have committed so many sins in the name of that love. I know it’s wrong. That’s why I left. I’m going to a convent in Paris to pray for my soul’s salvation.”
So that was her solution. After creating a mess at court, she would leave it all behind for others to deal with the consequences and retire to a life of solitude and prayer. The thought brought up an ungenerous mood in me, which I pushed down. Louise was in love. From the beginning, it had shut out anyone else’s feelings, including mine. She didn’t care that her passion for Louis hurt Marie-Thérèse, or that her promise to keep nothing from him could harm me. Even now, she came to me to share her distress, not to help repair what she’d broken.
“You do realize there’s nothing between Armand and me?” I replied, my tone more controlled than my building emotions. “And this whole argument with Louis has no basis?”
She blinked at me, her red-rimmed eyes owlish in her pale face. There was a brief pause, as my words registered with her, before she dissolved into tears once more. “But it doesn’t matter! I can’t forget the horrible things he said to me. I have to get away. You have to understand, I need your help!”
Her single-mindedness astounded me. For a second, I was close to shouting at her and throwing her out of the house to leave her to her own fate. But I couldn’t afford a fit of temper; I had to fix this before the damage was beyond repair. So I drew a calming breath, and used the royal tone I seldom resorted to.