“No?” I asked, hopefully. “Surely that’s impossible, Anaïs! The innocent has to come willingly, and an angel must bring her to sacrifice. Clearly that will set her back some in her diabolical plans.” I looked desperately around. “Those rules were put in place to make it impossible for such a sacrifice. For what angel would do such a thing?”
But I was suddenly unsure. “She is planning a Shadowsill Ball….”
The threesome exchanged a knowing look. Sabine flicked her riding crop dangerously against her thigh.
The priest was groaning again, rolling about slightly as though he meant to sit up. I looked at him nervously.
“You found him strung up, you said?” Anaïs asked.
“Yes, some rioters had just passed.”
“You should have let him hang.” Anaïs was suddenly by my side, peering down at Foune.
“What say you—?” I was appalled.
“You know the man?”
“I do! I come to play the organ here from time to time.”
“Your vision’s clouded. She has charmed you. You’re too long in the human world without wings. Now, your emotions shroud your eyes and make you take dangerous risks—risks that lost you your feather, that brought about your fall from grace. That might very well bring about the End of Days.”
Your mother produced a flask from her belt and tossed the water upon the man. He writhed in agony, hissing. Colette and Sabine, like spider-angels, stepped forward and bound him in silk.
“How can you ever hope to succeed if you can’t recognize your own enemy before you?” Anaïs accused.
“I recognize quite well the only one who matters.” I shrugged. “She wears a crown.” I gave Foune a withering look. He had gone quite docile again in the Hermès binds.
“So. What did you say brings you to town again, ladies?” I asked weakly.
“I’m here to clean up your mess, Luc.” Your mother sighed. “I’ll be at the Vieille Etoile.”
“La Vieille Etoile?” I said. “Let the good times roll.”
55
La Vieille Etoile was an exclusive hotel on the Left Bank, within walking distance of Notre Dame. It also happened to be my hotel. Angels, by definition, do not like to share. Especially lodging—quickly things can descend into a disagreeable competition for the finer things in life. Who has the better suite? Who has the proprietor’s favor? Who gets the choicest meat from the spit, the warmest bricks to heat their beds?
I rushed home.
My stomach sank as I saw my things, my trunks and valises, the detritus of centuries of fine living, packed and stowed beneath the stairs. Quite quickly, it became evident that my suite had been given over to your mother—to Anaïs—and her entourage.
Madame Dupris offered me the only thing she had left, a small room off the games room—noisy and exposed. I banged my head on the transom as I entered the low-hung door.
“What of Charles?” I asked about my manservant. He had been a good butler, discreet, and many had said, quite handsome.
“I can offer you Roland.” Madame Dupris sniffed.
“Anaïs has taken my manservant, too?” I asked. Your mother always had a weakness for handsome men.
Roland proved to be quite feeble and blind. He shuffled into the small chamber with a silver tray. By the time I retrieved my brandy, half had been spilled on the floor.
“Help me with my cloak,” I ordered, but the old man could not seem to find the clasp, and my ruined wings became uncomfortably tied up in the tailoring. “Never mind. Leave me be,” I said. “On second thought—can you have something sent up to the Suite Royal—my old rooms? A bottle of champagne for our new resident angel. Something good—that frolicking drunkard of a monk Pérignon is said to make something of decent quality.”
I studied the disorder of my small room. There were bags on chairs, chests and trunks scattered haphazardly beside the hearth.
“And when you return, you can begin the tired business of shaking the demons out of my things.”
56
Anaïs had said she was in town to clean up my mess, but I awoke the next morning with a mind to do so myself. Things had gone far enough, I now saw. A war was brewing—I could smell it in the rank air. Not a revolution, Itzy, but a holy war—between Heaven and Hell. A war of dread secrets, fallen angels, Satan’s spawn. And Anaïs had all but said I was the cause of it.
So I left la Vieille Etoile early, with Roland asleep, snoring in an upright chair.
