by EM Castellan
“And who do you think introduced him to the Duc de Gramont and suggested this whole scheme with the army?” Olympe asked. “A scheme that had Athénaïs’s husband also conveniently sent off to the front.”
I resumed my seat, overwhelmed by her revelations and my lungs tightening under the pressure. A cough rattled my chest, and Olympe fetched me a glass of water from a tray by the window. The cold liquid soothed my throat, but didn’t settle my thoughts.
“Why are you telling me all this?” I asked once I had recovered some of my breath.
“Because we’re friends, now,” Olympe replied. “And I don’t want to be dishonest with you anymore. I also want you to know you can trust me.”
I met her steady gaze, and read no deceit or malice there. I believed her.
“And I’ll admit,” she added with a slight shrug, “I value your friendship even more so because you’re a Source. I’m a magicienne. We share a bond, an understanding that my former attachment to Athénaïs could never rival. I’d rather nurture that relationship than one with a woman who has made it clear she’ll look out for only herself.”
My pulse steadied at last. Olympe was right. The revelation of Athénaïs’s duplicity was a blow, but I didn’t have to face it alone. I had people I could trust around me, and I now knew well the dangers of the French court: I wouldn’t be fooled or blindsided by them again. And there was one more thing I could do to ensure I had control over my life.
“Speaking of magic,” I said, my voice calm again, “there’s a spell I would like us to discuss.”
Olympe’s golden gaze lit up with interest, and she leaned forward in her seat. “What is it?”
“Have you ever heard of an ancient spell called Déverrouille?”
CHAPTER XXIV
Olympe pursed her lips at Madame Fouquet’s handwritten note.
Outside my windows, the gathered gray clouds had finally burst and rain fell on the Versailles estate, droplets dripping down the glass panes.
“Whose handwriting is this?” Olympe still frowned at the piece of paper in her hand. “Can you trust the source of this message?”
I held out my hands in helplessness. “I trust it as much as any old grimoire. Louis and I spent a lot of time studying ancient enchantments. There are literally thousands of them. Some have been abandoned because they’re dangerous or don’t give the expected outcome. But most of them have simply been forgotten because they were written down once eons ago and haven’t been used since. The person who gave me this spell is a scholar who’s dedicated their life to unearthing old spells. I don’t know where they found it, and I haven’t been able to find it referenced anywhere myself.”
“But how do you know it’ll work?” Olympe asked, still unconvinced.
“I don’t. You’re never certain these ancient spells are genuine until you test them.”
“What if it does work,” Olympe went on, “and it’s harmful?”
The possibility had crossed my mind, of course. It was definitely within the realm of possibility that Fouquet sought to harm me—and maybe the king too—by handing me a forbidden spell that would destroy us both when we performed it.
Yet, as ever, my instinct told me to search for the best in someone. I wanted to hope in the former Crown Magicien’s redemption. I wanted to trust his wife’s words when she’d said the spell was a thank-you–a peace offering, a parting gift. I wanted to believe Fouquet meant to pass on his knowledge to a kindred spirit before he died. If the Déverrouille spell worked, it was a wonderful, powerful spell. I understood a lover of magic like him wouldn’t want to see it sink into oblivion.
“I don’t think it will hurt us,” I said. “But I understand if you don’t want to take the risk.”
Olympe read the note again, her mouth forming the silent words I now knew by heart. To temporarily unlock the power of a Source so they can perform another spell by themselves.
“So it unlocks your magic,” she said aloud after a pause. “Supposedly for a short time, so you can cast an enchantment alone.”
I nodded. “I researched it a little, without much success, as I’ve said. But my theory is that it was used on battlefields centuries ago, when for whatever reason a magicien and his Source became separated. It allowed the Source to perform a single spell and maybe save themselves, for example.”
Olympe nibbled at her lip. “A sort of last-resort spell to ensure the Source wouldn’t be helpless without a magicien? That makes sense.” She put down the paper and held out her hands, resolve settling over her features. “Well, we won’t know until we’ve tried it, will we?”