I walked quickly to the Pont Neuf, ignoring the beggars and street urchins as best I could. Not long into my errand, I spied him—his dark fur had grown in patchy and one eye appeared to be clouded over—but there was no mistaking Her Majesty’s hellhound. He fell in with me silently.
“Mops,” I said. “Looking good.”
The streets were brewing some new threat of late, with the peasants hungry—starved by the queen—unsavory vendors were popping up selling edibles, things gleaned from the gates of tanneries and the glue factories.
“Here we are, Mops,” I said, upon arriving at my destination. “You can save me a lot of trouble by telling me where she keeps my feather.” The dog merely sauntered on ahead, its claws clicking on the cobbles.
“What’s that? Divah got your tongue?” I called.
I stared up at les Gobelins. It was a fortress of stone, iron bars across slits of windows and walls as thick as a three horses wide. It was perched beside a small river, the Bièvre, a foul thing, which served various tanneries and slaughterhouses as it wound its way north to the Seine. Today, ominously, a bloated corpse was stuck up in the reeds, bobbing idly.
I straightened my shoulders, felt the pang of my ruined wings, and walked to the vast portal and banged the immense iron knocker. From somewhere far away, I heard the sound of footsteps advancing in no great hurry. Mops stood intent on the door, the creature’s entire being locked on the entrance, its four short legs planted firmly on the ground.
“Last chance to save the world,” I whispered to the beast. “Soon this will all be reduced to embers, Mops. Pyres of the dead. A wasteland. All for what?” I asked.
All for a feather, I answered when the dog did not.
“Monsieur Luc.” The door opened, and I was greeted by one of the Divah’s favored devhils. The man was lanky and bald, and stringy hair stretched across his pink shiny scalp, revealing a shiny patch of skin.
“Docteur.” I bowed at Her Majesty’s doctor.
“Well, if it isn’t the tortured artist.”
We inspected each other for some time. The doctor’s eyes held no mirth in them at all.
“Her Majesty is expecting me,” I offered. “If you could be so good as to show me to her, I would be most obliged.”
The doctor sniffed, and, turning, he walked back though the substantial entry and into the courtyard. Les Gobelins was his residence, a family stronghold of centuries of mischief. The place was filthy with the years of soil from boots and cinders from the bellows. I spied Mops in the corner beside the guardhouse lifting a leg and urinating. By the smell, he was quite familiar with that corner.
“I love what you’ve done with the place,” I called.
The interior of the palace was no cleaner. I stepped over the remnants of moldering food, spills from careless servants, and dead cinders and overflowing piles of ash by the hearths. Mildewed tapestries hung from the wall, their colors faded to muted browns and rusts.
Marie Antoinette sat by one such hearth in a room at the top of a tower. The hellhound ran to her on his stunted legs and she scooped him up into her lap.
“Mopsy-popsey,” she said, allowing the dog to lick her face.
“My queen.” I bowed low and extravagantly.
Her eyes turned to me, twinkling. Her small, pert mouth prickled at one corner, and I was reminded of that infamous day in the Hall of Mirrors, the day I first spied Her Majesty, when the world was still golden and my life had grace.
A row of courtiers lined the grim walls, in v
arious flouncey fashions of the day. They tittered and whispered behind their bejeweled hands, and I was reminded how the peasants were currently butchering aristocrats in the street.
“Thank you for seeing me, Your Majesty.”
“Of course. I always have time for the poor and downtrodden.” From an ornate box beside her, Marie Antoinette selected a miniature outfit that bore a remarkable resemblance to her own.
“I see, yes, thank you. I suppose I am both of those things.” I cleared my throat. “On that note. I was wondering, my love—there is still that small issue between us.”
She held her dog, sliding the dress over its pug face, and wrenching the legs though the armholes. She admired her work. A little frown creased her alabaster brow.
“I’ve been so alone, Luc.”
“Surely not, Your Majesty!” I protested, indicating her entourage.
She held up the small dog, inspecting it. Its body was slack, its eyes wide and pathetic. I shot Mops a look: You had your chance.
A maid entered, head bowed, intent on a heavy silver tray upon which were a pair of golden chalices and a pitcher.
“I miss you. I miss us.”
“With the utmost respect, Your Highness, there never really was an ‘us’—”
The room, already cast in shadows, darkened further.
Careful, Luc. The Divah leaned forward, her eyes glinting.
We began our conversation now in earnest, as the room grew even dimmer. While the courtly ladies and the servant girls were still present, they were not privy to this discussion. Gazing upon us, our mouths seemed to issue syrupy pleasantries, a happy, clever reunion between two companions: an artist and his muse. Bright amusement pierced our laughter. Their room was not roiling stormclouds, and indeed, no such atmospheric change could they perceive.
But to me, Itzy, the room was now black at pitch, a few dripping tallows illuminating the Divah on her throne.
How dare you abandon me. Her eyes bore into mine. Ours was a love born of brimstone. I will not be made a fool of. I will not suffer to be alone again.
I was deceived, I said.
Deceived? A bitter laugh escaped her lips. “We are meant for each other, a union of opposites. Something new!” Were these not your words to me? You wandered the streets in a delirium of love; you shouted my name in rapture; you painted my likeness at every turn—
Your likeness? Ha! Is it not but a body you’ve stolen? A shell? Is it not ultimately artifice and lies? I saw your true likeness, Madame, at Apollo’s Basin, that last day. Your true likeness bears none of this rouge and powder. It was decay, moldering flesh on bare bone. You tricked me, yes, and more the fool am I.
All love affairs begin in artifice, Luc. A coquettish smile, a tilt of the head. A carefully chosen gown. It is a dance. Are you so ignorant of love? If there is anything I am guilty of, it is of trying to please you with this body. Do you not like it anymore? I will get another.
No! I gasped in horror.
Then come to me, my darkest angel. Come to me and be my love.
I live amongst the broken and the damned now. They welcome me.
That is my domain. And once the Gates are open, we will rule together over them. You will be my king and I your queen. It is everything I’ve promised.
Hot fetid wind blew now between us, whipping her vast skirts about like a sail, her lace petticoats rearing.
I am but a wretched shadow. You have made it so.
No, Luc, she said. You have made it so. But I will not give up on us. Remember, we’ve got all the time in the world.
I waited, the wind flapping my coattails, dark things soaring in the shadows.
I am unssssstoppable.
And in an instant, the room was returned to its normal squalor. “—as I was saying, I do so wish for you to continue painting me.” She was laughing pertly at me, mid-sentence, posing sweetly.
My gut recoiled, and I struggled to maintain my composure.
“I have given up painting.”
“A pity.”
A golden wine was poured but the queen made no move to drink.
“Surely my services are of no further use to you, Your Majesty. All that remains is the small matter of my—er—feather.”
Marie Antoinette exchanged a look with the doctor and reached for the goblet.
“You wish to leave my service?”
“I had thought—”
“The last person who wished to leave my service is floating in the river outside the strong door.” She sipped her wine. “But,” she said, considering her words, “are you devoted to me, as your queen?”
I swallowed.
“Tell me, Luc.”
I felt myself raise my head and meet her eyes. I knew their pale blueness to be but artifice—like the rouge upon her lovely cheeks and the powdered wig upon her head. But all the same, my heart softened.
“I—I am, my queen.”
“Of course you are. Luc?”
“Yes?”
“You must show me your devotion.”
“Show you, my queen?”
“Yes. You must prove your affection. Earn my favor.”
I glanced around nervously. “May I?” I stalled, indicating the waiting goblet of wine. I threw back the entire cup. My insides snaked with fire.
“As I was saying, my beautiful, handsome angel.” She smiled sweetly. “You must not simply speak of your devotion, you must demonstrate it.”
“What would you have me do, Your Highness?”
“Just one last thing, and I will return to you your feather.”