Excitement soared in my chest, yet I had to tamp it down. If the spell worked, I didn’t know how long I would have to cast a second spell alone. I already knew what that second enchantment would be, so I didn’t want to waste my chance. I explained all this to Olympe, whose shoulders slumped when she realized she would have to wait to experiment with this spell.
“So you want to do this tonight instead?” she asked.
“Yes,” I replied, trepidation at my own daring quickening my pulse again. “I don’t want us to get caught, so it’s better if we do this when everyone is asleep.”
“Fine.” She stood up and put her gloves back on. “Where shall we meet? Please not in the woods again—not in this weather.”
A smile tugged at my lips as I appraised her. A lady magician who never refused to perform a dangerous spell, but who drew the line at ruining her shoes in the forest.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “You won’t get wet: we’ll stay in the palace. Just meet me in my antechamber at two.”
She shot me a sarcastic glance. “Two in the morning? I’m already regretting this new friendship of ours.”
Yet her conniving smile betrayed her intention to be there without fault.
* * *
An eerie silence permeated the palace tonight.
Heavy clouds still hid the moon and stars in the sky, which deepened the darkness inside the gilded building. Candles in sconces cast odd shadows on the decorated walls as we tiptoed our way to the first floor, and Olympe held on to my hand as if she might lose me in the succession of dark salons.
We crossed paths with two soldiers on duty, and Olympe and I both stiffened, but the concealing spell we’d cast over ourselves before leaving my rooms seemed to work: They didn’t notice us, their eyes sliding over our hidden forms as if they were only two more shadows in the empty salon.
Soon the large double doors barring the way to our objective rose before us, with two armed guards standing in front of it. But we’d prepared for this moment, and Olympe slammed the open door we’d just come through. Both guards rushed to investigate while shouts rose on the other side of the ornate panel. In the confusion, Olympe and I slipped inside the gallery at the end of the line of salons.
As soon as the gilded door clicked shut behind us, I let go of Olympe to end the concealing spell. In the faint torchlight rising from the gardens below, our silhouettes emerged in the darkness, reflected by the mirrors on the walls. Magic sparkled on every surface, swathing the whole room in a warm glow.
“Oh,” Olympe whispered, awe in her tone.
Louis called the gallery his Hall of Mirrors, and no one but his artist magiciens and Sources had been given access to it yet. Its inauguration would take place in a few days, an event for all the court to witness—once Louis and I figured out the mirror spell he so desperately sought to achieve.
Olympe took a few steps forward, the parquet floor creaking slightly under her feet. Above our heads, the high ceilings displayed dozens of Le Brun’s paintings to illustrate Louis’s achievements as king of France. Marble pilasters with gilded capitals lined the hall, framing arcades that held windows on one side, and looking glasses on the other.
“How many mirrors are there?” Olympe whispered.
“Over three hundred and fifty,” I said in the same tone, recalling an earlier boast from Louis.
“How did he manage to
get all these imported from Venice?”
“He didn’t,” I replied. “French magiciens made them.”
In the semidarkness, she gaped at the gilded masterpiece surrounding us, her gaze darting from the heavy chandeliers to the statues dotting the length of the room.
“I can’t believe this used to be a simple terrace,” she said, wonder in her tone.
Part of me shared her amazement, but another recoiled at the purpose of this grandiose achievement. Louis meant this place to be the jewel in the crown of Versailles. His plan was to turn every one of these mirrors into a weapon to spy on his courtiers and his family. His ambition and paranoia had cost me dearly already. I intended to prevent him from causing any further damage. Even a king had to be told no every once in a while.
“Why are we here?”
Olympe’s question brought me back to the present, and I turned my attention to her.
“I want to perform a spell here. I’d like us to try the unlocking spell now, so I can do it afterward.”
Olympe’s brows drew together in the dim magical light. “What spell do you want to cast?”
My lips pulled into an enigmatic smile. “You’ll see.”