The wine was making me feel faint. “My feather for what, dare I ask?”
The doctor coughed.
“It’s really nothing. The very embodiment of simplicity. I need you to procure a night bride for me, for my Shadowsill Ball.”
“An innocent?” I asked, horrified.
“Why, yes. I can hardly do so myself.”
57
I stumbled from the stone ramp, away from the horrors of les Gobelins, and flung myself upon the rail beside the small river, throwing up the wretched amber wine. The corpse had righted itself and was now gazing skyward with its bloated, blue face. I eyed it miserably.
“What have I done?” I cried. “I set out to right my wrongs, but somehow have made it worse—much worse! A little mistake of falling for the wrong girl might end life as we know it. My love is humanity’s downfall.”
“Never make a deal with a demon,” the corpse spoke, its flaccid mouth spilling a large quantity of murky river water from between its gums. “They’re notoriously unreliable.”
I sighed. “So true.”
I watched the body bob and sway as a little wave licked the shore.
“Anaïs is in town,” I confided.
Suddenly René was beside me. “Really? Did she mention me?” he asked eagerly.
“She had other things on her mind.”
“Oo la la, Anaïs. What a fox!”
“She’s out of your league,” I replied. “Anyway, she prefers men. And the last thing you want is for her to pay a visit to you. It means trouble. She is here to clean up my mess. Which—by the looks of things—has now gotten much, much worse.”
“What now?” Maurice flew down from a rampart.
“Careful,” René said. “Someone might mistake you for a gargoyle.”
Maurice ignored this and stood before me, arms crossed over his wide chest. His small, stout wings bristled.
“I went to her, thinking I’d simply ask for my feather back,” I said miserably.
Gaston crawled out from the small, deep moat before the portal, joining us.
“I see. Prevail upon her decency. Good plan,” Gaston said.
“I’m out of plans. It was worth a try.”
“And now where are we?” Maurice asked. “What new abomination would she have you perform?”
“Just one—and then I’m free.”
“Really?”
“What did she say?”
“Not much. A trifle, really. I am to procure her an innocent for sacrifice.”
The host was silent.
I had not seen Laurent arrive; he had been perched quietly upon a lamppost.
“An innocent, you say?” Laurent drawled in the low menacing way of his. “If it will end this nonsense once and for all, I might have just the one.”
58
It was with mounting horror, Itzy, that I heard Laurent’s plan. His proposal was so horrific, so utterly mad, that for a moment I was left speechless.
“Even you are not capable of this!” I finally shouted, turning on him.
“I thought you’d be a little more grateful. Show some respect.”
“It’s horrific! You’re offering up a human soul as if it were a wheel of cheese.”
“A tasty one, too. Come to think of it, I’ve been keeping her for just such an occasion.”
I turned to Maurice, who was brooding. “Tell him. Tell him this is out of the question. Tell him it’s conduct unbecoming—and we will be punished.”
Maurice rubbed his chin, his forehead pinched into a frown.
Laurent was smiling, his eyes cold. “What is one girl in the scheme of things, Luc? One small girl versus war? Do I need to remind you of the last war? We are still licking our wounds—slumming, seemingly, around Paris.”
For once I must agree with Laurent, Itzy. He speaks the truth about the Fallen. Like it or not, we are bound together. We are fugitives, the tattered remnants of a resistance to a war long ago. That’s all that binds us. That, and the black brands upon our fingers.
“You cannot be considering this!” I cried to Maurice. And to Laurent, “You love this girl—do you not? Only a beast could offer up another in such a way.”
“You speak of love, Luc?” Laurent’s wings bristled, their ivory-colored jagged ends rising up like hackles, the golden talons flashing dangerously. “We are here, in this mess, because of love. It is this thing called love that rains down destruction upon the heads of all. Your love, Luc. Pure, selfish, blind love. Murderous love.” He spat. “And here is your reward for loving so. You shall see firsthand the consequences. Maybe this will teach you a lesson.”
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