The less she knew, the better. Should my spell succeed, Louis wouldn’t be happy. Better she stay out of it all together.
We held hands in the middle of the gallery, and for a suspended moment my heart thumped loud and fast. What if Fouquet meant me harm after all? What if believing in the good in people did lead to my downfall? Was I being reckless, trusting a former enemy’s word, when a prophecy foretold my untimely death?
Olympe squeezed my fingers, as if sensing my hesitation. “If you’re unsure, we don’t have to—”
“No,” I interrupted her, her suggestion prompting resolve to settle over me.
Weeks ago, I had visited Fouquet with a question: Was there any way to ward off death? He hadn’t been able to answer me then, but had later sent me a spell. I chose to believe this was the best solution he’d been able to think of: an enchantment that allowed a Source to take control of their magic long enough to protect themselves from harm. If I was wrong, then we’d know soon enough.
I tightened my grip on Olympe’s hand. “Déverrouille.”
What made the whole endeavor difficult was that my magic both fueled the enchantment and acted as its conduit. There was no surer way to derail a spell—as the Parisian fortune-teller and the doctor magicien had experienced firsthand in the past. But Olympe and I had talked this through, and I trusted she was talented enough to handle such a hurdle.
As soon as I uttered the incantation, magic rushed out of me in a swirling blast of golden sparks. Olympe gasped and startled, but we held on to each other with a fierce grasp, until she took control of the spell. The sparkling flecks danced in the dim light of the hall for a few heartbeats, then regrouped to take the shape of a glittering double door. Olympe exhaled slowly, and the door opened.
A strange sensation of release spread over my limbs, as if a weight lifting off or layers peeling away. Magic thrummed along my legs and arms to the tips of my fingers and toes, and pulsed there, waiting to be cast upon the world.
Olympe dropped my hand and stepped away, her eyes wide with wonder. “Henriette … your eyes.” Her voice sounded distorted and distant, as if we swam underwater.
“What?” I asked.
“They’re golden.”
I blinked. With the glittering door before us, and the magic of our spell swirling around us, everything looked bathed in specks of gold to me.
“Do the spell now,” Olympe said.
The urgency in her tone didn’t match my own state of mind. An odd sort of peace had taken hold of my thoughts, and time seemed to slow as magical dots floated about, carried by a gentle breeze.
“Henriette!” Olympe snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Cast your spell now!”
Her stormy expression spurred me into action. As lovely as the moment was, I had come here with a goal in mind, hadn’t I? Magic tingled at my fingertips, eager for release. I closed the distance between us and the wall of mirrors, and placed my palms against their cold surface.
“Aveugle.”
To every spell, there was a counterspell. An enchantment could allow you to reveal what a mirror had witnessed. Another could blind the mirror and lock it forever.
The flecks of my magic twirled out of my fingers to spread into the hundreds of looking glasses in the hall. A clicking sound echoed each time my spell sealed a mirror, like a key turning into a lock with a definite clack. The noise reverberated along the room in rapid succession. Then it reached the last mirror, and my spell ended. The room fell silent. The golden specks of my magic dissolved into the shadows. My skin prickled, as the golden door in the center of the hall vanished and my magic settled into my core, becoming dormant once more. A breath escaped my lungs in the sudden quiet and my hands dropped at my side.
“What … What did you do?” Olympe’s whispered question sounded loud in my ears, like fabric had just been removed from them.
My next breath caught in my throat, sparking a cough. She handed me a handkerchief, materializing at my side before I could move away from the mirrors. Banging rattled the doors, bringing me back to the reality of the dim Hall of Mirrors. The light and noise of our spells must have alerted the guards, who now struggled to get access to the room. My pulse hammered against my temples.
“We have to get out of here,” Olympe said, reading my thoughts. She led me by the elbow to the nearest window, which she opened without hesitation. “Are you up for another spell?”
My breath whizzed in and out of my lungs, and tiredness dragged at my thoughts, but the insistent battering at the doors made it clear there would be no escape through them. I didn’t have a choice. I gave Olympe a slight nod.
“We’re going to jump,” she said. “And cast a spell to break our fall. Then we’re going to cloak ourselves with magic and run back to your rooms. Ready?”
I wasn’t, but the gilded doors splintered under a forceful blow, taking away any choice. We couldn’t get caught in the Hall of Mirrors at night after performing magic there. Talking ourselves out of that situation would be too complicated, and the consequences might be dire for Olympe, if not for me. We had to leave before the guards got in and recognized us.
I leaned on Olympe to climb onto the windowsill, my skirts piling around me. The hair on my arm stood up in the chill night air, and a shiver traveled along my limbs. I gripped Olympe with one hand, and rested the other on my stomach in a protective gesture. The gravel on the ground appeared uneven and rough in the dim light, and the distance between the first-floor window and the terrace below was awfully large. At our backs, a loud crack announced the final break in the doors. I swallowed a lump in my throat.
“Ready,” I said.
I spoke the spell, and we jumped.
* * *
The Hall of Mirrors teemed with elegantly dressed courtiers in the afternoon sunshine, a stark contrast to the empty space that had greeted Olympe and me only days earlier.
Chatter mixed with violin music under the painted ceiling as everyone mingled, observing the newly open gallery with wide eyes and approving nods. The inauguration ceremony was minutes away, and I squeezed my way through the crowd in search of a familiar face.
Strong fingers gripped my forearm and I turned, expecting Philippe. But the eyes that met mine were green, and the smirk on those full lips was unmistakable.
“Darling, you look as radiant as ever.”
My heartbeat thundered, and it was all I could do not to throw myself into his arms.
“When … When did you get back?” I stammered, my shaking voice betraying my emotions.
“Last night,” Armand replied, still smiling. He dropped his hand to take a step back amid the swarming guests, and surveyed my silhouette. “Look at you. All glowing with motherly energy.”
My hands landed on my belly in a self-conscious gesture—I was onl
y just starting to show—but such tenderness laced his words that I blushed.
“I know everyone wishes a boy,” I said, “but I think it’s a girl.”
“Excellent.” He hooked his arm with mine and led me through the throng. “You can call her Armande.”
I shook my head with a smile, and watched his profile as we walked, the freckles on his high cheekbones standing out in the warm light. Eager to keep up the banter I had missed so much, I asked, “No scar, then?”
He shot me a sideways glance full of mischief. “Not that you can see here. You’ll have to take off my clothes to witness the proof of my chivalrous exploits.”
This time, I laughed, and his eyes sparkled with pride. Then he grew sober.
“Speaking of knights,” he added, “I heard the Chevalier de Lorraine is in exile. After all he did, I was surprised to hear about such clemency.”
“It was all more complicated than we thought,” I replied. “But this is a story for another time, I’m afraid.”
Taking the hint, he nodded, and his gaze landed on Athénaïs conferring with the king. “There’s a lot that I missed, it seemed. I’m counting on you to fill me in on all the details.”
I steered him away from Louis and his secret mistress. I hadn’t spoken to Athénaïs since Olympe’s revelations, and I intended to keep our relationship to a mere exchange of formalities from now on. It was a pity that things had reached this point, but she had broken my trust too thoroughly for me to pretend we were still friends. She had made her choices, and I had made mine. Maybe life would bring us back together in the future, maybe it wouldn’t. For now, I had other allies at court, and other concerns pressing on my mind.
We crossed paths with Marie-Thérèse and her entourage, Prince Aniaba at her side. We exchanged smiles and nods, but the moving courtiers carried us away from each other before we could strike up a conversation.
We reached Lully’s orchestra and found Philippe standing by a gilded statue and studying the paintings above. The silver trimmings of his burgundy outfit shimmered in the sunlight, and his bejeweled hand rested on the intricate pommel of his decorated cane. I slipped out of Armand’s grasp to link arms with him.